Art and Engagement in Early Postwar Japan

ART AND ENGAGEMENT IN EARLY POSTWAR JAPAN

JUSTIN JESTY

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS

Ithaca and London

This book is dedicated to my family.

And in memory of Michiba Chikanobu and Katsuragawa Hiroshi.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE: A RTS OF E NGAGEMENT AND THE D EMOCRATIC C ULTURE OF THE E ARLY P OSTWAR

1. Participatory Culture and Democratic Culture

2. Art and Engagement

PART TWO : A VANT- G ARDE D OCUMENTARY: R EPORTAGE A RT OF THE 1950 S

3. The Tales of The Tale of Akebono Village

4. The Social Work of Documentary and Reportage Art as Movement

5. Avant-Garde Realism

6. Katsuragawa Hiroshi, Ikeda Tatsuo, and Nakamura Hiroshi

PART THREE: O PENING O PEN D OORS: S ŌBI AND H ANI S USUMU

7. Touching Down at the Sōbi Seminar

8. Sōbi as Organization and Movement

9. Sōbi’s Philosophy and Pedagogy

10. Hani Susumu and the Creativity of the Camera

PART FOUR: K YUSHU-HA T ARTARE: A NTI- A RT BETWEEN R AW AND H AUTE

11. The Grand Meeting of Heroes

12. Kyushu-ha: Between Three Worlds

13. Kyushu-ha’s Art

14. A Cruel Story of Anti-Art

EPILOGUE: HOPE IN THE PAST AND THE FUTURE

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Color plates may be found at the end of this ebook

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This work would never have been possible without the help of many people. It is an artifact of a network of knowledge and a willingness to explore collaboratively that I want to think is not wholly divorced from the networks that are featured in it. My deepest gratitude goes to my teachers at the University of Chicago, Michael Raine, Norma Field, and Jim Ketelaar, for their generosity, support, curiosity, and high expectations. As I have moved on, I have come to realize just how different this book would have been had it grown in other environments, and I continue to rely on their counsel and grace. Reiko Tomii’s rigorous care has improved my work from the earliest stages of conceptualization to the final draft. Her independence and devotion to the field and her generosity in working with me continue to be an inspiration.

People in Japan who have shared their passion and learning have been equally pivotal. Masaki Motoi’s patience, energy, and resourcefulness have made it possible to pursue questions that I would not have been able to otherwise; I have followed through on only a small subset of all the doors he has opened for me. Ikegami Yoshihiko’s positive presence and tireless encouragement have demonstrated how genuine curiosity is one of the truest gifts one can give to others. Komori Yōichi, Iwasaki Minoru, and Morimura Osamu have provided both intellectual and institutional support. In relation to reportage and woodcut, I thank Ikegami Yoshihiko, Michiba Chikanobu, Toba Kōji, Tomotsune Tsutomu, and Irie Kimiyasu; Masaki Motoi, Ozaki Masato, Ishizaki Takashi, Hara Maiko, Takei Toshifumi, and Tokunaga Keita; Takemoto Katsuko, Nagasaki Yumi, and Nagasaki Yuriko; and Shirato Hitoyasu, Monden Hideo, and Shinkai Takashi. Kaneko Kazuo and Yamamoto Atsuo gave me advice and encouragement about my research on Sōbi. In relation to Kyushu-ha, KuroDalaiJee (Kuroda Raiji), Yamaguchi Yōzō, and Kawanami Chizuru have been tireless mentors; Sakaguchi Hiroshi has been an irreplaceable resource; and Gallery 58 and the Culture Section of the Nishinippon shinbun have been great supporters.

