Beauty in the Age of Empire: Japan, Egypt, and the Global History of Aesthetic Education 0231191162, 9780231191166

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Beauty in the Age of Empire

Columbia Studies in International and Global History Studies of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute, Columbia University

Columbia Studies in International and Global History CEMIL AYDIN, TIMOTHY NUNAN, AND DOMINIC SACHSENMAIER, SERIES EDITORS This series presents some of the nest and most innovative work coming out of the current landscapes of international and global historical scholarship. Grounded in empirical research, these titles transcend the usual area boundaries and address how history can help us understand contemporary problems, including poverty, inequality, power, political violence, and accountability beyond the nation-state. The series covers processes of ows, exchanges, and entanglements—and moments of blockage, friction, and fracture—not only between “the West” and “the Rest” but also among parts of what has variously been dubbed the “Third World” or the “Global South.” Scholarship in international and global history remains indispensable for a better sense of current complex regional and global economic transformations. Such approaches are vital in understanding the making of our present world. Cemil Aydin, The Politics of Anti-Westernism in Asia: Visions of World Order in Pan-Islamic and Pan-Asian Thought Adam M. McKeown, Melancholy Order: Asian Migration and the Globalization of Borders Patrick Manning, The African Diaspora: A History Through Culture James Rodger Fleming, Fixing the Sky: The Checkered History of Weather and Climate Control Steven Bryan, The Gold Standard at the Turn of the Twentieth Century: Rising Powers, Global Money, and the Age of Empire Heonik Kwon, The Other Cold War Samuel Moyn and Andrew Sartori, eds., Global Intellectual History Alison Bashford, Global Population: History, Geopolitics, and Life on Earth Adam Clulow, The Company and the Shogun: The Dutch Encounter with Tokugawa Japan Richard W. Bulliet, The Wheel: Inventions and Reinventions Simone M. Müller, Wiring the World: The Social and Cultural Creation of Global Telegraph Networks Will Hanley, Identifying with Nationality: Europeans, Ottomans, and Egyptians in Alexandria Perin E. Gürel, The Limits of Westernization: A Cultural History of America in Turkey Dominic Sachsenmaier, Global Entanglements of a Man Who Never Traveled: A Seventeenth-Century Chinese Christian and His Con icted Worlds Perrin Selcer, The UN and the Postwar Origins of the Global Environment: From World Community to Spaceship Earth

Beauty in the Age of Empire Japan, Egypt, and the Global History of Aesthetic Education

RAJA ADAL

Columbia University Press New York

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York Chichester, West Sussex cup.columbia.edu Copyright 2019 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Adal, Raja, author. Title: Beauty in the age of empire : Japan, Egypt, and the global history of aesthetic education Raja Adal. Description: New York : Columbia University Press, [2019 Series: Columbia studies in international and global history Includes bibliographical references and index. Identi ers: LCCN 2018060456 ISBN 9780231191166 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN 9780231549288 (e-book) Subjects: LCSH: Arts—Study and teaching (Primary)—Japan. Arts—Study and teaching (Primary)—Egypt. Arts in education. Classi cation: LCC N 384.A1 A33 2019 DDC 700.71—dc23 LC record available at https: lccn.loc.gov 2018060456

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America Cover image: Oisha san [The doctor , 1936, Kikuchi Tomijir , rst-year student in regular higher primary school (k t ka ichinen, Yamagata ken Kitamurayama gun Nagatoro mura Nagatoro jinj k t sh gakk , currently Higashine shiritsu Nagatoro sh gakk ). Used with permission of the family of Kikuchi Tomijir and Nagatoro sh gakk s ga o kataru kai.

Contents

List of Illustrations vii Note on Names xi Acknowledgments xiii

Introduction 1

1 The Modern School as a Global Archive 20 I M

,C I

,

S

E

Interlude. How Culture Travels: A Global History of the Piano 37

2 Music Education and the Uses of Aesthetics 43 3 Writing Education and the Location of Aesthetics 74 II F

R

M

I

A

:D

S

E

Interlude. Mimesis and Seduction in National Anthems 105

4 The Mimetic Moment: The Age of Global Mimesis and Representational Mimesis 120

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CONTENTS

5 The End of Global Mimesis: The Rise of the National Subject 140 6 The End of Representational Mimesis: The Rise of the Individual Subject 158 Conclusion 180 Notes 189 Works Cited 231 Index 255

Illustrations

Figure I.1

Pianoforte brought by Philipp Franz von Siebold to Japan in 1823 38

Figure 2.1

Participants at the Congress of Arab Music, 1932 48

Figure 2.2

Twentieth-century illustration of instruments played in Pharaonic Egypt 53

Figure 2.3

Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa (1860–1915) 60

Figure 2.4

Model music class in Egypt, 1930s 61

Figure 2.5

Model music class in Japan, 1930s 61

Figure 2.6

Columbia record of an Egyptian song, early 1930s 70

Figure 2.7

Columbia record of a Japanese song, 1933 70

Figure 3.1

Writing as an independent subject in Japanese and Egyptian primary schools, 1872 to 1930 76

Figure 3.2

Example of Japanese kaisho-style script 81

Figure 3.3

Example of Japanese gy sho-style script 81

Figure 3.4

Example of Japanese s sho-style script 81

Figure 3.5

Example of Arabic naskh-style script 82

Figure 3.6

Example of Arabic ruq a-style script 82

Figure 3.7

Example of Arabic thuluth-style script 82

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Figure 3.8

Photograph of proper writing posture in Japanese teaching manual, 1942 89

Figure 3.9

Photograph of proper writing posture in Japanese teaching manual, 1942 89

Figure 3.10

Writing exercise in Japanese primary school textbook used in language class, 1941 93

Figure 3.11

Writing exercise in Japanese primary school textbook used in the art section, 1942 93

Figure 3.12

Writing exercise for Crown Letters in Egyptian primary school textbook for the ruq a script, 1931 99

Figure 3.13

Writing exercise for Crown Letters in Egyptian primary school textbook for the naskh script, 1931 99

