The Mask Carver's Son (29 page)

Sakamoto looked over my work with narrowed eyes. Eyes permanently squinting from countless years of scrutiny, his skin crinkling over his bones like burned paper.

I watched as he extended his forefinger and traced the movements of my brush, the traces of fibers fossilized in the bright spread of pigment.

“I have never seen anything like your work, Yamamoto, but it bodes well for you that one of your paintings was exhibited in last year’s Salon,” he said as his eyes skimmed each canvas. “Only time will tell if Japan is ready.” He sighed.

He was brave enough to take a chance on me. “I have shown Kuroda Seiki, Asai Chu, Fujita Tsuguharu, Fujishima Takeji, and I will show you, Yamamoto Kiyoki, too.” He looked at me with his cautious gaze. “But I will show you only once. The rest is for the public to decide.”

*   *   *

We scheduled my debut exhibition for July, nearly two months for me to prepare my work. It would be a grand affair, Sakamoto promised. All the art critics would attend, as well as all the accomplished and accepted painters of the day. The pressure was great and I worked day and night in order to complete new canvases to complement the portfolio I had brought with me from France.

Sakamoto arranged studio space for me outside the gates of the Tokyo School of Fine Arts, in an old apartment where the rent was cheap and the tatami worn from age.

Noboru visited me occasionally, sometimes bringing a box of sweets or a canister of tea. It would always break my heart when he arrived. The reality of our friendship, its superficiality and the distance between us, was often too much to bear. My memory of the past was still grasped tight between my palms, like the sable brush that had once belonged to him that I held dear.

He would walk behind me and look at my canvas, illuminated in the afternoon sun. He would not speak, and neither would I. But I knew that what he saw before him was something he did not understand. Perhaps it was my anger that scared him. Perhaps it was something as shallow as the palette I chose. All I know is that, on the night of my exhibition, he did not acknowledge me. He stood in a corner meeting everyone’s eyes but mine.

*   *   *

The exhibition was a disaster from the outset. I awakened the morning of my debut to dark clouds and rain. Who would even come? I wondered as I prepared a bowl of tea. Outside, the torrents transformed the streets into muddy rivers and the rice-paper windows became thick and opaque.

I arrived at Sakamoto’s gallery early, in order to make sure my paintings were installed to my liking and that the program had been printed with the correct information.

“The canvases are far too close to each other!” I protested.

“That’s the way we do it here in Japan,” Sakamoto replied curtly.

“But they are on top of each other, each bleeding into the next!”

It was not at all how I imagined them displayed.

“Let me do my job, as I have allowed you to do yours,” he said as he turned his back on me and returned to his low, paulownia wood desk. “I will see you at eight o’clock.”

I chose to wear my black kimono, embroidered with Grandmother’s crest, for I believed it was the finest thing that I owned. Believing the critics and collectors would also come in kimonos, I never thought twice about my selection. I stepped into the hooded rickshaw, shielding myself from the rain with a parasol, and made my way once again to the gallery.

I arrived only to discover a group of critics had already gathered around several of my paintings. They had chosen to wear Western dress. Black coats and crisp white shirts punctuated the room like a long line of dominoes. And I, the Japanese artist who had just returned from Paris, slumped shyly in the corner, my silk kimono hanging from my shoulders like a shroud.

Their distaste for my work was apparent. They scrunched up their noses and shook their heads with confusion. They took off their glasses and wiped them clean.

I should be fair when I tell you that Sakamoto did try to introduce me, and promote me, as he had promised. He came over and tried to impress upon the guests that I was an ambassador of the new French style. “See the passion of his paintings,” he said to one critic who pressed his face close to the canvas and then simply responded with a shrug. “And his use of color and texture. It is the influence of the Impressionists, you see.” But no one seemed to care.