The people whose life and work I have been studying have been extremely gracious. In relation to reportage art I thank Katsuragawa Hiroshi, Ikeda Tatsuo, Nakamura Hiroshi, Maruyama Teruo, Yamashita Masako, Matsumoto Toshio, Segi Shin’ichi, and Hariu Ichirō for their openness and support. Katsuragawa and Ikeda have gone out of their way to help ensure my work is as accurate and complete as possible. The support of Shimazaki Kiyomi, Takamori Shun, Takako Saito, AY-O, and the inimitable Hani Susumu has been indispensable to my understanding of Sōbi, given how little the movement has been studied. Tabe Mitsuko, a former Kyushu-ha member, shared her wide-ranging knowledge and great sense of humor in many conversations and is also the person who introduced me to Senda Umeji. Taniguchi Toshio, Sakurai Takami, Kikuhata Mokuma, Ochi Osamu, Hataraki Jun, Yamauchi Jūtarō, Obana Shigeharu, and Morinaga Jun have been generous with their time, as have Osaka Kōji and Maruyama Izumi, who shared their knowledge of Kyushu poetry circles. I thank Hirayama Yasukatsu, Washimi Tetsuhiko, Maeda Tsuneo, Nakanishi Shigeru, and Kitaura Akira for sharing what they know about Bibai. Abe Seigi and Sakashita Masamichi have helped me understand Shokuba Bijutsu Kyōgikai.

Many more colleagues, friends, and mentors have helped along the way. Mōri Yoshitaka, Narita Ryūichi, Mitsuda Yuri, Nakajima Izumi, Adachi Gen, Hirasawa Go, Fukuzumi Haruo, Wesley Sasaki-Uemura, Laura Hein, Ryan Holmberg, Julia Adeney Thomas, Abé Mark Nornes, Asato Ikeda, Namiko Kunimoto, Steve Ridgely, Ann Sherif, Linda Hoaglund, Midori Yoshimoto, John Treat, Ted Mack, Davinder Bhowmik, Paul Atkins, and Ken Tadashi Oshima have all offered key guidance and support, as have Kamizono Hiroaki, Fujikawa Kōzō, Yoshimi Chinzei, Yamano Shingo, Choi Jaehyuk, Kai Shigeto, Furukawa Mika, Paek Rǔm, Iguchi Daisuke, Itō Norio, and Ōura Nobuyuki. Last and by no means least, Miyata Tetsuya has been a constant companion and source of strength.

Research and writing was made possible by a Japan Foundation dissertation research grant, a grant from the Hōsei University International Fund for foreign researchers, a Mellon grant for dissertation writing from the American Council of Learned Societies, a postgraduate assistantship from the Council on East Asian Studies at Yale University, and numerous travel and research grants from the Center for East Asian Studies and the Division of the Humanities at the University of Chicago and the Japan Program at the University of Washington. I would also like to recognize the Simpson Center for the Humanities for a Society of Scholars Research Fellowship and its director Kathleen Woodward for her vital vision and leadership. Special debts of gratitude go to the Department of Asian Languages and Literature and the University of Washington: had it not been for their extraordinary efforts to support me, I might not have remained in the field.

I thank Roger Haydon at Cornell University Press for being willing to take a risk on this project, and the anonymous readers, one of whom reached out across disciplines to share a particularly perceptive insight that contributed greatly to the manuscript.

Finally, I say thank you to Heekyoung for being everything she is and to Terin for being such a great teacher.

Introduction

The Genbaku no zu (Atomic Bomb Panels) are enormous, 1.8 meters high and 7.2 meters long. There are fifteen in all. A wife and husband, Maruki Toshi and Iri, painted the panels together over a period of thirty-two years.¹ Millions of people have seen the panels since the first one appeared in 1950, as they have toured the world in the context of numerous peace movements and campaigns against nuclear arms (plates 1 and 2).²

One of the most striking things about them is that what fills the space on these enormous canvasses is people. There are some animals, a ship, and some floating candles, but in the early panels all that comes into and holds this space are people—over 200 in Water alone. There is no landscape, no reliable perspective, no consistency of scale. The figures do not walk on a stable territory, and the aerial view that made the bombing possible cannot encompass their testimony. The compositions are too rambling to be called a snapshot and they are not collage: built up from single details, the images are the cumbersome work of individually realized human forms, not an exercise in nimble juxtaposition. Though a narrative is apparent to contemporary audiences, the panels’ first audiences had incomplete access to that: four years separate the initial devastation of the first panel, Ghosts (1950), from the beginning of Rescue (1954). Even with the hindsight made possible by the whole sequence, it would be difficult to claim that Rescue manages to undo the excesses of Ghosts to make them more consistent or familiar.