Figure II.1

Score of the song “Glorious Apollo” by Samuel Webbe 109

Figure II.2

Score of the song “Kimi ga yo” in the rst Japanese music textbook, 1881 109

Figure II.3

First o cial printing of the Japanese national anthem “Kimi ga yo,” 1888 110

Figure II.4

Cover for the score of the song “l’A endina” by Giuseppe Pugioli published in Milan, ca. 1870s 113

Figure II.5

Score of the song “l’A endina” by Giuseppe Pugioli published in Milan, ca. 1870s 114

Figure II.6

Score of Egypt’s “Khedival Hymn,” 1916 115

Figure II.7

Score of Egypt’s national anthem “National Hymn,” 1943 116

Figure II.8

Ma m d A mad al- ifn (1898–1975) 117

Figure II.9

Lyrics of the Japanese national anthem “Kimi ga yo” on the rst page of the primary school music textbook, 1941 118

Figure 4.1

First drawing in The Illustrated Drawing Book by Robert Scott Burn, 1852 127

Figure 4.2

First drawing in Seiga shinan (Guide to Western drawing), 1871 127

Figure 4.3

First illustrations in La clef du dessin by Jean Carot, ca. 1850s 129

ILLUSTRATIONS

ix

Figure 4.4

Photograph of drawing class at Inbaba Teachers’ College, 1939 135

Figure 5.1

Pencil drawing from Sh gaku zuga kaitei (Primary school drawing guide), 1888 147

Figure 5.2

Brush drawing from Sh gaku m hitsu gaj (Primary school brush drawing book), 1888 147

Figure 5.3

Drawing card of a “natural design” by Egyptian artists Y suf K mil and R ghib Ayy d, ca. 1910s or early 1920s 152

Figure 5.4

Drawing card of an “Egyptian design” by Egyptian artists Y suf K mil and R ghib Ayy d, ca. 1910s or early 1920s 152

Figure 5.5

Drawing card of an “Arab design” by Egyptian artists Y suf K mil and R ghib Ayy d, ca. 1910s or early 1920s 152

Figure 5.6

Drawing of a “Western design” by Egyptian artists Y suf K mil and R ghib Ayy d, ca. 1910s or early 1920s 152

Figure 6.1

Yamamoto Kanae (1882–1946) 162

Figure 6.2

Drawing of a child drawing nature while sitting in the midst of nature by Yamamoto Kanae, 1930 163

Figure 6.3

“Teapot,” drawn by a pupil, in Yamamoto Kanae’s book Freehand Drawing Education ( Jiy ga ky iku), 1921 164

Figure 6.4

“A Portrait,” drawn by a pupil, in Yamamoto Kanae’s book Freehand Drawing Education ( Jiy ga ky iku), 1921 164

Figure 6.5

“Inside the University Campus,” drawn by a pupil, in Yamamoto Kanae’s book Freehand Drawing Education ( Jiy ga ky iku), 1921 164

Figure 6.6

Drawing of the human face from an Egyptian drawing manual, 1929 172

Figure 6.7

Drawing of the human face from an Egyptian drawing manual, 1956 172

Figure 6.8

Clay gurine modeled by a ten-year-old girl from “Creative Art in Egyptian Schools” by ab b Jurj , 1949 176

Note on Names

have observed the common practice of transliterating Japanese using the modi ed Hepburn system and Arabic using the IJMES system. Common place names and words that appear in a standard Englishlanguage dictionary have been rendered without macrons (Tokyo rather than T ky , Quran rather than Qur n), except when citing Arabic- or Japanese-language publications. Japanese family names usually appear before personal names, except when referring to individuals who customarily use a di erent order.

I

Acknowledgments

eferences and credit lines acknowledge ownership, but what of the myriad unmarked contributions by archivists, librarians, colleagues, friends, family, and editors In so many ways, this book is the outcome of these contributions. This is the place where I acknowledge the largest of these debts, even if space limitations make it impossible to acknowledge countless others, and if the responsibility for any mistakes and omissions remains mine. The desire to compare Japan and the Middle East rst came when, as a graduate student at the International University of Japan and then the University of Kyoto, I noticed surprising parallels between the Middle East, where I was born and which I frequently visited, and Japan, which was my new home and obsession. I owe it to the Middle Eastern studies community in Japan, and particularly to Kosugi Yasushi, for providing guidance and a sounding board for some of these early re ections. With my move to Harvard University I became interested in cultural history and, eventually, in aesthetics. I still remember Cemal Kafadar, scanning the rows of shelves behind him and, somewhat miraculously, returning with a book in hand. Its in uence is still visible in this work, and I owe Cemal my early introduction to the social history of aesthetics. The outcome of these two experiences is this comparative social history of aesthetics in Japan and Egypt.

R

xiv

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The comparison committed me to a life between two regions, if not two worlds. At Harvard I found a vibrant home in the Japan studies community anchored by Andrew Gordon. I owe Andy more than words can express. He provided a stable and fertile environment for his graduate students. And he led me toward a form of history writing that was as careful and disciplined in its approach as it was open and inquisitive in its outlook. In the middle of my graduate career, I also had the incredible fortune of having Ian J. Miller join the faculty. He read my drafts, drew on his encyclopedic knowledge of the literature, and provided me with a model for a cultural historian of Japan. In Middle Eastern studies, Roger Owen listened to my plans for doing research in the Egyptian archives, introduced me to people who could help, and, as my project moved forward, continued to give me suggestions. Cemil Aydin, who was leaving Harvard just as I entered it, is one of the few scholars whose work compares Japan to the Middle East. He has followed and advised my project with inimitable generosity. And from my graduate days to today, Jordan Sand has been a wonderful interlocutor, giving me feedback on my work and helping me gain con dence in it. I am also grateful to Charlie Maier, who was always there to ask the hard questions, and to Dani Botsman, who gave me an abiding interest in Tokugawa history and helped me think through what I should compare and how. Early on, Ivan Gaskell helped guide me in the literature on aesthetics, Marwa el Shakry suggested Egyptian sources and literature, and Shigehisa Kuriyama inspired me with his work in comparative history and helped improve my presentations. At various times I also bene ted from the comments of Leila Ahmed, Steven Caton, J. D. Connor, irginia Danielson, Kevin Doak, Renaud d’Enfert, Shel Garon, Lisa Gitelman, Ellis Goldberg, Michael Herzfeld, Engseng Ho, Andrew Jewett, Jason Kaufman, Anneka Lenssen, Yukio Lippit, Roy Mottahedeh, Gülru Necipo lu, Rebecca Rogers, and Elaine Scarry. Both in Cambridge and in Egypt, Nasser Rabbat contributed his vast knowledge to helping me analyze the sources for drawing education, and Irvin Schick both helped me understand the world of calligraphy and opened his wonderful collection of primary and secondary sources on the subject. If faculty members mentored me, colleagues provided the second half of the graduate experience that initially shaped this book. I am particularly grateful to have shared classes, o ces, and intellectually pivotal

