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ioanna_reads06 's review for:
An Artist of the Floating World
by Kazuo Ishiguro
“I cannot recall any colleague who could paint a self-portrait with absolute honesty” - this novel explores the perception of oneself and the interaction between memory, guilt and responsibility. The unreliability of the narration highlights this idea that how Ono sees the world is not the true way, especially during the last parts of the novel as Setsuko mentions she cannot remember memories Ono talks of. This review sums up my thoughts perfectly:
An Artist of the Floating World has much the same flavor to it that Remains of the Day possesses. It is a first person narrative from a narrator who is obvious in his inability to be impartial or reliable. As we try to piece together the truth of this man and his life, there is a heaviness of spirit that emerges, a sense of failure that is misunderstood, and a sense that Ono, the narrator, not only misunderstands himself but also those around him.
Like much of Ishiguro's work, this book leaves you at the end with a lot of questions you feel you must not only ask, but answer. Is it better to have acted upon vour convictions and been wrong than to have done nothing at all? Are we ever as important to the world as we believe we are? When does conviction become narrow-mindedness? Are we ever right to impose our views upon others, and what price is fair for making a mistake that can be literally seen as the mistake of an entire society? And, I suppose I would add one more: Can we ever remember the past as it actually was, or must be always alter it somewhat to make the memory survivable?
Another question that I have pondered over my life is that of what makes an artist or a piece of art great? If it is declared to be great, can it then be less simply because fashions have changed, times have changed, or the subject matter becomes less palatable. I have wondered about this in regards to literature as well as painting. Sometimes it seems so arbitrary.
For instance, there were paintings that were done by a
student of a master (I believe it was Rembrandt, but don't
hold me to that). At any rate, they were mistaken to be the
major artists' works and declared to be masterpieces and
worth millions. It was then discovered that although they were painted in the same time, they were not his work. Immediately they became second-rate and worth much less. How can this be so? If they were masterfully done, are they not still masterfully done? Are they of less value because the painter is no longer a well-recognized name or figure?
The imagery in the novel is striking. There are many scenes
where the description amounts to a visual painting:
“Beneath his umbrella, he was hatless and dressed in a dark raincoat. The charred buildings behind him were dripping and the remnant of some gutter was making a large amount of rainwater splash down not far from him. I
remember a truck going by between us, full of building
workers. And I noticed how one of the spokes of his
umbrella was broken, causing some more splashing just
beside his foot.”
If I could paint, I would paint this man, for I can see him and I can see how broken he is and how all of his physical
environment echoes his loneliness and sorrow. In a world that is changing, that has aready changed, post-war Japan, Mr. Ono is a fish out of water, a man who cannot reconcile his version of his life or his country with the version that is presented to him by his children or his society. He struggles to see why his masterpiece is now a forgery, or at
the least a mistake. And, Ishiguro captures his struggle perfectly.
—> “The best things, he always used to say, are put together of a night and vanish with the morning. What people call the floating world, Ono, was a world Gisaburo knew how to value.”
Perhaps all things are temporary, fleeting, gone in an instant, and perhaps the only success or victory in life is to be able to see them momentarily and appreciate their value.
An Artist of the Floating World has much the same flavor to it that Remains of the Day possesses. It is a first person narrative from a narrator who is obvious in his inability to be impartial or reliable. As we try to piece together the truth of this man and his life, there is a heaviness of spirit that emerges, a sense of failure that is misunderstood, and a sense that Ono, the narrator, not only misunderstands himself but also those around him.
Like much of Ishiguro's work, this book leaves you at the end with a lot of questions you feel you must not only ask, but answer. Is it better to have acted upon vour convictions and been wrong than to have done nothing at all? Are we ever as important to the world as we believe we are? When does conviction become narrow-mindedness? Are we ever right to impose our views upon others, and what price is fair for making a mistake that can be literally seen as the mistake of an entire society? And, I suppose I would add one more: Can we ever remember the past as it actually was, or must be always alter it somewhat to make the memory survivable?
Another question that I have pondered over my life is that of what makes an artist or a piece of art great? If it is declared to be great, can it then be less simply because fashions have changed, times have changed, or the subject matter becomes less palatable. I have wondered about this in regards to literature as well as painting. Sometimes it seems so arbitrary.
For instance, there were paintings that were done by a
student of a master (I believe it was Rembrandt, but don't
hold me to that). At any rate, they were mistaken to be the
major artists' works and declared to be masterpieces and
worth millions. It was then discovered that although they were painted in the same time, they were not his work. Immediately they became second-rate and worth much less. How can this be so? If they were masterfully done, are they not still masterfully done? Are they of less value because the painter is no longer a well-recognized name or figure?
The imagery in the novel is striking. There are many scenes
where the description amounts to a visual painting:
“Beneath his umbrella, he was hatless and dressed in a dark raincoat. The charred buildings behind him were dripping and the remnant of some gutter was making a large amount of rainwater splash down not far from him. I
remember a truck going by between us, full of building
workers. And I noticed how one of the spokes of his
umbrella was broken, causing some more splashing just
beside his foot.”
If I could paint, I would paint this man, for I can see him and I can see how broken he is and how all of his physical
environment echoes his loneliness and sorrow. In a world that is changing, that has aready changed, post-war Japan, Mr. Ono is a fish out of water, a man who cannot reconcile his version of his life or his country with the version that is presented to him by his children or his society. He struggles to see why his masterpiece is now a forgery, or at
the least a mistake. And, Ishiguro captures his struggle perfectly.
—> “The best things, he always used to say, are put together of a night and vanish with the morning. What people call the floating world, Ono, was a world Gisaburo knew how to value.”
Perhaps all things are temporary, fleeting, gone in an instant, and perhaps the only success or victory in life is to be able to see them momentarily and appreciate their value.