Although the Atomic Bomb Panels forego the elegance gained from regularity in time and space, they do not forsake drama. The figures are predominantly women and children. There were few adult men left in Hiroshima by the time of the bombing, but more to the point, the mother and child partake of long-standing popular metonyms for violence and shattered bonds. There are mountains of the dead, pieces of people strewn around the feet of those who stand, tendrils of skin hanging from outstretched arms. But there are also figures that have not been fully dehumanized by starvation or even injury. Many commentators have noticed how well formed they are, more nude than naked body. This is daring, even transgressive. Do we dare cross that river? Do we dare make a fiction of beauty amid tragedy? Although this was undoubtedly a risk, it may be this tension, this field of melodrama between the human and the dead, of uncertainty between success and failure, that is the source of fascination that keeps people looking at these images.³ Would a more brutal realism or a flourish of mastery stay with us for long, would it speak to us or beckon us? Would it not run its own risk of hygiene?

The issues of speech, beckoning, and sharing are central to the production and reception of the paintings. Iri was a native of Hiroshima but was in Tokyo when the bomb was dropped. When he read of the terrible new weapon in a newspaper, he hurried home, arriving three days after the blast. Toshi followed a few days later. They did not see the scenes they painted in the first three panels with their own eyes. The sources for the scenes were the stories that survivors and eyewitnesses told, many of them Iri’s relatives. Thus, the scenes the Marukis painted were based on verbal accounts, many of which were gathered in 1949 and 1950. There are other sources too. As Kozawa Setsuko’s research has shown, the mother and child at the center of Water and the dead child at the bottom of Fire were modeled on photographs that had evaded the censors of the U.S. occupation and were being circulated through Communist Party networks. These panels, then, are not testimony to the artists’ individual witnessing of the events but to a narration that was already part of a community: they are an amalgam of stories and carefully stewarded fugitive photographs.

The paintings are collaborative in a more immediate sense also: Iri and Toshi worked on them together, even though Toshi worked in oil painting (yōga) and Iri in the modern style of Japanese ink painting (nihonga). Oil and water, paint and ink are not easily mixed. Neither are the traditions and styles of yōga and nihonga. During the first few panels especially, the two artists were experimenting with how these divergent traditions could be brought together. In understanding the actual roles of the two artists, Kozawa proposes a parable: Toshi, an expert in painting nudes from studio models, created corporeal figures of definite volume based on the verbal testimony of eyewitnesses, while Iri, who arrived much closer to the actual blast, washed the veil of memory over them in the watery grey of ink.⁴

The wobbly, irregular human forms emerge too close to each other and then too far apart. That the tension between death and survival, between anger and humanism, between mourning and melodrama should come in such unbalanced compositions and such a hodgepodge of styles and images is testament to the human scale of this memorial. No one approach dominates, no experience rises above others. No single line establishes a rule of consistency or finality over what in the community of memory is such a multifarious and unruly event.

Beyond the community that supported the imagery that appears in the paintings, there is the extended community that enabled the visibility of these images as paintings. Images have long suffered suspicion and persecution in the argument that vision is an unavoidably alienating sense that both represents and enables the inhumanity and violence of modernity.⁵ Images undoubtedly do have their own power, which is often experienced as being direct or immediate.⁶ But they are also exceedingly unwieldy and fragile. They require tremendous effort and resources to produce, display, and preserve. As a corrective to the idea that images have agency or power in and of themselves, we must remember how much capital, infrastructure, and work is necessary to make and keep a given image visible. What were the communities of support that were called into being in order to carry the Atomic Bomb Panels around the world so that they might in turn bear their own form of witness?