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

xv

moments with Fabian Drixler, Hiromu Nagahara, Ahmed el Shamsy, and Himmet Taskomur. Others provided friendship and intellectual companionship. In particular, these include Denise Ho, Sarah Kashani, Loretta Kim, Chris R. Leighton, Kate Luongo, Ilham Khuri-Makdisi, Matt Mosca, Andy Murray, and Helena Toth. I do not remember how many times I took the ight between Cairo and Tokyo. I spent more than three years of research in these two cities and have, in the process, incurred many debts. In Cairo I was fortunate enough to have Michael Frishkopf, Khaled Fahmy, Eve Troutt Powell, and Mona Russell share their knowledge and experience with me. Through the Fulbright Commission, the late Raouf Abbas became my advisor, and he was forthcoming with advice and encouragement. At the Centre d’Études et de Documentation Économiques, Juridiques et Sociales (CEDEJ) I attended many a seminar in the vibrant intellectual atmosphere animated by the late Alain Roussillon, Iman Farag, and Mustafa Khayati, among others. They welcomed me in their midst and provided a forum in which I could present my work and receive feedback. Nicolas de Lavergne was kind enough to share his work and his sources on kutt b schools with me. Others were generous with their help and advice. They include Mu ammad ab b, Sa d Isma l Al , Walter Armbrust, Israel Gershoni, Im d abu Gh z , Mu ammad Mu awwad Ibr h m, Izz al-Din Nag b, Ahmed Ragab, Lucie Ryzova, and Jessica Winegar. A group of friends made life in Cairo more interesting and pleasant. They include Hatsuki Aishima, Lars Christensen, Anne Clement, Dan Gilman, Alan Mikhail, Jennifer Pruitt, Anna Roussillon, Karem Said, Anthony Shenoda, and Leonard Wood. Finally, I am most grateful for those who allowed me to use documents from their private collections, including Rat ba Ma m d A mad al- ifni, Hassan Kamel-Kelisli-Morali, Lucie Ryzova, Jonathan Ward, and especially Jam l abu al-Khayr. When I rst arrived in Tokyo in the summer of 2003 in search of a topic, sources, and a method, Kitamura Kazuo of the Sh wa Women’s University took me to his library and helped introduce me to the eld of Japanese education, Isomae Jun’ichi suggested literature and introduced me to friends, and later on gawa Masafumi was a generous interlocutor. When I returned to Tokyo for a longer period of research, I became a liated with the Graduate School of Interdisciplinary Information Studies at the University of Tokyo. Yoshimi Shunya welcomed me among a large and

xvi

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

dynamic group of graduate students and researchers. His openness to different approaches and sharp intellectual presence notably enriched my time in Japan and improved my work. Among the many members of his department, it was a special privilege to spend long hours talking with Hayashi Mitsuhiro and Niikura Takahito. At the University of Tokyo Faculty of Education I received advice from Hijikata Sonoko and Hirota Teruyuki, and in other faculties of the University of Tokyo I had discussions with Sato Kenji, Alan Kristy, and Kinoshita Naoyuki. I bene ted from the help and friendship of Morishita Nobuko, Nomura Rie, Toishi Nanami, and Yasuhara Tetsuya, and from an informal workshop with Emer O’Dwyer, Hoyt Long, and Roderick Wilson. Finally, I am also grateful to the many others who gave me various forms of help and advice in the United States and Japan, including Fujikawa Masaki, Kaneko Kazuo, Kira Yoshie, Kondo Shigekazu, Nagahara Hiroko, Naoki Sakai, Henry D. Smith, Alan Tansman, and Anne Walthall. In the long, winding path that took this project to book form I have been incredibly fortunate to have colleagues who took the time to read my drafts and provide feedback. While I was a postdoctoral fellow at the Harvard Reischauer Institute of Japanese Studies, Alexander Nehamas read my manuscript, attended my book conference, and gave the precious perspective of a philosopher of aesthetics. At Oberlin College Ann Sherif and Len Smith helped provide an extraordinary environment in which to take my rst steps in teaching while simultaneously working on my manuscript. At the University of Cincinnati Willard Sunderland in particular was a great colleague and friend, taking the time to read my draft manuscript and providing valuable advice. At the University of Pittsburgh my colleagues not only provided a remarkably stable and friendly working environment but organized an author’s workshop for me. Their collective comments considerably in uenced the nal iteration of this manuscript. I am grateful to Christopher L. Hill, who was invited to provide initial comments on my manuscript. It is when I began revising it that I realized the pertinence of his contributions. I am also grateful for the colleagues who provided comments and support that played a crucial role in the revision, especially Elizabeth Archibald, Clark Chilson, Michel Gobat, Diego Holstein, incent Leung, Gabi Lukacs, Patrick Manning, Hiroshi Nara, James Pickett, Lara Putnam, Pernille R ge, Adam Shear, Gregor Thum, Molly Warsh, and Mari Webel.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

