An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘Otherwise,’ I warned, ‘I fear we are faced with the growth of another quarter characterized by the very sort of decadence we have been doing our best to combat and which we know so weakens the fibre of our culture.’

  The authorities responded not simply with acquiescence, but with an enthusiasm that surprised me. It was, I suppose, another of those instances when one is struck by the realization that one is held in rather higher esteem than one supposed. But then I was never one to concern myself with matters of esteem, and this was not why the advent of the Migi-Hidari brought me so much personal satisfaction; rather, I was proud to see borne out something I had maintained for some time – namely that the new spirit of Japan was not incompatible with enjoying oneself; that is to say, there was no reason why pleasure-seeking had to go hand in hand with decadence.

  So then, some two-and-a-half years after the coming of the new tramlines, the Migi-Hidari was opened. The renovations had been skilful and extensive, so that anyone strolling that way after dark could hardly fail to notice that brightly-lit front with its numerous lanterns, large and small, hung along the gables, under the eaves, in neat rows along the window ledges and above the main entryway; then, too, there was that enormous illuminated banner suspended from the ridgepole bearing the new name of the premises against a background of army boots marching in formation.

  One evening, shortly after its opening, Yamagata took me inside, told me to choose my favourite table, and declared that thereafter it was reserved for my sole use. Primarily, I suppose, this was in recognition of the small service I had done him. But then, of course, I had always been one of Yamagata’s best customers.

  Indeed, I had been going into Yamagata’s for over twenty years prior to its transformation into the Migi-Hidari. This was not really through any deliberate choice on my part – as I say, it was an undistinguished sort of place – but when I first came to this city as a young man, I was living in Furukawa and Yamagata’s place happened to be at hand.

  It is perhaps hard for you to picture how ugly Furukawa was in those days. Indeed, if you are new to the city, my talking of the Furukawa district probably conjures up the park that stands there today and the peach trees for which it is renowned. But when I first came to this city – in 1913 – the area was full of factories and warehouses belonging to the smaller companies, many of them abandoned or in disrepair. The houses were old and shabby and the only people who lived in Furukawa were those who could afford only the lowest rents.

  Mine was a small attic room above an old woman living with her unmarried son, and was quite unsuitable for my needs. There being no electricity in the house, I was obliged to paint by oil-light; there was barely enough space to set up an easel, and I could not avoid splashing the walls and tatami with paint; I would often wake the old woman or her son while working through the night; and most vexing of all, the attic ceiling was too low to allow me to stand up fully, so I would often work for hours in a half-crouched position, hitting my head continually on the rafters. But then in those days I was so delighted at having been accepted by the Takeda firm, and to be earning my living as an artist, that I gave little thought to these unhappy conditions.

  During the day, of course, I aid not work in my room, but at Master Takeda’s ‘studio’. This, too, was in Furukawa, a long room above a restaurant – long enough, in fact, for all fifteen of us to set up easels all in a row. The ceiling, though higher than that in my attic room, sagged considerably at the centre, so that whenever we entered the room we always joked that it had descended a few more centimetres since the previous day. There were windows along the length of the room, and these should have given us a good light to work by; but somehow the shafts of sunlight that came in were always too sharp, giving the room something of the look of a ship’s cabin. The other problem with the place was the fact that the restaurateur downstairs would not allow us to remain after six o’clock in the evening when his customers would begin to come in. ‘You sound like a herd of cattle up there,’ he would say. We would thus have no choice but to continue our work back at our respective lodgings.

  I should perhaps explain that there was no chance of our completing our schedule without working in the evenings. The Takeda firm prided itself on its ability to provide a high number of paintings at very short notice; indeed, Master Takeda gave us to understand that if we failed to fulfil our deadline in time for the ship leaving harbour, we would quickly lose future commissions to rival firms. The result was that we would work the most arduous hours, late into the night, and still feel guilty the next day because we were behind schedule. Often, as the deadline date approached, it would not be unusual for us all to be living on just two or three hours of sleep each night, and painting around the clock. At times, if several commissions came in one after the next, we would be going from day to day dizzy with exhaustion. But for all that, I cannot recall our ever failing to complete a commission on time, and, I suppose, that gives some indication of the hold Master Takeda had over us.