The first five panels were made during the U.S. occupation. Public mention of the atomic bomb was forbidden under occupation policy. If the first exhibitions had been discovered by the police or the military police, the panels could have been confiscated. The occupation censorship authority banned a picture book about the bombing the Marukis produced in 1950 titled Pikadon (Flash-Boom) and the police regularly confiscated pirated copies of it from shops. Until the landmark August 6, 1952, edition of Asahi gurafu, which, with the end of occupation, was finally able to break the seven-year-old news, many Japanese people had little idea of what had happened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki and few had seen any pictures.

The Atomic Bomb Panels could intervene, but it was not a matter of images spreading of their own accord. In 1950 and 1951, the Marukis themselves carried the panels from place to place on a countrywide exhibition tour. With nothing but the national railroad and their own feet to move the huge canvases, the Marukis held exhibitions in fifty-one locations. Of course they had help, most notably from the Japanese Communist Party (JCP) and the Nihon Heiwa Iinkai (Japan Peace Committee). These organizations helped the Marukis make contact with people in the places they visited who could help them set up the exhibit. The exhibits were held in department stores, country inns, schools, universities, and temples. Local groups such as students, teachers’ union members, and people in the peace movement helped to organize publicity and integrate the program with the local community of the concerned. Each exhibit would stay in one place for three or four days, and each day one of the Marukis, usually Toshi, would make a presentation. Toshi’s presentations were in the form of a dramatic performance. She told stories based on the panels, sometimes half-sung in an improvised vocal style reminiscent of traditional popular oral narratives, shifting frequently from one character’s voice to another’s. She often spoke laments from the perspective of the dead. These performances created a space for extreme emotional involvement and participation. Contemporary reports claim that 649,000 people saw these exhibitions.⁷

Near the end of 1951, two young activists agreed to take over the exhibition tour. In 1952 and 1953, Nonoshita Tōru and Yoshida Yoshie brought the paintings to 794,200 people in ninety-six locations. Although they could not mimic Toshi’s verbal performances, they held four or five teach-ins per day when the panels were on display. They discovered that survivors of the bombings lived all over Japan, and when one was in the audience, he or she would sometimes take over the explanation. Visitors were given the chance to express their reactions. Yoshida later described how some crushed their pencil tips into the paper as they tried to write out their emotions. In at least one case, these reactions were collected and hand printed as a booklet.⁸

The Atomic Bomb Panels, therefore, are not simply images, and they are certainly not images that captured or legislated reality. Rather, they are one part of an expanding network, part of a community and a communication that was only possible to the extent that people sustained it, kept contributing to it, and kept the images visible. Just as the panels themselves were born of the unevenness of human community, memory, and capacity, their exhibition was a forum for multiple ways of identifying and reacting to the paintings. Performance studies scholar Shannon Jackson has argued that art’s institutionality—something I might broaden to its social existence—is best thought of as a durational, performative process rather than a static structure: less a sculpture than a drama.⁹ We can bring that idea to bear here: what we see and what we look to as art always rests on the activities of people and collectivities. The work of the artists in this study brings this to light. Their work was realized in pen, paint, film, and performance, and this is what survives as art. But their work was also a gesture within a movement, a gesture that they themselves had to carry through to the audiences they hoped it would reach. Their work includes not only their visual artistry but also the actions they took to create the conditions that would make their work visible and relevant. Only when we take these together can we understand the testimony embodied in their work.

Goals

This book is a cultural history of the relationship between art and politics in a particular time and place: Japan from 1945 to 1960. The investigation has two main goals. One is to reframe the history of that moment and its relevance to the present day, something that has specific relationship to Japan but also addresses understandings of the Cold War more broadly by revisiting possibilities obscured by subsequent consolidations of political and cultural life. The other is to demonstrate a method of examining the relationship between art and politics that approaches art as a mode of intervention, but insists artistic intervention move beyond the idea that the artwork or artist unilaterally authors political significance, to trace how creations and expressive acts may (or may not) actually engage the terms of shared meaning and value.

