An Artist of the Floating World

Kazuo Ishiguro

But I do not think it an exaggeration to say that a great many of those living here before the war would be familiar with it, for it did receive much praise at the time for its vigorous brush technique and, particularly, its powerful use of colour. But I am fully aware, of course, that 'Eyes to the Horizon', whatever its artistic merits, is a painting whose sentiments are now outdated.

It is not, I fancy, a feeling many people will come to experience. The likes of the Tortoise--the likes of Shintaro--they may plod on, competent and inoffensive, but their kind will never know the sort of happiness I felt that day. For their kind do not know what it is to risk everything in the endeavour to rise above the mediocre.

We at least acted on what we believed and did our utmost. It's just that in the end we turned out to be ordinary men. Ordinary men with no special gifts of insight. It was simply our misfortune to have been ordinary men during such times.

When I am an old man, when I look back over my life and see I have devoted it to the task of capturing the unique beauty of the world, I believe I will be well satisfied. And no man will make me believe I've wasted my time.

Can an entire generation be condemned? What is a nation to do when it gambles for greatness--and this probably means a good deal of evil--and fails? What did the aging generations of post WWII Japan and Germany do? How could they walk the streets? They who pushed their nations on in their conquests? They who stood in support of everything those regimes stood for? Most of this generation is gone now, but what must their waning years have been like? To have to live out the rest of your life knowing that it is the universal decision of the world to condemn your generation as evil--how does one live with that?
And then there is Art. What if an artist allows (or even uses) his art to push on and support such endeavors? Is the art to be disregarded? Should his paintings be burned? Should the memory of his greatness be wiped away? Reading An Artist of the Floating World puts you in the shoes of an aging Japanese artist in post-war Japan as he watches his children and the younger generation tip-toe around him and what his generation has done. Not only do you get the feel that this man has been subjected to a great indignity (which perhaps he did earn) but he is simultaneously experiencing the indignity of a mind and body collapsing about him. You want a startling narrative of aging...An Artist of the Floating World will give it to you. Can a man of such a generation have pride in himself and his life? Can he live without pride?