  After I had been with Master Takeda for a year or so, a new artist joined the firm. This was Yasunari Nakahara, a name which I doubt will mean much to you. In fact, there is no reason why you should have come across it, since he never achieved any kind of reputation. The most he did was eventually to gain a post as art teacher at a high school in the Yuyama district a few years before the war – a post, I am told, he still holds today, the authorities seeing no reason to replace him as they did so many of his fellow teachers. Myself, I always remember him as ‘the Tortoise’, the name given to him during those days at the Takeda firm, and one which I came to use affectionately throughout our friendship.

  I have still in my possession a painting by the Tortoise – a self-portrait he painted not long after the Takeda days. It shows a thin young man with spectacles, sitting in his shirtsleeves in a cramped, shadowy room, surrounded by easels and rickety furniture, his face caught on one side by the light coming from the window. The earnestness and timidity written on the face are certainly true to the man I remember, and in this respect, the Tortoise has been remarkably honest; looking at the portrait, you would probably take him to be the sort you could confidently elbow aside for an empty tram seat. But then each of us, it seems, has his own special conceits. If the Tortoise’s modesty forbade him to disguise his timid nature, it did not prevent him attributing to himself a kind of lofty intellectual air – which I for one have no recollection of. But then to be fair, I cannot recall any colleague who could paint a self-portrait with absolute honesty; however accurately one may fill in the surface details of one’s mirror reflection, the personality represented rarely comes near the truth as others would see it.

  The Tortoise earned his nickname because, joining the firm in the midst of a particularly busy commission, he proceeded to produce only two or three canvasses in the time it took the rest of us to complete six or seven. At first, his slowness was put down to inexperience and the nickname was used only behind his back. But as the weeks went by and his rate had not improved, the bitterness against him grew. It soon became commonplace for people to call him ‘Tortoise’ to his face, and although he fully realized the name was anything but affectionate, I remember him trying his best to take it as though it were. For instance, if someone called across the long room: ‘Hey, Tortoise, are you still painting that petal you began last week?’ he would make an effort to laugh as though to share in the joke. I recall my colleagues often attributing this apparent inability to defend his dignity to the fact that the Tortoise was from the Negishi district; for in those days, as today, there prevailed the rather unfair myth that those from that part of the city invariably grew up weak and spineless.

  I remember one morning, when Master Takeda had left the long room for a moment, two of my colleagues going up to the Tortoise’s easel and challenging him about his lack of speed. My easel stood not far from his, so I could see clearly the nervous expression on his face as he replied:

  ‘I beg you to be patient with m
e. It is my greatest wish to learn from you, my superior colleagues, how to produce work of such quality so quickly. I have done my utmost in these past weeks to paint faster, but sadly I was forced to abandon several pictures, because the loss of quality on account of my hurrying was such that I would have disgraced the high standards of our firm. But I will do all I can to improve my poor standing in your eyes. I beg you to forgive me and to be patient a while longer.’

  The Tortoise repeated this plea two or three times over, while his tormentors persisted with their abuse, accusing him of laziness and of relying on the rest of us to do his share of the work. By this time, most of us had ceased to paint and had gathered round. I believe it was after his accusers had begun to abuse the Tortoise in particularly harsh terms, and when I saw that the rest of my colleagues would do nothing but watch with a kind of fascination, that I stepped forward and said:

  ‘That’s enough, can’t you see you’re talking to someone with artistic integrity? If an artist refuses to sacrifice quality for the sake of speed, then that’s something we should all respect. You’ve become fools if you can’t see that.’