In both of these efforts, my project is aided by—indeed, relies upon—the formation of art and culture in the early postwar. It was a time of tremendous transformation globally. For Japan, the end of the Fifteen Year War (1931–1945) left people destitute and dislocated, stranded as refugees around Asia and in Japan. But by the end of the subsequent fifteen years, Japan was fast allies with its former enemy and occupier, dreams of mass prosperity were coming within reach, and hardly a shadow of empire remained in public memory. That transformation was anything but neat and even, and its results were far from foregone. Its elements were contested, the sites of prolonged political struggles across the 1950s. Within those struggles, particularly at the popular level, culture played a central role. Practices of self-expression and self-representation flourished. Hundreds of small-scale associations formed around writing, performance, singing, visual art, and film and music appreciation, and became stages for organizing creative and expressive work into a mode of semi-public subjectivity that fed into and formed out of social movements both large and small. Preserved today mostly in the pages of hand-printed (gariban) pamphlets and journals, eked from busy workdays and material adversity, this cultural engagement was undertaken with evident seriousness of intent: it was not something done with an excess of time or money but as work that was apparently necessary to its present. There is thus ample evidence within the field of culture of deep popular engagement with the urgent questions that faced Japan, along with the idea that culture itself would be a tool of its refashioning.

Histories of postwar Japan have often overlooked both the crisis and engagement of the early postwar, instead taking the social stability, political quiescence, and economic expansion of the period 1960–1990 to be definitive. Modernization theorists hailed Japan’s postwar transformation into a prosperous, capitalist, democratic nation as evidence that it had redeemed itself from the error of fascism. A later generation of critical transwar historians worked to undermine that view by arguing that the roots of the postwar order were to be traced to wartime mobilization and rationalization, not postwar liberalization.¹⁰ One thing these narratives have in common is that neither of them has much use for the hybridity and outright conflict of the early postwar and neither gives weight to the reality of roads not taken. This book revisits the early postwar for its difference from what came immediately after it, but also for its apparent kinship to the present, when once again visions of the future are openly contested and the foundations of stability less evident.

The study also endeavors to rethink the relationship between art and politics. Theorization of the politics of modernist and avant-garde art has been dominated for some time by ideas such as intervention, disruption, and critique, which tend to ascribe the political significance of an artwork to the incisiveness of its indictment of mainstream systems of value and meaning and its disruption of those systems through provocation or displays of antagonism or parody. The art forms that appear in this study occasionally partake of this logic, but it alone cannot account for their politics. Put simply, along with disruption (and its more ambitious cousins, destruction and revolution), the artists herein were in a situation whose instability demanded some degree of creation. While their work is not short on critiques of fascism, capitalism, and the Cold War, these were paired with efforts to build something different in the present. Hence our theories of art and its politics must be able to account for constructive and creative work which is carried through at the level of practical action as well as theory and artistic practice. Writers such as Grant Kester, Shannon Jackson, and Doris Sommer have recently begun to call for a recognition of the aesthetic and political value of duration, commitment, interdependence, solidarity, and sustained dialogue between artists and non-artists.¹¹ This study will show how art, and culture more broadly, became both a field and a tool for imagining and enacting delineable social change, not simply marking the need for it.

The two goals are closely interlinked. The task of pursuing them follows a similar logic. The history of Japan 1960–1990 has understandably focused on the dominant trends of economic development, depoliticization of public life, and the astonishing standardization of everyday culture. Similar trends are to be found in France, the U. K., and the United States. Keenly sensitive to these trends, political artists began to address them in their work as early as the late 1950s. The political aesthetic of estrangement, disruption, critique, and parody emerged from that work, as artists and theorists faced increasingly hidden and pervasive forces of social organization, and in the absence of organized radical alternatives. In film studies, this aesthetic has been codified as political modernism. In art history, Guy Debord may be the best-known theorist in the Euro-American context, while William Marotti demonstrates Akasegawa Genpei’s importance to the Japanese context.¹² Beyond these examples, most scholarship on the politics of the avant-garde of the long 1960s relies on some version of an aesthetics of disruption and critique, which assumes a well-defined and clearly dominant mainstream culture, against which a small, critical minority of artists position their works to political effect. This aesthetic is highly invested in the artwork and the artist as privileged bearers of political significance, yet in many cases it envisions little actual change. As Rebeccca Solnit observes, Sometimes radicals settle for excoriating the wall for being so large, so solid, so blank, . . . rather than seeing a door.¹³

