An Artist of the Floating World (7 page)

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 he 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 so 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. "Indeed, Sensei," someone said, "we must all remember that. We must all endeavour to rise above the sway of things." "And I think we here around this table," I went on, "have a right to be proud of ourselves. The grotesque and the frivolous have been prevalent all around us. But now at last a finer, more manly spirit is emerging in Japan and you here are part of it. In fact, it's my wish that you should go on to become recognised as nothing less than the spearhead of the new spirit. Indeed"--and by this point, I would be addressing not just those around the table, but all those listening nearby--"this establishment of ours where we all gather is a testimony to the new emerging spirit and all of us here have a right to be proud." Frequently, as the drinking got merrier, outsiders would come crowding round our table to join in our arguments and speeches, or simply to listen and soak in the atmosphere. On the whole, my pupils were ready enough to give strangers a hearing, though of course, if we were imposed on by a bore, or by someone with disagreeable views, they would be quick to squeeze him out. But for all the shouting and speechmaking that went on into the night, real quarrels were rare at the Migi-Hidari, all of us who frequented that place being united by the same essential spirit; that is to say, the establishment proved to be everything Yamagata had wished; it represented something fine and one could get drunk there with pride and dignity. I have somewhere in this house a painting by Kuroda, that most gifted of my pupils, depicting one such evening at the Migi-Hidari. It is entitled: "The Patriotic Spirit", a title that may lead you to expect a work depicting soldiers on the march or some such thing. Of course, it was Kuroda's very point that a patriotic spirit began somewhere further back, in the routine of our daily lives, in such things as where we drank and who we mixed with. It was his tribute--for he believed in such things then--to the spirit of the Migi-Hidari. The picture, painted in oils, shows several tables and takes in much of the colour and decor of the place--most noticeably, the patriotic banners and slogans suspended from the rails of the upper balcony. Beneath the banners, guests are gathered around tables in conversation, while in the foreground a waitress in a kimono hurries with a tray of drinks. It is a fine painting, capturing very accurately the boisterous, yet somehow proud and respectable atmosphere of the Migi-Hidari. And whenever I happen to look at it today, it still brings me a certain satisfaction to recall that I--with whatever influence my reputation had gained in this city--was able to do my small part in bringing such a place into being. Quite often these days, in the evenings down at Mrs Kawakami's, I find myself reminiscing about the Migi-Hidari and the old days. For there is something about Mrs Kawakami's place when Shintaro and I are the only customers there, something about sitting together up at the bar under those low-hung lights, that puts us in a nostalgic mood. We may start discussing someone from the past, about how much he could drink perhaps, or some funny mannerism he had. Then before long we will be trying to get Mrs Kawakami to recall the man, and in our attempts to jog her memory, we will find ourselves remembering more and more amusing things about him. The other night, after we had been laughing over just such a set of reminiscences, Mrs Kawakami said, as she often will do on these occasions: "Well, I don't recall the name, but I"m sure I"d recognise his face." "Well in truth, Obasan," I said, remembering, "he was never a real customer here. He used to always drink across the street." "Oh yes, at the big place. Still, if I saw him, I may recognise him. But then again, who knows? People change so much. Every now and then, I see someone in the street, and I think I know them and I should greet them. But then I look at them again and I"m not so sure." "Why, Obasan," Shintaro put in, "just the other day, I greeted someone in the street, thinking it was someone I knew. But the man obviously thought I was a madman. He walked away without replying!" Shintaro seemed to regard this as an amusing story and laughed loudly. Mrs Kawakami smiled, but did not join in his laughter. Then she turned to me and said: "Sensei, you must try and persuade your friends to start coming back to these parts. In fact, perhaps each time we see an old face from those days, we should be stopping him and telling him to come here to this little place. That way we could start rebuilding the old days." "Now that's a splendid idea, Obasan," I said. "I'll try and remember to do that. I'll stop people in the street and say: "I remember you from the old days. You used to be a regular around our district. Well, you may think it's all gone, but you"re wrong. Mrs Kawakami's is still there, the same as ever, and things are slowly building back up again." "That's it, Sensei," Mrs Kawakami said. "You tell them they'll be missing out. Business will start to improve then. After all, it's Sensei's duty to bring back