xvii

This work would not have been possible without long-term grants from the Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad Fellowship, the Foreign Language and Area Studies (FLAS) Academic Year Fellowship, and two Harvard University Reischauer Institute of Japanese Studies grants, as well as shorter-term funding from the Association of Asian Studies Northeast Asia Council (NEAC) Japan Council, FLAS, the Japan Foundation, and the Harvard University Reischauer Institute. I am also grateful for the right to have parts of two previously published articles included in this book. Parts of chapter 3 were published as “Japan’s Bifurcated Modernity: Writing and Calligraphy in Japanese Public Schools, 1872–1943” in Theory Culture and Society (2009), while parts of chapters 4 and 5 can be found in “Aesthetics and the End of the Mimetic Moment: The Introduction of Art Education in Japanese and Egyptian Schools” in Comparative Studies in Society and History (2016). I also thank the editorial team at Columbia University Press, particularly Monique Briones, Caelyn Cobb, Marisa Lastres, and Ross Yelsey, as well as the anonymous reviewers of my manuscript. Over the years I also received invaluable editorial help from Andrew Booso, alfa Hassan Hoballah, Shukri Rayyan, Hayashi Rie, and Lynne Riggs. For grants that facilitated the publication process I am grateful to the Scho Fund at the University Seminars at Columbia University. The material in this book was presented to the University Seminar Modern East Asia: Japan in 2015. I am also grateful to the University of Pittsburgh Japan Council for grants that were crucial for editing and improving this book. Finally, I should mention my family. My parents and aunt gave me an early, nonacademic, introduction to aesthetics in a hybrid postcolonial context that saw us migrate from place to place, while still managing to give me a home turf that I could always nd again. My sister Yumna in particular was a friend, an adviser, an editor, and so much more. My partner Kay brought enthusiasm and reassurance to everything from life to work, including this book. And my two children, Jonah and Hana, helped make the last years of writing this book some of the best years of my life. They are learning to sing, draw, and write just as this book, which is based on discussions about singing, drawing, and writing education, goes to press.

Beauty in the Age of Empire

Introduction

n the legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, music is an uncanny source of desire:

I

The town of Hamelin was infested by rats. A piper promised to rid the town of the vermin in exchange for payment. The townspeople agreed, but once the sound of the piper’s ute had led all of the rats into the river, they reneged on their promise. In revenge, the piper played his ute again, this time leading the town’s children into the mountains where they disappeared and were never seen again. Thereafter, on the street where the children of Hamelin had followed the piper, music and dance were forever forbidden.1

When modern bureaucrats and schoolteachers decided to overturn centuries of custom and use music to educate children, they overcame the fear that the Pied Piper would come and take their children away. Or rather, they decided to become the Piper and use the power of music to try and attract children, not into a river or mountain but toward the school and its teachings. The government committee that introduced music in Japanese schools in 1886, for example, imagined music as instilling a moral discipline into children’s inner lives:

2

INTRODUCTION

Music moves the heart (shinj ), whether toward happiness or sadness. When a disciplined song is heard the heart becomes disciplined, when a comforting song is heard the heart is comforted. At such times evil does not enter the heart. If good songs are listened to in childhood, a child’s upbringing will be virtuous. Music moves people in unison and is therefore used in the military. To win on the battle eld the power of music is necessary. The teacher, like the general, can utilize music to achieve harmony in children’s hearts.2

Only a few years earlier the French republican composer and educator Louis-Albert Bourgault-Ducoudray sounded a similar note when he approved of the introduction of music into French schools. Music, he wrote, is an “all powerful educational tool.”3 In fact, across the world, the justi cation for including music in school curricula was much the same. In 1930s Egypt, for example, the director of the Egyptian Institute of Education, A mad Fahm al- Amr s , gave many of the same reasons for teaching music to children that his French and Japanese counterparts from half a century earlier gave: In the human soul there are deeper regions that lay farther from the mind (al- aql), and these are the regions of inclinations, sentiments, and desire. So if we wish to give children a complete education, we cannot limit it to an education of the mind. We must go to the bottom of their souls (nuf sahum) and to the depths of their hearts (qul bahum) and nourish them with musical sounds.4

Similar references to the power of music can be heard across late nineteenth- and twentieth-century literature on primary school education. Although they rarely if ever referred to the Pied Piper, these educators deployed music like modern pipers seeking to elicit desire in children’s hearts. This book is about the uses of enchantment, attraction, and desire in modern schools. By looking at the modern school, it suggests that the power of enchantment never disappeared from the modern world. Only its location changed, from sites like the court, the church, or the village festival to modern institutions like the school. The source of enchantment was no longer limited to the pageantry of rulers, the smells, sounds, and sights

INTRODUCTION

3

of religious ceremonies, or the sensory intoxication of village festivals but could also be found in government schools ringing with the sounds of national anthems and brought alive by beautiful, colorful paintings. The narrative of modernity has often been one of disenchantment and rationalization. Max Weber’s iron cage famously expunged enchantment from modernity.5 Yet the pleasures that su use modern life should push us to consider how moderns found ways to systematically enchant new spaces like the school, manipulating children’s inner selves not through punishment and control but through attraction and desire.6 But how do we study desire The Piper attracted the children of Hamelin through their senses. Like the Piper, the interdisciplinary eld of aesthetics is concerned with attraction toward objects of desire and with how these objects of desire are perceived through the senses. The modern school is well suited for examining not so much the experience of attraction itself as the quest by educators to use attraction to educate children’s inner selves. Three curricular subjects were particularly suited for this project: music, drawing, and writing education. All were concerned with sensory experiences, with music training the ear while drawing and writing trained the eye. These three subjects will serve to introduce some of the ways in which a modern institution like the government school sought to use sensory experiences to attract and enchant. In this book, these three subjects will collectively be referred to as aesthetic education.7 Aesthetic education was part of modern primary school education across the globe. Most of the sources in this book come from Japan, Egypt, France, Great Britain, or the United States. Educators in all these societies, and we can safely assume in most every other society with a modern school system, sought to use aesthetic education to inculcate children with attractions toward a nation, an ideology, or any other normative object of attraction. In this book, aesthetics has a broad meaning, referring to not only to personal attractions but to collective attractions that bind individuals together into a community of shared pleasures. For Friedrich Schiller, aesthetics was the force that was tasked with creating a cultural community in the face of a cold technological modernity.8 It was the repository of the particular, which for nationalisms is national identity, as opposed to the undi erentiated universal technologies of modernity. Aesthetic education in modern primary schools was part of a larger concern with culture, identity, and community.