The weeks that followed were the cruelest. Every newspaper, magazine, and art journal in Japan seemed to have something unfavorable to say about my work. They said my paintings were “renditions of the grotesque” or “the work of a madman.” They speculated that I had suffered some sort of dementia while I was abroad, and prided themselves on having the sense not to be fooled into believing that my work was art. Even
The Fairy Faun
did not catch their fancy. The critics condemned it as odd and disarming—a mythological creature that they could not understand.

The moment my work was unveiled to their eyes, my career as an artist in Japan was ruined before it even began.

No art academy would have me as a professor. No private student would seek me as an instructor. Yet what destroyed me the most was not the reaction of the critics, collectors, and journalists who were responsible for my fate; it was Noboru’s response.

He had paced through the gallery with his eyes averted. Hovering in a corner when I was with Sakamoto. Lost in the crowds when I was alone. But always with his eyes cast down and his back slightly turned.

Noboru visited me shortly after my disastrous exhibition. I had read in the paper that day that he had just been awarded the first prize at Japan’s yearly salon, the National Bunten, that year. He did not, however, mention it when he arrived.

He came into my room, the faint traces of diluted turpentine permeating his coat. I greeted him in my cotton
yukata
. I had not changed out of it since the exhibition. Two weeks had since passed and I had yet to shave or comb my hair.

“Good afternoon, Yamamoto,” he chimed, and I think he fell into surprise, seeing me in such a wretched state.

I grumbled my greeting to him and let him find his way past the pillows and unmade futon, to a square of exposed tatami.

“You may sit down,” I muttered from where I stood. My back was now turned to him, my head faced the blurred rice-paper window.

“I am sorry this is the first chance I have had to visit you alone,” he said apologetically. There was kindness in his voice. But there was anger in mine.

“You greet me now when we are alone, but avoid me at galleries.”

“I thought it best under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances! What circumstances?” I cried as I whirled back from the window. “Does one not greet the artist whose exhibition it is? Let alone, one who is your friend?”

I glared at him. My eyes, wet from too little sleep and too much sake, fell upon him like sharpened claws.

“I am in a difficult position here. Can you not see? I am trying to make a name for myself and earn a living. We all can’t be pure as you, Kiyoki!”

And the irony of my name once again besieged me.

“I have always been envious of you, Yamamoto Kiyoki.” This time his voice was even softer, as if he needed to whisper these sentiments that he had kept hidden within himself for so many years.

“When you left for Paris, I knew that you would experience things I never would have had the opportunity to gather. That you would see things and meet people to whom I would never be exposed.” His eyes fell to the floor. “Can you not pity me? My work is far emptier than yours. Merely a patchwork of soft colors and imagined light.”

I looked at my friend. The one that I remembered from long ago had finally returned.

“You paint for yourself, and I paint for them,” he said. “I may have money and security, but you have purity of the soul. As painful as that may be now, as the years go by, you will be the one who is remembered.”

“I doubt that very much,” I said. “I am already forgotten.”

“You are ahead of the times, my friend.”

“I will wait, then,” I said. “I will do as you say and wait for my country to catch up to me.” I began to laugh, because the conversation seemed so preposterous.

“You are a great painter, Kiyoki, and I believe in you. Now you must concentrate on the future.”

“I am planning to return to Kyoto. I still have some land in Daigo that I intend to sell. I will need the money.”

“You won’t teach?”

“Who would want to learn to paint from a madman?”

“You are being too hard on yourself.”

In actuality, I did not feel I was being hard enough. How could I be, considering how much I had sacrificed and how many people I had hurt, just so I could afford to paint.

“I have no plans except to return,” I told him. “I need to see my mountain.”

“I would like you to see my work before you return. It is important to me that you come.”

I promised to visit him the following week.

N
o matter how much he had warned me, Noboru’s work surprised me greatly. The artist I remembered from our years at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts was far different from the one now standing in his spacious studio, showing me his work.

He had been spoiled. His years under Kuroda had developed his talent as a fine painter but destroyed the purity of his soul. Just as he admitted, he had learned to paint what the Japanese wanted to see, but not what he saw with his own eyes and soul. His fire had been extinguished, his vision dulled.