  Of course, this is all a matter of many years ago now and I cannot vouch that those were my exact words that morning. But I spoke in some such way on the Tortoise’s behalf, of that I am quite certain; for I can distinctly recall the gratitude and relief on the Tortoise’s face as he turned to me, and the astonished stares of all the others present. I myself commanded considerable respect amongst my colleagues – my own output being unchallengeable in terms either of quality or quantity – and I believe my intervention put an end to the Tortoise’s ordeal at least for the rest of that morning.

  You may perhaps think I am taking too much credit in relating this small episode; after all, the point I was making in the Tortoise’s defence seems a very obvious one – one you may think would occur instantly to anyone with any respect for serious art. But it is necessary to remember the climate of those days at Master Takeda’s – the feeling amongst us that we were all battling together against time to preserve the hard-earned reputation of the firm. We were also quite aware that the essential point about the sort of things we were commissioned to paint – geishas, cherry trees, swimming carps, temples – was that they look ‘Japanese’ to the foreigners to whom they were shipped out, and all finer points of style were quite likely to go unnoticed. So I do not think I am claiming undue credit for my younger self if I suggest my actions that day were a manifestation of a quality I came to be much respected for in later years – the ability to think and judge for myself, even if it meant going against the sway of those around me. The fact remains, certainly, that I was the only one to come to the Tortoise’s defence that morning.

  Although the Tortoise managed to thank me for that small intervention, and for subsequent acts of support, the pace of those days was such that it was some time before I was able to talk to him at length in any intimacy. Indeed, I believe almost two months had elapsed since the incident I have just related, when there came at last something of a lull in our frantic schedule. I was strolling around the grounds of Tamagawa temple, as I often did when I found some spare time, and spotted the Tortoise sitting on a bench in the sunshine, apparently asleep.

  I remain an enthusiast of the Tamagawa grounds, and would agree that the hedges and rows of trees to be found there today may indeed help provide an atmosphere more in keeping with a place of worship. But whenever I go there now, I find myself becoming nostalgic for the Tamagawa grounds as they used to be. In those days, before the hedges and trees, the grounds seemed far more extensive and full of life; scattered all over the open expanse of green, you would see stalls selling candy and balloons, sideshows with jugglers or conjurers; the Tamagawa grounds were also the place to go, I remember, if you wanted a photograph made, for you could not stroll far without coming across a photographer camped in his stall with his tripod and dark cloak. The afternoon I found the Tortoise there was on a Sunday at the start of spring, and everywhere was busy with parents and children. He woke with a start as I walked over and sat next to him.

  ‘Why, Ono-san!’ he exclaimed, his face lighting up. ‘What good fortune to see you today. Why, just a moment ago, I was saying to myself, if only I had a little spare money, I would buy something for Ono-san, some token of gratitude for his kindness to me. But for the moment I can only afford something cheap and that would be an insult. So in the meantime, Ono-san, let me just thank you from my heart for all you’ve done for me.’

  ‘I’ve not done very much,’ I said. ‘I just spoke my mind a few times, that’s all.’

  ‘But truly, Ono-san, men like you are all too rare. It is an honour to be a colleague of such a man. However much our paths may part in years to come, I’ll always remember your kindness.’

  I recall having to listen for several more moments to his praise of my courage and integrity. Then I said: ‘I’d been meaning to talk to you for some time. You see, I’ve been thinking things over and I’m considering leaving Master Takeda in the near future.’

  The Tortoise stared at me with astonishment. Then, comically, he looked about him as though in fear I had been overheard.

  ‘I’ve been very fortunate,’ I went on. ‘My work has caught the interest of the painter and printmaker, Seiji Moriyama. You’ve heard of him, no doubt?’

  The Tortoise, still staring at me, shook his head.

  ‘Mr Moriyama,’ I said, ‘is a true artist. In all likelihood, a great one. I’ve been exceptionally fortunate to receive his attention and advice. ‘Indeed, it’s his opinion that my remaining with Master Takeda will do irreparable harm to my gifts, and he has invited me to become his pupil.’

  ‘Is that so?’ my companion remarked warily.