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INTRODUCTION

Although aesthetic education was important for forging community in Europe and North America, it was even more vital for societies on the receiving end of Western expansion. In an imperial age pervaded by colonialism, or at least the threat of colonialism, aesthetics was a rare terrain where non-Western societies could claim to be superior to the wealthier and more powerful Western states. This can be seen in a popular nineteenthcentury slogan that promoted a “Japanese spirit with a Western technique” (wakon y sai). Its premise was that if modern Western techniques were universal, the “spirit” was particular to Japan. This spirit, like the spirit of all nationalisms, was aesthetic. It resided in Japanese art, literature, nature, and other sites that were a source of pleasure. The association of technology, universality, and power with the West and spirituality, particularity, and aesthetics with the indigenous self was not unique to Japan. A contemporaneous Egyptian discourse spoke of “the spiritual and the material” (al-r i wa al-m l ), where the spiritual was the Egyptian self—whether located in the Arabic language, Egypt’s pharaonic past, or the Islamic religion—while the material consisted of universal Western technology. If Western techniques were powerful, the indigenous self was beautiful. The sources used to write this book make it particularly well suited for placing aesthetics on a global terrain where power is unequally distributed. Although this book includes sources from France, Great Britain, and the United States, most are from Japan and Egypt. Like other non-Western societies in the nineteenth century, Japan and Egypt were faced either with Western colonialism or with the threat of colonialism. The very use of the word “colonialism,” of course, has negative connotations. It is usually understood as the exploitative control of one society over another. The ip side of “colonialism” was “civilization,” with all the positive connotations associated with it. The seminal thinker in nineteenth-century Japan Fukuzawa Yukichi frequently referred to the West as a source of civilization (bunmei), just like his equally famous Egyptian counterpart Rifa a al- ah w sometimes spoke of the West as a source of civilization (madaniya and a ra).9 Western expansion could be described as either a colonial project or a civilizational one. The di erence between them was primarily aesthetic. If the foreign and the indigenous came to share in the same attractions, morals, and beliefs, then the di erence between them would be erased. Both the colonizer and the colonized would disappear. There would be no nationalist

INTRODUCTION

5

movement that would demand separation from the colonizing power because the colonizing power would be conceived as part of the national self. Examples include all those parts of the world that became a part of larger national entities, from Corsica to Hawaii to Okinawa. For young nations on the receiving end of Western expansion like Japan and Egypt, the wealth and power of the West risked seducing their populations and erasing any distinction between the national self and the Western other. In the face of the superior wealth and power of Western empires, these non-Western nations were particularly concerned with establishing a national aesthetic. This book traces their e orts to create an aesthetic national subject that could anchor their national identity in Japanese and Egyptian government schools. In the next two sections I brie y introduce the study of aesthetics in one place and in no place and, in so doing, clarify the ways in which the often-contested and sometimes nebulous concept of aesthetics has been used. Then I turn to the study of aesthetics in many places. Once we think of the Piper in a global context, we begin to hear the sound of his ute everywhere. It becomes an intricate part of a modern world that has always had its enchanters, not only in its popular cultures but in quintessentially modern institutions like the nation-state and the modern school. These enchanters can be heard everywhere, but they were not everywhere the same. The sound of their utes resounds across an asymmetrical global terrain that is in ected by multiple competing relations of power.

Aesthetics in One Place Some events are more frequently understood in terms of aesthetics than others. The most common may be the rise of fascism in interwar Europe. For Marxian writers like Walter Benjamin, fascist aesthetics was a Dionysian force that lured the masses toward its pleasures, preventing them from seeing economic realities grounded in material relations of production: Fascism attempts to organize the newly created proletarian masses without a ecting the property structure which the masses strive to eliminate. Fascism sees its salvation in giving these masses not their right, but instead a chance to express themselves. The masses have a right to change property relations; Fascism seeks to give them an

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INTRODUCTION

expression while preserving property. The logical result of Fascism is the introduction of aesthetics into political life.10

Such a suspicion of aesthetics is common to an entire body of literature about fascist aesthetics. If the fascist aestheticization of politics was equivalent to the Piper luring the town’s children into delusion and bondage, in the aftermath of the fascist seizure of power Marxian intellectuals struggled to articulate what kind of music, if any, should be permitted on the town’s main street.11 The aesthetics of fascism have also been studied in relation to fascism in Japan. In his The Aesthetics of Japanese Fascism, Alan Tansman makes a detailed analysis of how the language of fascist aesthetics bound people together into an “unre ective acquiescence. Like a joke, a metaphor, or a declaration of taste, the lyrical moment performed the work not only of binding or bridging but also of creating intimacy.”12 Fascist aesthetics “did not raise questions in order to answer them but cast spells by creating an atmosphere” that enchanted their audience.13 Tansman’s sensitive and insightful analysis locates this spell in various writers and one singer running from the 1920s to the end of the twentieth century, all of whom emphasized nature over history and beauty over politics. Like Benjamin and the legend of the Pied Piper, Tansman’s work focuses on the dangers of aesthetics. Aesthetics is often invoked not only in relation to fascism but to all forms of nationalism. Nationalisms “develop from an aesthetic consciousness,” writes the Japanese philosopher and literary critic Karatani Kojin, because “they are grounded in an emotional and physical community (an imaginary community), not in a logical or ethical one.”14 The arts are essential to the construction of this emotional community. For some, like Franco Moretti, it was literature, and more speci cally the novel, that made it possible to visualize the nation: “human beings can directly grasp most of their habitats: they can embrace their village, or valley, with a single glance; the same with the court, or the city (especially early on, when cities are small and have walls); or even the universe—a starry sky, after all, is not a bad image of it. But the nation-state Where’ is it What does it look like How can one see it ”15 The novel, he suggests, was critical in helping people visualize the nation.16 isualizing the nation can occur in the imagination, but it can also be a performance. In a recent book on Japanese nationalism and the tea