His paintings were nothing like what I had imagined. They were pleasing and innocuous. But they were completely unevocative. Paintings that were
inspired
by the work of Renoir. Paintings that
echoed
the quiet landscapes of Cézanne. They revealed a mastery of technique but, in the silence of their perfection, crumbled under their lack of substance.

I could not comprehend the work of art students like Noboru, who had never left Japan but painted with their eyes peeled westward. They had learned to paint from images reproduced in books and art magazines, and had never seen the sights they copied.

None of them had ever set foot in the Louvre. I recalled the moment when I had first entered the Sully gallery. I never felt more humbled as an artist, or more foreign as a man away from his home. Everything that was so exhaustingly beautiful was created by European hands. And the faces that stared at me, from either the linen of canvas or the rock of marble, were eyes that accentuated the imperfection of my own. Each gallery was an orgy of flesh; larger-than-life women towered above me, their breasts dangling like goblets, their ribs tapering into the slender stem of their waists. Wings fluttered from the backs of angels, the puckered mouths of putti kissed the Virgin, and I walked the corridors without the history of a shared religion, a common face, a mutual past. For the first time in my life, I yearned to see a familiar
kano-e
painting. After three hours, I had become numb to so many great works. The paintings of Bellini, Tintoretto, and Filippo Lippi ceased to move me.

These men who have never left Japan cannot conceive of the notion of being overwhelmed by the greatness and the excess of art in Europe. They are ignorant of what it is like to be so far away from their home, to lose their confidence in who they are. Foolishly, they think that they can simulate the attitude of a Western artist without ever having journeyed, suffered, celebrated,
lived
with the intensity that we all do when we are far from home. They do not know. And they never will.

It saddened me. Within me, a tremendous amount of pathos stirred. My friend, who would have fame and fortune, would have it all at the expense of his artistry. I had not the heart to tell him what I truly thought of his work.

I could feel the weight of his eyes on my shoulder. And I envisioned myself turning to him with my face disguised by one of my father’s masks. Could he read my eyes? I wondered as I looked quickly past him and then at the floor.

“How wonderful that you have been working under Kuroda!” I managed to muster, because lying seemed equally cruel.

He looked at me with eyes no longer bright. The flame extinguished. Begging me to go.

“Forgive me,” I whispered as I turned to leave. I am not sure if he heard me. But I said it anyway, because I felt I needed to say it to him. To Father, to Grandfather. To their memory. For my leaving. Because had I not left, I knew my life would have been different. And although I doubt I would have been happier, I know that I would not have been the one asking to be forgiven.

I
t was September 1901. I packed all of my belongings in my brown leather suitcase, rolled up my canvases in a long, hollowed-out piece of dried bamboo, and dressed myself in my old navy blue kimono. I wore sandals and
tabi
as well. Externally, I brazenly displayed the incongruity that I felt internally. The brown leather suitcase containing my neatly folded brown woolen suit, which cushioned the unfinished Ishi-O-Jo mask of my father, rubbed at my side with every step.

I arrived at Tokyo station, bought a one-way ticket to Kyoto, and boarded the train.

I remember nothing of that journey. I pulled down the blinds of my compartment and shut my eyes. My eyes were so tired. They could not absorb one more color, one more image. I pressed my head to the glass and slept for almost the entire passage.

Outside the station, many chair men were waiting to carry people to their final destinations. I was too weary for the long walk to Daigo, so I motioned to a young carrier that I would require his services.

“Where do you need to go?” he asked me. His accent was rough and revealed his lower-class background.

“I need to get to Daigo.”

He grunted. “Get in. That will be ten yen!”

“I’ll pay you when we arrive,” I told him firmly.

I squatted and inched myself into the rough carriage. The chair man called his partner, who grabbed the other side of the pole, and we began the trip up to Daigo. This part of the journey was far from luxurious. The men walked with their characteristic stiff-legged gait, and the chair jolted with every step. I braced myself by using the leather strap attached to the pole that ran through the top of the inner chamber. Still, my body jerked and ached.

