Art is a fascinating and difficult subject. It’s difficult to tell when art is being done well and, even when perfected, it still offers little more than an experience. It’s very powerful but, at the same time, almost entirely intangible. This may be why, for better or worse, art that explores the intricacies of making art is one of the most enduring genres of art in existence.

Akane-banashi is one of the best examples of this genre I’ve read. It’s a rich exploration of the difficulties that come with performing arts in the modern day, along with a meditation the egos and rivalries that make most artistic circles go around. At the same time, it’s very down to earth. The most recent story arc, the Zuiun Cup competition, was a fascinating blending of the all the story’s usual thematic elements with an added twist to it.

This particular story is about the problem of the artist themselves.

Before we talk too much about that, some context.

Akane Ozaki follows in her father’s footsteps, studying the Japanese comedy format known as rakugo. Her goal is to show up the influential figures in the entertainment industry who effectively blacklisted her dad, ruining his career. The name at the top of her list is Issho Arakawa.

After years of studying under Shiguma Arakawa, her father’s mentor, Akane becomes a professional rakugoka (the term of art for a rakugo performer) and begins to make waves under the stage name Akane Arakawa. In time she learns about the history of the Arakawa school and her mentor’s rivalry with Issho. Finally, Shiguma performs an incomplete tale that has been passed down by the Arakawa for some fifty years, hoping she can finish it one day.

Shortly thereafter, Shiguma is diagnosed with throat cancer. The tumor is operable but the surgery leaves Shiguma’s voice too weak to continue performing. Shiguma’s four students are shared out among the four remaining Arakawa masters to continue their education. This is how Akane winds up apprenticed to Issho.

It is he who gives Akane the assignment to enter the Zuiun Cup and tells her to win without making the audience laugh. Let me remind you that rakugo is a form of comedy. As always, Issho is a magnificently obtuse antagonist.

The Zuiun Cup is a particularly noteworthy moment in the story as it hails back to Akane’s first encounter with Issho during the Karaku Cup. This was the moment that defined the conflict between Akane and Issho. Along the way she competed against two other up and coming rakugoka and faced the reality of trying to make a name with traditional artforms in the modern day. Clearly, our story is coming full circle in order to make a new point about Akane’s journey.

The full story of the Zuiun Cup is too long to examine fully here. What is important is that Akane comes into the competition with something to prove. (So do her two rivals, who have also made a return from the Karaku Cup, but they’re not important to this analysis.) Akane’s constant state of low key irritation with her mentor, along with Issho’s cryptic demands, has left her with a chip on her shoulder.

Not that this chip is a new thing but it is bigger these days.

The problem Akane faces is that her life has been lived making other people laugh. In many ways the tragedy that befell her father pushed her deeper into this way of living, creating a way for her to cope with the sudden transformation of her home life. Humor is a core part of her identity. She loves making people laugh and doing that is also her primary coping mechanism when she, herself, is upset.

Her challenge in the Zuiun Cup stems from the fact that rakugo is a highly traditional art form where each story is an entity in and of itself. These stories are guarded quite jealously. Before a story is entrusted to a new teller, the rakugoka must first prove that they understand the story. In order to do that they must put the story first.

What Issho challenges Akane to do is put herself aside, her own desire for laughter, her own grudges, and put the story first. However he does not say this directly. As always, he speaks in riddles. He does this in the hope that as his student struggles with his lesson she will develop a deeper appreciation for the artform than if he just handed her answers. Akane succeeds in this challenge but it’s a difficult thing for her to achieve.

After all, Issho isn’t asking her to master a skill but instead asking her to master herself.

The importance of this to art cannot be understated. In most forms of art you are asking people to believe something, moving an idea from within your mind into their mind via a medium of transmission that ranges from spoken word to sculpted stone. They must invest in the idea as much as you have, to the point where the fact that it isn’t real doesn’t matter. In storytelling we call this “the willing suspension of disbelief.” 

The catch to this is that belief must rest on something.

The more the creator inserts themselves into the art the more the creator is asking you to rest your belief on them, rather than on the idea they are conveying. That can work, in certain contexts. The more the art is about you the more sense it makes for your art to rely on how believable you are. (Of course, you must actually be trustworthy, as well, but that is neither here nor there.)

The problem arises as art becomes less and less about you and more and more about something else. All art contains a part of its creator, of course, but that’s not all art is. Truth, excellence and beauty are all important factors in art as well. More than that, art is often about people other than you.

When you bring your own agendas and priorities to stories about other people your own ego obscures what you are asking the audience to believe. At that moment you are undoing your own art. This creates a tension which can never be fully resolved and thus requires the constant vigilance of the artist.

The solution is to do exactly what Issho makes Akane do. Go back to basics and strip your art down to its essence. Pull as much of yourself out of your art as you can and see what you have, then only begin to let yourself back into the art once you are confident in its integrity. That way you can be sure there is room for the audience to invest as well.

The prize for this is not great. It is only the integrity of your work. However, the artist who doesn’t have that has nothing at all.