INTRODUCTION

7

ceremony, Kristin Surak notes the di erence between imagining a nation and performing it: “While the work of de ning a nation is expository, that of embodiment is performative and sensual, acting on and through the corpus.”17 For Surak, performance itself comes in two avors: “Spectacles of one kind or another trigger far more intense a ective reactions, but bursts of national excitement at festivals or parades may fade quickly. More durable in their e ect are practices or skills whose acquisition transforms their bearer.”18 Surak’s focus on the tea ceremony and this book’s focus on music, drawing, and writing education in schools are both about performances that occur over time and seek to transform the person performing them.19 Aesthetics can in fact be understood as the ghost that breathes life not only into a nation but into any community-building project. The previously mentioned advocate of introducing music in late nineteenth-century French schools, Bourgault-Ducoudray, also noted that by using music to foster community, revolutionary France was following what Greek antiquity, early Christianity, and early modern protestant churches had done before it.20 Whereas the church used aesthetics to forge a religious identity and Bourgault-Ducoudray used aesthetics to foster a national identity, the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has studied the role of aesthetics in manufacturing another type of identity: class identity. For Bourdieu, class is a function not only of objective relations to the means of production, as Marxist orthodoxy would have it, but also of the aesthetic bonds of a community. Aesthetics contributes to producing class di erences, writes Bourdieu, by uniting “all those who are the product of similar conditions while distinguishing them from all others.”21 Aesthetics can light the ame that makes an object not only a cognitively rational choice but an emotionally desirable one. It can provide the spark that gives life to what would have been a lifeless community, one that may have existed in the minds of political theorists but that did not have the charisma to become an object of attraction.

Aesthetics in No Place The most common discussion of aesthetics, however, is not in history, art history, politics, sociology, or anthropology but in philosophy, where it constitutes an entire sub eld. The modern concept of aesthetics was born

8

INTRODUCTION

in the eighteenth century, within a few decades of the birth of what Oskar Kristeller referred to as “the modern system of the arts.”22 This modern conception of art separated the crafts, which came to be seen as exclusively functional, from the arts, which came to be understood as free, disinterested, and independent of practical concerns. The arts were on their way to abandoning their role as an imitation of nature and, with the romantics, becoming the purview of creativity and imagination. They were constructed not only in opposition to the functional crafts but also as a secular domain separate from religion and a subjective domain independent of science. Whereas Greek antiquity included music along with arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy in the Quadrivium, the modern system of the arts included music along with painting, sculpture, architecture, and poetry in the ve major arts. In this way, eighteenth-century European thinkers constructed the category of the arts as we know it today, namely, as a source of expression. With Western expansion, this concept of the arts came in contact with societies outside of Europe and North America. In nineteenth-century Japan, policy makers, artists, and art critics recast what were previously known as hanging scrolls or screens within the newly imported category of art and its subcategory of painting.23 There were cases, however, when the boundaries of art were contested, such as in 1882, when the painter Koyama Sh tar and the art critic Okakura Kakuzo engaged in a heated debate over the status of Japanese calligraphy. Whereas Koyama argued that calligraphy was not an art but a functional means of transmitting meaning quickly and e ciently, Okakura maintained that Japanese calligraphy was an art because, like painting, it was a creative expression of the calligrapher’s imagination. At stake, of course, were all the economic and symbolic bene ts that came with inclusion in the modern system of the arts. Despite their disagreements, however, both sides of this debate were con rming the global relevance of the category of art, albeit within boundaries that could be redrawn by local actors.24 Back in Europe, the birth of the modern system of the arts was simultaneous with the rise of aesthetics as a branch of philosophy. Although aesthetics is sometimes de ned as the philosophy of the arts, the term has taken on a plethora of meanings that are sometimes but not always concerned with the arts. One revealing example is the translation of the term aesthetics into Japanese. In the 1870s “aesthetics” was translated as bigaku

INTRODUCTION

9

in Japanese, which literally means “the study of beauty.”25 This was in line with its Enlightenment era use, which was concerned with taste and beauty. Immanuel Kant most famously considered aesthetics as the philosophy of beauty, next to ethics, the philosophy of the good, and metaphysics, the philosophy of truth. For Kant, a person faced with beauty experiences a rush of thoughts that cannot be crystallized into any particular logic but which cause a free play of the imagination that is the source of aesthetic pleasure.26 By translating aesthetics as bigaku, the Japanese language had locked itself into an understanding of aesthetics that involved beauty. In the twentieth century, however, the art world’s rejection of beauty was one factor that led aesthetics to move away from a concern with beauty. A strand of aesthetics that is not necessarily concerned with beauty can be traced back to Kant’s predecessor, Alexander Baumgarten, who rst coined the modern term “aesthetics” based on the Greek word aesthesis. For Baumgarten, aesthetics was the perception of the world through the ve senses. Baumgarten’s approach to aesthetics is an important aspect of the contemporary discussion of the eld. It appealed to some Japanese philosophers of aesthetics who did not think of their discipline as bigaku or “the study of beauty.” Whereas the capacious nature of the English term “aesthetics” allows it to encompass understandings of aesthetics as both beauty and sensory perception, as well as other meanings, the Japanese term bigaku was much more precise, referring speci cally to the study of beauty. Twentieth-century Japanese scholars who sought to move beyond the link between aesthetics and beauty were caught in a dilemma. Either they could try to invest the term bigaku with a meaning that ran counter to its constituent Chinese characters or they had to coin another term for aesthetics, kanseigaku, which means the study of sensory perception.27 Aesthetics as the study of beauty or as the study of sensory perception are not the only in ections to the term. Marxists and feminists, for example, often see aesthetics as a “reservoir of critique” that can provide new perspectives from which to engage with the world.28 If all the meanings of aesthetics are taken together, the concept of aesthetics is a thicket that is avoided by some, such as art historians who are intent on avoiding any association with beauty, while it is indispensable to others, such as journals dedicated to aesthetics as a branch of philosophy.29 For others still, like the Japanese scholars of bigaku uncomfortable with the Chinese