  ‘And you know, as I was strolling through the park just now, I was thinking to myself: “Of course, Mr Moriyama is absolutely correct. It’s all very well for the rest of those workhorses to toil under Master Takeda to earn their living. But those of us with serious ambitions must look elsewhere.”’

  At this point, I gave the Tortoise a meaningful glance. He continued to stare at me, a puzzled look entering his expression.

  ‘I’m afraid I took the liberty of mentioning you to Mr Moriyama,’ I told him. ‘In fact, I expressed the opinion that you were the exception amongst my present colleagues. You alone among them had real talent and serious aspirations.’

  ‘Really, Ono-san,’ – he burst into laughter – ‘how can you say such a thing? I know you mean to be kind to me, but this is going too far.’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind to accept Mr Moriyama’s kind offer,’ I continued. ‘And I urge you to let me show your work to him. With luck, you too may be invited to become his pupil.’

  The Tortoise looked at me with distress on his face.

  ‘But Ono-san, what are you saying?’ he said in a lowered voice. ‘Master Takeda took me on through the recommendation of a most respected acquaintance of my father. And really, he has shown me great tolerance, despite all my problems. How can I be so disloyal as to leave after only a few months?’ Then suddenly, the Tortoise seemed to see the import of his words, and added hurriedly: ‘But of course, Ono-san, I don’t imply you are in any way disloyal. Circumstances are different in your case. I wouldn’t presume …’ He faded off into embarrassed giggling. Then with an effort, he pulled himself together to ask: ‘Are you serious about leaving Master Takeda, Ono-san?’

  ‘In my opinion,’ I said, ‘Master Takeda doesn’t deserve the loyalty of the likes of you and me. Loyalty has to be earned. There’s too much made of loyalty. All too often men talk of loyalty and follow blindly. I for one have no wish to lead my life like that.’

  These, of course, may not have been the precise words I used that afternoon at the Tamagawa temple; for I have had cause to recount this particular scene many times before, and it is inevitable that with repeated telling, such accounts begin to take on a life of their own. But even if I did not express myself to the Tortoise quite s
o succinctly that day, I think it can be assumed those words I have just attributed to myself do represent accurately enough my attitude and resolve at that point in my life.

  One place, incidentally, where I was obliged to tell and retell stories of those days at the Takeda firm was around that table in the Migi-Hidari; my pupils seemed to share a fascination for hearing about this early part of my career – perhaps because they were naturally interested to learn what their teacher was doing at their age. In any case, the topic of my days with Master Takeda would come up frequently during the course of those evenings.

  ‘It wasn’t such a bad experience,’ I remember telling them once. ‘It taught me some important things.’

  ‘Forgive me, Sensei,’ – I believe it was Kuroda who leaned across the table to say this – ‘but I find it hard to believe a place like the one you describe could teach an artist anything useful whatsoever.’

  ‘Yes, Sensei,’ said another voice, ‘do tell us what a place like that could have possibly taught you. It sounds more like a firm producing cardboard boxes.’

  This was the way things would go at the Migi-Hidari. I could be having a conversation with someone, the rest of them talking amongst themselves, and as soon as an interesting question had been asked of me, they would all break off their own conversations and I would have a circle of faces awaiting my reply. It was as though they never talked amongst themselves without having an ear open for another piece of knowledge I might impart. This is not to say that they were uncritical; quite the contrary, they were a brilliant set of young men and one would never dare say anything without first having thought about it.

  ‘Being at Takeda’s’, I told them, ‘taught me an important lesson early in my life. That while it was right to look up to teachers, it was always important to question their authority. The Takeda experience taught me never to follow the crowd blindly, but to consider carefully the direction in which I was being pushed. And if there’s one thing I’ve tried to encourage you all to do, it’s been to rise above the sway of things. To rise above the undesirable and decadent influences that have swamped us and have done so much to weaken the fibre of our nation these past ten, fifteen years.’ No doubt I was a little drunk and sounded rather grandiose, but that was the way those sessions around that corner table went.