*   *   *

An hour and a half later I arrived at the base of Mount Daigo to discover the entire peak ablaze in its autumn glory.

It smelled like autumn. Crisp and smoky. I felt that I was awakening from a black-and-white dream and entering a world of unending color. Had I really been away for so long? The mountain seemed as eternal as ever, formidable in her foliage. Like an empress, bejeweled in amber gold and ruby red. I had missed her.

I walked toward Sanpo-In, traveling up the rocky path that I had traveled so often as a child. The earth underneath my feet felt wonderfully familiar; the air filling my lungs felt clear. I passed through the orange torii, craned my neck to see the gate’s delicately flared sides, and hesitated for a moment as I entered the old temple.

I could hear a priest from within the temple’s inner chamber ringing the monks to prayer. Their shadows filtered through the shoji, their round shaven heads bowed to their chests. I could smell the burning incense mingling with the drying leaves, and I could see the unripe persimmons hanging from the trees. It was as though the fondest memories of my childhood had been preserved.

I continued my walk through the temple’s grounds. I trod softly on the dirt pathway and tiptoed on the neatly placed stepping-stones leading to the carefully manicured gardens and a glistening shallow pool of water. The low, twisting pines were perfectly pruned. The plush patches of green velvet moss were glistening with moisture. The pond was shimmering in the setting sun. For the first time I thought that the silence surrounding me was exquisite. There was no sound except for an occasional toad belching or a cricket chirping, and I thought of the story of my father as a young boy. Was Sanpo-In similar to the sanctuary where he had first learned to carve?

I leaned over the man-made basin of water, my reflection confirming once more that I was no longer a boy. The landscape here had stayed at a standstill, but I had not. Age had besieged me. It had anchored my eyes, pulling the flesh sightly downward, and toughened my once translucent skin. I was now nearly twenty-seven. Nearly the same age my father was when Mother died.

That night I slept at an inn not far from where my father and I had once lived. As I took a hot bath, I thought of Noboru. Experience had changed us. Separated us. It was not the distance; it was something far stronger than the sea.

I soaked in the steaming water for almost an hour. Too long for one’s health. When I stood up to reach for my towel, I felt my legs grow weak, and my vision began to escape me. With great difficulty, I managed to find a small wooden stool and I sat down. Naked and cold from the outside air, I cradled my face in my cupped hands.

The next morning I decided to visit the old Kanze theater. As I traveled there, I thought I saw the faces of my father, grandmother, and grandfather in the bark of the gnarled trees. I remembered how I had walked the path so many times beside them. Yet now, as I walked the path that led to the theater, I walked alone.

The soil underneath my sandals was the same dirt that had cushioned the feet of my ancestors. The trees above me were the same branches that had shaded them from the sun. Still, the path initially surprised me. Unlike the pristine walkway that was engraved in my memory, the path had become overgrown. Once impeccably groomed, the thick green shrubbery that lined the trail had grown wild and unruly. Long twigs twisted across the earth, black and brittle; they splintered as I crushed them under my feet.

The Noh stage stood in the middle of a field, just as it had for hundreds of years. Its ornate roof, with rolling curves and fancy woodwork, had darkened with age; the imperial-style structure, thundering its independence, stood alone.

I moved closer to see it. The heavy and ornate roof loomed like a protective hood for the sacred stage. The floorboards were immaculate, impeccably preserved and free of scuffs. As tradition dictates, each plank was free from knots and glistened like finely polished lacquer.

The pine tree painted on the rear wall had faded greatly. “The pine is symbolic to Noh,” Grandmother had told me after I saw my first performance. “It echoes the spirit of the theater. Like our traditions, its greenness persists regardless of the season. The pine is a strong tree, and it is unyielding.”