10

INTRODUCTION

characters used to refer to their discipline, the very breadth of the term aesthetics is enviable, for it allows discussions that revolve around the related concepts of art, the sensory perception of the world, pleasure, and the discovery of alternative spaces from which new horizons of meanings can be envisioned. When I began research for this book I was not so much interested in studying the history of aesthetics as in explaining the impulse described by the educators in the rst pages of this introduction. My concern was with explaining the modern belief in the power of the Piper’s ute, namely, the power that “moves the heart” and stirs the “inclinations, sentiments, and desires.”30 In the literature on aesthetics, an interdisciplinary group of scholars that includes the literary scholars Elaine Scarry and Wendy Steiner and especially the philosopher Alexander Nehamas helped provide me with a vocabulary with which to describe the faith in the power of the Piper’s ute. For Nehamas, aesthetics is inseparable from beauty because we cannot nd repulsive what we are attracted to. Aesthetics is the “spark of desire” that attracts us toward an object of desire. It is that which, in the words of Scarry, elicits in us an “impulse toward begetting.”31 Indeed, it is because “our reaction to beautiful things is the urge to make them our own,” writes Nehamas, that “Plato called eros the desire to possess beauty.” In this explanation, art and sexuality run parallel.32 They both elicit an impulse toward begetting an object of desire, an impulse that the educators who populate this book sought to use for the purpose of educating children’s inner selves.33

Aesthetics in Many Places It may seem that studying aesthetic education in several places is an intermediary between studying it in one place and studying it in no place. In fact, looking at history in several places requires scaling up to the universal level of all humans on the globe (history in no place) and scaling down to the level of a single region, nation, or institution (history in one place). This section will walk the reader through these di erent scales, starting with the history of a single institution and then scaling up to national histories, transnational connective histories, and global histories; and then scaling down again to take into account global asymmetries of power. This

INTRODUCTION

11

journey through historical scales will serve to introduce the ways in which studying aesthetics in many places unlocks several methods with which to explore the intersections of modernity, empire, and desire.34 The educators who wrote the curricula, textbooks, teaching manuals, and most other sources in this book are a good example of a modern global population. Yet they operated within speci c national contexts. Embedding them within that context is essential to understanding their roles and motivations. Aesthetic education in Japan cannot be understood outside of a sociocultural history of the Unequal Treaties, the emperor system, Japanese colonialism in Asia, the rise of fascism starting in the late 1920s, and countless other facets of Japan’s modern history. The same can be said for the history of aesthetic education in modern Egypt. It is intricately tied to French in uence, British colonialism, Arabism, Pharaonicism, Quranic cantillation, and countless other aspects of modern Egyptian history. By focusing on only two societies, Japan and Egypt, this book seeks to write a global history that remains deeply attentive to local context, whether it be subnational, national, or regional. For the educators themselves, this national context was crucial. Unlike the Pied Piper of Hamelin, the educators discussed in this volume were not lone itinerant travelers but both the products of and the leading gures in the state-run educational bureaucracy. They were usually trained in staterun teachers’ colleges and worked as bureaucrats in national ministries of education, as principals of public primary schools, or as teachers in teachers’ colleges. They should not, however, be thought of as the voice of the state but as actors who functioned within an ideological eld in which the state was, as described by Carol Gluck in her study of ideology in Meiji Japan, only one actor among many.35 Their social position was above that of the much larger number of primary school teachers, whom they were responsible for educating in teachers’ colleges and guiding in the classroom, but below the leading political gures, top bureaucrats, and wellknown writers whose names remain inscribed in history textbooks and biographical dictionaries. Theirs were the voices neither of the elite nor of the masses but of midlevel actors who sat somewhere in between. It is these relatively prominent educators rather than regular primary school teachers or schoolchildren who are the protagonists of this story. The national history of music, drawing, and writing education in societies on the receiving end of Western expansion like Japan and Egypt soon

12

INTRODUCTION

leads to an important transnational connection. Both Japan and Egypt were deeply interconnected, not with each other but with Western societies like Great Britain and France. These were the two societies that, along with the United States in the case of Japan, provided the model for most Japanese and Egyptian curricula, textbooks, and teaching manuals used in this study, especially for the earlier decades. In the late nineteenth century, translations of, borrowings from, and references to British, French, and American works are often traceable. The Japanese and Egyptian sources might refer to exactly the same source or to similar sources. One example, discussed in chapter 4, is the adoption of the British South Kensington School of drawing education in both Japan and Egypt. In this as in other cases, the West was the linchpin between Japan and Egypt. While in the nineteenth century transnational ows between Great Britain and France, on the one hand, and Japan and Egypt, on the other, are traceable, by the twentieth century these transnational ows morph into more di use and less easily veri able global exchanges of ideas, practices, texts, and people. Free drawing education movements, for example, arose in Egypt, France, Japan, Great Britain, and the United States during the rst half of the twentieth century. Yet it is not always clear what texts, travelers, or teachers were responsible for their appearance across the globe. Rather than thinking of free drawing education as spreading along discernable paths, it is more useful to think of it in two ways. In one sense, it arose out of a multiplicity of contacts among modern societies. In the other, it was not about contacts and connections but arose out of shared conditions among modern societies. The increasing globalization of the world in the twentieth century leads us from a history of traceable transnational ows to a more nebular global history of contacts and shared experiences. The shift to a more global approach, however, is not only about di erences between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It is also about how historians write history. Global history has usually started with the West. In textbooks of world history, for example, the section on Western expansion usually includes references to the voyage of two Western military men, General Napoleon Bonaparte and Commodore Matthew C. Perry. The story of Bonaparte’s invasion of Egypt and Perry’s gunboat diplomacy in Japan is part of the story of Western expansion, along with the story of the British in India, the Dutch in the East Indies, or the French in

