Something Like an Autobiography - Akira Kurosawa [18]
Then I descended the shrine’s stone steps and, passing in front of the Kuroda Primary School, to which I had to return immediately, I headed for home and my own breakfast. From the foot of Ishikiribashi bridge, as I approached my house along the Edogawa River, the morning sun at last came up and shone full in my face. Every time the sun shone on me in the morning, I couldn’t help thinking that from that moment on my day would begin to be like that of an ordinary child. But it wasn’t out of discontent that this feeling came to me; it was a sense of self-sufficiency and satisfaction.
And indeed from then on my ordinary child’s day began. It followed the usual schedule of breakfast, going to school all day and returning home in the afternoon. But, compared to the teaching of Mr. Tachikawa, the instruction I now received at school seemed deficient. The hours in the classroom struck me as dry and tasteless, a painful exercise to be endured. I did not get along well with the new teacher who took over our class. Until my graduation, it was as if we were continuously engaged in a contest of wills. He seemed to be completely opposed to every aspect of Mr. Tachikawa’s educational philosophy, and he was forever making sarcastic comments about his predecessor’s teaching methods. He’d say, “Mr. Tachikawa probably would have said this,” or “Mr. Tachikawa probably would have done that,” and his face always bore a contemptuous smile as he spoke.
Every time he did this, I would give the foot of my friend Uekusa, sitting next to me, a good kick. Uekusa would respond with a quick grin. Something like this even occurred:
It was during art class. We were to paint a still-life of a white vase full of cosmos flowers that decorated the classroom. I wanted to capture the volume of the vase, so I emphasized its shaded areas with a thick purple. I showed the light leaves of the cosmos as masses of green smoke, and the pink and white blossoms as scattered splashes.
The new teacher took my picture and put it up on the side of the board we called the pin-up board. Here the best examples of students’ calligraphy or compositions or pictures were put up as a model for the rest of us to follow. The teacher called out, “Kurosawa, stand up.” I was very pleased, thinking I was about to be praised again, and I stood up proudly. But the new teacher, pointing at my picture, gave me a thorough dressing down.
“What’s the matter with the shading on this vase—where do you see any dark purple? What is this green here that looks like a cloud? If you think that looks like the leaves of cosmos flowers, you’re crazy.” There were too many barbs and too much venom in his words. His accusations were full of ill will. I stood like a stick, feeling the color draining from my face. What was this all about?
After school was over that day, Uekusa came running up behind me as I nursed my wounds in silence on the way down the Hattorizaka slope. “Kuro-chan, that was mean, wasn’t it? It was too mean! It was awful! It was unforgivable!” He kept repeating these things all the way home.
I think this was the first time I ever experienced the savagery that lies in the human heart. I could never find pleasure studying under this teacher. But I acquired a determination to work so hard that this teacher would never be able to criticize me again.
Calligraphy
I USED TO return home exhausted in the afternoon, tired out from all the walking and from having to prove myself to the teacher whom I hated. The way seemed three times as long as it had in the morning, and still longer because I had to look forward to a calligraphy lesson.
My father loved calligraphy, and frequently put hanging scrolls of calligraphy on display in the tokonoma alcove of our house. Only very rarely did he put up paintings. The scrolls he usually