He was right. The tree, although worn, retained its malachite luster. In contrast, the pillars that flanked the stage remained unpainted, and their
hinoki
bark was weather-beaten with age. They had been painted when I was a child, I was sure of it. But somehow parts of the stage had fallen into a state of disrepair, while other parts, primarily the floorboards, seemed to survive, unscathed by time.

Suddenly, as I stood there alone among the crumbling splendor, I heard a sound. It came from the
hashigakari
, the floating bridge that served as a passageway for the actors as they made their powerful entrances onto the stage.

“Who’s there?” an elderly man’s voice cried out.

“Who’s there?” he said a second time and more persistently.

“My name is Yamamoto,” I said. “I mean you no harm.”

“Why are you here?” he responded angrily. “We do not give public performances here anymore. You have to go to the stage at the Nishi Hoganji Temple for that!”

“I apologize for the intrusion. I have memories of this stage, and I only came to refresh them,” I said gently. “If only you would be so kind to allow me that pleasure.”

The old man revealed himself and stood at the center of the bridge. He held a long wooden broom with bristles made of tightly wound thatch. Age had twisted him; he appeared crooked and uncomfortable but still altogether proud, like Grandmother with her bent back. The similarity between him and the pine tree was uncanny.

“What sort of memories could a young man like you possibly have?” His voice was bitter and sharp.

“My grandfather was a great actor who performed here.”

“What is your name again?” he asked. I had obviously piqued his curiosity.

“My family name is Yamamoto. My first name is Kiyoki.”

“Yamamoto . . . Yes, of course!” One could see that he felt triumphant that his memory had not failed him. “Your father was the great mask carver, Yamamoto Ryusei!”

I was surprised that he chose to mention my father over my grandfather.

“Yes, that is right. I am his son.”

“We heard that you went to Europe after his death.”

“That is true. But I have returned.”

“What for? Do you carve like your father?”

“No, I do not. I paint.”

“Well, I don’t see why you’ve returned to Kyoto. What do you intend to do with yourself here?”

“I thought I might set up an art school instructing students in the Western tradition.”

“Your time would be better served helping an old man like me polish the floorboards. It’s a disgrace to Noh to let them be blanketed in even a single speck of dust. I sweep them every day and polish them every other week.”

“You are very admirable,” I said.

“Well, I’m unable to perform anymore.”

“What is your name?” I asked him.

“My name is Hattori Keizo.”

His name seemed familiar to me. And although his face was creased with age, I recognized the unsightly mole underneath his eyebrow. He had been present that day, years earlier, when I traveled to the theater with Father.

“I studied under your grandfather. He was a great man and the best actor this stage ever had.” He paused. “I believe we met once a long time ago, when you were just a boy.”

“I remember, Hattori-sama,” I said with great reverence.

“Things have fallen apart around here over the past few years. We haven’t had a performance in three autumns. There is no interest among the younger generation.” He looked at me, his face crumpled in scrutiny. Suddenly, almost like a madman, he blurted, “You know, you are to blame!”

I looked back at him, my eyes betraying my sadness. “Why do you say such a thing? I cannot be responsible for the fate of the theater in its entirety.”

“You were born into a family of Noh and you betrayed that family! Why go and travel the seas to learn art when art lives and breathes in your own backyard?” The old man’s voice was sharp and his pitch squeaked with cruelty.

“I am a painter now, Hattori-san. Yes, I have been trained in the Western school, but I can still paint outside it. Let me repaint the stage. The great pine tree should be retouched, and it would be my privilege to do so, if you would allow it.”

“Why should I allow you to paint the Yogo Pine?”

“Will you not allow me to make amends?”

He looked down at me from the stage. The broom he leaned on twisted from the pressure of his body’s weight, the bristles bending over the floor.

“Come Friday and I will rummage around the back to see if I can find you some paint.”

“Do not bother,” I replied. “I have plenty to spare.”

“You cannot use
any
paint, Yamamoto-san. We have special pigment that is used only for the sacred painting of the pine!”

“I see. Very well. I will see you, then, on Friday,” I said, careful to bow deeply to him before I made my way back.