While it is true that I find this political aesthetic fundamentally limiting, my project is primarily historical. I seek to historicize 1960s interventionism by setting out an alternative. While risking great oversimplification, we can characterize the contrast with reference to Yuriko Furuhata’s recent study of the image politics of Japan’s avant-garde filmmakers of the 1960s. She shows how cinema—itself an apparatus of the spectacle—became a testing ground for the reflexive critique of media spectacle precisely as new media formations (particularly in relation to television) were coming to dominate the intersection of culture and politics.¹⁴ The political aesthetics traced here, however, developed in a different context. The reach of visual media was not nearly so broad as it was in the 1960s, while the question of what the mainstream was to be was itself in dispute, as multiple hegemonic articulations of meaning and value clashed. In the cultural field, production was less capitalized, less centralized, and more permeable than it would become in the 1960s. This made divisions between producer and consumer, high and low, avant-garde and vernacular less easy to draw and maintain. Most important, however, the instability in the cultural field was invested with value. The idea of a testing ground, something legitimated by separation from other milieu of culture, was rejected (in practice as well as rhetoric), while—to coin a term for the sake of comparison—the aesthetics at play are characterized more by flexivity than reflexivity: the idea that both art and action were unavoidably part of a transforming reality.

The aesthetic and political convictions of the movements investigated in this book vary considerably, but one common thread connecting them is the importance each accorded to what I call democratic culture. In the ideas and activities to be chronicled, we will repeatedly see creative expression taken to be a fundamental aspect of participation. Further, ideas and creative practices were paired with concrete efforts at extending the franchise of creativity and expression by building the space and capacity for anyone to articulate an idea and position. Thus, in addition to the ideal of creativity, we see an investment in practices and organizations by which the fruits of anyone’s authorship might find some degree of publicity. Democratic culture is not a term that was used at the time in the way I am proposing, and the mode of its appearance is uneven. But the advantage of using the concept is that it allows us to see the constitutive commonalities among a variety of cultural movements of the early postwar, in which self-expression, self-representation, and the structured sharing of those expressions became key modes of political subjectivity and action. As a working definition, I use the term to denote an organization of values and competencies that aims to make possible the participation of the widest number of people as public authors of their own ideas, and aims to build the material and institutional forms by which those ideas could be heard and weighed most widely. This is a study of how cultural producers conceived of and worked in and around that ideal in the early postwar.

It is also a study of how these efforts were informed by the experience and assessment of war and fascism. Questions of responsibility emerged out of concrete and deeply personal experiences of war, defeat, loss, and survival. Artists implicitly and explicitly contrasted the peace and democracy that energized so much postwar debate and political organization with their darker shadows, war and fascism. For the groups in this study, who tend toward the liberal and radical left, the figures of war and fascism were doubled: the Cold War was reanimating the monstrosities of the war that had just finished. The push by successive conservative governments of the 1950s to correct the excesses of the early, liberal occupation reforms was indistinguishable from a resurrection of fascism. The Korean War, the remilitarization of Japan by U.S. forces, and the beginnings of Japan’s own rearmament, revived the socioeconomic structures of the war as well as people’s memories of it. Early postwar adversity was thus riddled with urgency. And yet—though the word optimism can be misleading in this context—animated by a belief that the future could be shaped by intervention in the present.

Although the patterns of the early postwar’s democratic culture faded with the consolidation and homogenization of culture in the 1960s, certain aspects of it can provide resources for understanding the present-day pluralization of political aesthetics, as seen in a renewed interest in community arts, amateur production, and experiments that seek a place for art in fostering civic engagement. Both the early postwar and the present are characterized by having witnessed a massive decentralization of cultural authority and a deprofessionalization of production. Both are characterized by an awareness of empowerment and progressive change existing as possibilities, but as possibilities imperiled by the consolidation of new patterns of military expansion and conflict, as well as political repression. Both seem to be characterized by an opening of conceptions of what art is and who should be doing it, while understandings of the politics involved concentrate as much on creating contexts for changing the terms of culture as on protesting its perceived immobility. Both seem to demand new models for understanding the relationship between art and politics.

