Barakamon: The Hardest Part of Making Art

by Raymond H

Raymond's debut article contemplates what a slice-of-life anime has to say about the artistic process.
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Today's song is this.

Barakamon, not to be confused with Bakuman, Bakugan, or the Burakumin ethnic group, is a twelve-episode anime adaptation of an ongoing manga series, wherein a young, talented calligrapher called Seishuu journeys to the Gotou islands off the western coast of Kyushu after a fight with a critical curator prompts his self-exile from the calligraphic scene. Once there, Seishuu becomes acquainted with the lovable but eccentric islanders, who rapidly turn his life upside-down as he struggles to return to the craft he is so passionate about.

There's a lot to love about this series, which I think remains an overlooked gem of anime. There's the light-hearted, slice-of-life plot, which manages to make its meandering pace an actual point of Seishuu's character development, i.e. his learning to calm down and not take life so seriously. There's the design, which while nothing overly spectacular still manages to instill this animated world with a profusion of life and color. And there's the acting, with Daisuke Ono turning in a wonderful performance as Seishuu and an assortment of talented child actors bringing the Gotou island children to life. While personally I think adult voice actors are able to give more nuanced and subtle performances than child actors, I found myself pleasantly surprised by the child cast of Barakamon.

However, I think the most lovable, and most important, aspect of Barakamon is how it captures something not many other stories do, that being the hardest part of making art. Art about art is a common enough genre to have produced several popular works. I already mentioned Bakuman, and there are tons of other stories that deal with this theme, such as Blue Blazes or Tari Tari. Each of these stories deals with different forms of art, and each of them has different levels of stakes to deal with, but in the end, all these stories deal with the concept of the artist's struggle, and more specifically, the concept of the big break.

Stories about an artist's big break tend to have protagonists that already possess a deep passion for their chosen art by the time their tale begins. These aspiring artists already know what they want to do with their lives, and the conflict arises from them trying to break into their chosen industry. Sometimes, this conflict arises from external forces, i.e. the protagonist is too poor to attend the prestigious art school that will surely allow them to achieve their dreams, or from internal forces, i.e. the protagonist has to find the internal discipline necessary to complete the projects that will surely allow them to achieve their dreams. However, in both these cases, the protagonist begins their story in the position of a novice. These artists may still have plenty of room to improve their craft, but if they were only given the proper opportunity to show the world what they could do, then they would surely gain the fame and recognition their talent deserves.

In Barakamon though, Seishuu already begins his story with that opportunity taken and used. Seishuu is already an established, albeit unseasoned, calligrapher when he gets into the fight that kicks off Barakamon's plot. More than that, Seishuu is a calligraphic Wunderkind, a youthful prodigy who comes from a family of famous calligraphers. Every artist under the sun dreams of being a Wunderkind, because it means that our big break will come to us with only a minimal amount of effort, and right when we are in the prime of our youths. The fact is though, it's easy to get your big break when you're young. Well, perhaps I shouldn't say easy. After all, there are countless artists struggling today, who have been struggling for years, trying to make a success of themselves with their art. To say that achieving initial success when young is easy would be a disservice to those aspiring artists and their struggles. However, even if catching a big break is not easy, it still isn't the hardest part of making art. The hardest part of making art is to keep making art. Orson Welles made Citizen Kane, considered by many as the greatest film of all time, when he was only 25, but does anyone know what he did after that? Sure, The Third Man was great, and Touch of Evil remains a classic despite its troubled production, but none of those come close to the lasting impact of Kane, or even to Welles' radio adaptation of War of the Worlds, made when he was only 23. In the end, one of cinema's greatest titans was reduced to... erm, well...

Seishuu's struggle is not the struggle of a novice, but of an established professional. The reason he takes such offense to the curator's criticism of his work isn't because the curator thinks Seishuu doesn't have what it takes to break into the calligraphic field, but rather because he thinks Seishuu has already reached the peak of his creative mountain, and in the end it is only a molehill. Over the course of the series, as Seishuu tries to break back into his chosen field, he struggles with the possibility that the curator may very well be right. Seishuu has spent his whole life devoted to calligraphy. His greatest fear then isn't being unable to establish himself, but rather being unable to sustain himself and his art.

Even in series such as Bakuman, where the main characters manage to publish short-lived but well-regarded detective and gag manga, they still buy into the idea that once they make their first long-running and popular series they'll finally have it made and be able to rest easy. Barakamon though, knows that this line of thinking is patently false. If the artist is not moving, they are sinking, and the realization every artist has once they at last catch their big break and find that things have not gotten any easier can sometimes be too difficult to bear. The annals of art are filled to the brim with one-hit wonders, people who captured lightning in a bottle but were unable to make that lightning strike twice. But as Barakamon shows, the key to making art work is to not regard it as work, but as a passion. The idea of something being "just like making love" is such a cliché, most people can only roll their eyes when they hear it. However, making art really is like making love, when you think about it. You can read all the how-to books and ask all the old greats all you want. The fact remains that once you are actually there, actually making art, all the memorized techniques in the world won't save you unless you feel the situation, take hold of the moment, and allow your passion to consume you. Because really, why else do any of us make art, if not for our passion?

(Seriously though, if you're still rolling your eyes at that simile, which I wouldn't resent you for doing, I stole it from Ray Bradbury, who probably would have known much more than me on the subject, so there)

Seishuu could very easily give up calligraphy if he wanted. He's young, affluent, and good-looking. He could surely find some other profession that isn't nearly as stressful as calligraphy. But that very idea is utterly ludicrous to him, because even with all the stress that coming up with new art entails, there is no greater feeling in the world for him than when he at last completes that art, and is proud of what he has accomplished. Seishuu's journey in Barakamon is one of rekindling passion, and through the love and support of the Gotou islanders, he manages to do just that.
Themes: TV & Movies
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