Cases and Method

The three movements in this study each center on the visual arts, but they share an essential characteristic common to many varieties of cultural group in the early postwar. In each movement, we find people devoted both to their artwork and to the task of finding new terms for art and culture’s social existence. Artists experimented with ad hoc, nonhierarchical, and noncoercive ways of relating to one another and explored a range of media and exhibition formats to find new ways of relating to a public. This kind of experimentation is familiar territory for avant-garde movements throughout the twentieth century, but as will be described in part 1, artists were not the only ones looking for new ways to participate in building a new culture in the early postwar. They were joined by large numbers of amateur producers who gathered in workplaces and neighborhoods or through a common interest or experience to share in a creative and expressive activity. Poetry writing, theater, dance, singing, painting, and film and music appreciation, were some of the more common activities of these circles, as they were often called. Circles were informal forums where people met outside their usual social roles. Many held performances or exhibitions or produced their own hand-printed publications. Although each circle was small—usually little more than a handful of people who got together a few times a week to exchange their work and talk—circles were where the franchise of authorship was expanding. People who joined them used their own hands and voices to take hold of the cultural means of production and to alter, if only incrementally, the terms of the culture they were to share. They included artists, filmmakers, and intellectuals on the one hand, and workers, teachers, housewives, and a whole range of people on the other, each involved in experiments in finding new terms of organization and new modes of creative and expressive agency. It is at the junctures between these two trajectories, between the widespread impulse toward creative externalization on the one hand, and the more familiar realm of creative expression, that is, art, on the other, that I situate the movements I now introduce.

The subject of part 2 is the reportage artists. These artists formed a loose movement whose work is part of what made the 1950s a golden age of documentary. The movement was born around 1950, when the conservative shift in U.S. occupation policy was reaching a crisis point. The late 1940s had already seen U.S. policy move away from its early commitment to democratization and demilitarization toward rebuilding a strong, capitalist Japan as a bulwark against communism in the East. But in 1949–1950, with the beginning of a purge of suspected communists and the Korean War the backsliding became a rout, and the reportage artists saw society returning to the military-industrial authoritarianism so familiar from just a few years before. Although the word democracy now fell easily from the lips of those who had recently been urging wholesale sacrifice for Japan’s wartime empire, the reportage artists did not see a break with the fascist past. They saw instead a sinister repetition of the structures of war and oppression, and their work was undertaken to reveal it.

The practice of reportage involved traveling to places such as U.S. military bases and factory districts, where the violence of militarism and military-driven capitalism condensed. But for the reportage painters, the problem Japan faced was one whose source was also on the inside. As artist Katsuragawa Hiroshi saw it, their mission was to dredge up that cause that in so many forms has raised us over the past twenty years, has driven us toward a hateful war, has so decisively eaten away our youth. We have to get inside this and express it.¹⁵ The source lay deeply buried, not only in social structures but also within individual psyches, and the reportage artists used surrealist techniques of deformation and montage to get at the depths of that interpenetration. Their works tend to be crowded, heavy with contorted and overripe bodies, crowds, shanty towns, constructions sites, and bases. Though heavy, the embodiment is unstable, pulled apart and squeezed together in grotesque reconfigurations. All-over, montage compositions likewise refuse to settle down, teetering, jangling toward an uncertain future that the artist seems able to capture only a distended instant of. While many people sought to disavow responsibility for fascism, to cut off any personal role in it beyond that of victim, the reportage artists insisted on digging up uncomfortable histories and finding them doubled in the present. Peeling back the skin of Japan’s supposedly postwar society revealed that everything still teemed with rot underneath, setting the terms for the political failures of the present as they saw it. Reportage works insisted on sewing the subject back into history and opening out its vulnerability in the process, challenging people to face the deeper causes of war and corruption, both inside and out, that could not be exorcized otherwise.

Their devastating artistic critique of postwar society was paired with concrete—and surprisingly optimistic—efforts to realize something that would operate on different terms. This played out on a number of levels. At one level, the artists undertook experiments to alter the place and role of their artwork. As with the other movements in this study, they were concerned with the issue of how and under what terms their work could become visible. They organized their own exhibitions and published small, hand-printed works of criticism so they would not be beholden to the hierarchy of the more prestigious exhibition societies that had existed since before the war. At another level, the artists attempted to realize new terms of social relationship in their relations with others. They supported each other through a fluctuating network of short-lived groups of fellow travelers. These groups self-consciously avoided hierarchy and role specialization that would disen-franchise people from certain kinds of production. Although we might be tempted to accord these little weight, it was through such ad hoc groups that the artists received much of their considerable cultural education, and it is thanks to them that their work has survived at all. They also crossed boundaries to work with amateur artists and poets who had formed their own circles. This type of contact was a defining element of reportage practice, since research could only be done through a network of relations that constituted an (admittedly fleeting) alternative to a more stratified and concentrated organization of cultural production. In these ways, reportage consisted of both artistic and social practices, although, as will be seen, in a highly conflicted and unstable combination.

Part 3 examines a more loosely organized grouping: the Society for Creative Aesthetic Education, the work of the documentary filmmaker Hani Susumu and, tangentially, artists of the Asocio de Artistos Demokrato and Fluxus. What draws these actors together is a modernist belief in the possibility of personal and social liberation through the unfettered exercise of creativity. The Sōzō Biiku Kyōkai (Society for Creative Aesthetic Education), Sōbi for short, was one of a number of nongovernmental education movements (minkan kyōiku undō) that flourished in the decentralized environment of early postwar education. Sōbi advocated a radically child-centered education that afforded each child the time and space to explore the world for themselves and work through challenges by exercising their innate creativity. Sōbi members believed that the full actualization of individual human energies would loosen and eventually destroy the bonds of the repression that they saw surviving through the war and into the present. The cycle of modern authoritarianism by which adults stamped good behavior into children to satisfy the parochial demands of rationality, was enabled by the devaluation of human beings’ innate aesthetic sense. The child, if allowed to discover their own process of growth through creative exploration, could achieve an aesthetic accord with the world around them, one ultimately governed by fleeting intuitions of fit and balance. Schools, and society more broadly, needed to encourage this process of growth, in all its messiness and unpredictability. Teachers paid close attention to each artwork a student produced, but what they would produce next was of even more concern. The necessity of that work-to-come would appear in retrospect, while in the moment of anticipation it was an intensified awareness of as yet unformed possibilities. How could the teacher orient themselves and their students to welcome change, how could society come to welcome it, how could it be represented?

While Sōbi advocated a non-repressive approach in the classroom and school, the teachers in the organization also attempted to realize a certain art in their working lives. The movement was constituted at its base by schoolteachers interested in the pedagogy who formed local study groups to learn about it. As learners, they undertook their own process of exploration in a self-conscious pursuit of knowledge and tried, through openness and good will, to create an atmosphere where personal expression and creativity would be encouraged and shared. The aesthetic became a model for a spontaneously emerging order. It was to be the model for all education.

Hani Susumu and his family were peripherally involved with Sōbi, but the primary connection to be traced is in the way his early work explores the problems that the unpredictability and excessiveness of human creativity present for filmic representation. While film, particularly documentary film, might be taken to lock reality into an image that is frozen at the moment of shooting, Hani hoped to achieve the opposite: to create films that brought the inherent liveliness of reality to life by helping the audience appreciate the tension and unpredictability of each moment as it unfolded into its own future. If the Sōbi teacher attempted to adopt a certain humility before the complexity of each child’s development, Hani saw film as a medium that let the viewer assume a similar relation to the world. And much like the Sōbi teacher who stepped down from the front of the class to stand on the side of the child, Hani’s film practice brought the camera down to a position among the children he was filming, a move that would have a lasting impact on the practice of social documentary in the 1960s and 1970s.¹⁶

Part 4 examines a regional group of avant-garde artists, Kyushu-ha. While