INTRODUCTION

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Indochina. This is the story of Western expansion as told from the perspective of Western empires. When we turn to the experience of societies on the receiving end of that expansion, however, the names of Bonaparte and Perry rarely appear in the same book, far less on the same page. In this way the two sides of the history of empire are narrated di erently. One is global, the other transnational, focusing on the encounter between a single non-Western society and the West. By comparing the transnational history of exchanges between Japan and the West, on the one hand, and Egypt and the West, on the other, this book adopts a global approach to the history of societies on the receiving end of Western expansion. The institution of the modern school is essential to the global nature of this history because across every corner of the world, modern schools are strikingly similar. In its simplest form, the modern school required all children to learn the same subjects at the same time and in the same place. This implied two essential components: separate classes, which pupils were required to attend, and an educational curriculum, which they were required to follow.36 The concept of a school as a gradation of classes taught by a teacher trained in a teachers’ college and following a strict time schedule in a dedicated space known as a schoolhouse is characteristic of modern schools. These schools produced largely similar archives: curricula that told teachers what to teach, teaching manuals that told them how to teach it, and textbooks that helped them to teach it. These sources are the core of a circumscribed archive, yet one that is available in modern school systems across the globe. In its most limited sense, the term “modern” serves to refer to the appearance of these schools in the nineteenth-century world. They shared similar archives, were part of similarly structured systems of modern education, trained teachers in teachers’ colleges, and were one of the integral institutions of the modern state. Not only did modern schools across the world share numerous parallels with one another; they also had few parallels with the schooling institutions that preceded them, whether they be terakoya or hank schools in Japan or kutt b or ib q schools in Egypt (see chapter 1). Modern schools seem to suggest that global similarities across societies matter more than historical continuities within societies. They privilege space over time. Indeed, it is not the use of aesthetics as such but the introduction of aesthetic education into the institution of the modern school that is new.37

14

INTRODUCTION

We have now moved from the level of the local and national to the transnational and nally to the global scale. Yet we cannot remain at this level without looking at the asymmetries of power that in ect it. The most obvious is between what could be called the West and the non-West. The historical actors in this volume, in both Japan and Egypt, referred to the West using a variety of terms. Often the West indicated less a speci c part of the world than a perceived center of global wealth and power. In 1885 the previously mentioned Japanese modernizer Fukuzawa Yukichi called for Japan to leave Asia and enter Europe. Seven years earlier the modernizing Egyptian monarch Khedive Ism l declared: “My country is no longer in Africa. We are actually a part of Europe.” For Fukuzawa, Ism l, and many others on the receiving end of Western expansion, “the West” or “Europe” referred to the more wealthy and powerful core of the world system.38 Yet the concept of the West is problematic. For one, the division of the world into the West and non-West always risks essentializing both. Christopher Hill has shown that even ideas that we think of as originating in Europe underwent multiple iterations as they were adapted to local contexts inside of Europe before undergoing further iterations outside of Europe.39 Not only is the West an unstable and imprecise category, but it is primarily a category of the observer. It reveals less about the world itself than about how it is being framed. When Fukuzawa and Ism l tell us that nineteenth-century Japan and Egypt belong to Europe, they are revealing a modernization project that hopes to see Japan and Egypt join the wealthy and powerful core of the world. Nationalist thinkers that followed them sometimes cast Japan and Egypt in opposition to the West, even when this very opposition was made from within Western categories of knowledge.40 Their search for a position outside of an imaginary West was a cultural nationalist project. In other words, both the argument that Japan and Egypt are part of the West and the argument that they are di erent from the West reveal less about the West than about the perspective of the writers making these claims. Although, for the sake of clarity, this book uses the terms “West” and “non-West,” it may be best to think of the global asymmetries of power running through it as belonging to two types: one vertical, the other lateral. The vertical asymmetry is the one described above, between the West and the non-West, the colonizers and the colonized, or the center and the

INTRODUCTION

15

periphery.41 The lateral asymmetry separates Japan from Egypt. This inequality developed only as Japan became wealthier and more powerful while Egypt fell under British colonial rule. In 1869 Fukuzawa Yukichi considered Egypt a model of independence, along with Brazil and Chile.42 But Japan’s victory over China in 1895 and over Russia in 1905, and its concomitant rise as a colonial power in Asia, transformed this perspective on Egypt. By the 1890s the narratives about Japan and Egypt were beginning to diverge. It was not just Japanese who saw Egyptians di erently. Many Egyptians began to see Japan as everything that Egypt had failed to achieve. A typical example is a book by the famed anticolonial activist Mus af K mil, written in the immediate aftermath of the Russo-Japanese War of 1905: It is not surprising if the Egyptian nds himself in a confusing position when he wants to compare two nations, one of them [Japan allied with England and the other [Egypt caught between its fangs. The rst strikes the Russians and competes with the greatest powers. The second has not only su ered from ordeals and hardships, but is divided among itself and many of its sons have their hearts lled with despair. What writer would dare the comparison, since it would not be fair to compare that which ascends and that which descends, that which progresses and that which regresses, the dominant and the dominated, the ruler and the ruled, the winner and the loser, the rising sun and the sun which is already set 43

Japan and Egypt had become fundamentally unequal, for Egyptians like K mil as well as for K mil’s contemporary, the Meiji era oligarch kuma Shigenobu, who in his preface to the Japanese translation of Lord Cromer’s Modern Egypt compared Japan not to Egypt but to its colonial overlord, Great Britain.44 In the eyes of both kuma and K mil, the growing disparity of wealth and power between Japan and Egypt had created a global fault line between them. The fault line that kuma and K mil etched across the world was largely economic and political. It sifted states into two groups: the wealthy and powerful, on the one hand, and the poorer and weaker, on the other. But what happens if for a moment we allow wealth and military power to recede to a backdrop and bring aesthetics to the fore In so doing, not only

16

INTRODUCTION

are we adopting a di erent perspective, but we are giving voice to a different set of historical actors. This concern with aesthetics can guide our journey through every scale of history. At the scale of national history, the nation becomes a community of shared tastes. Attraction toward common objects of desire like songs, foods, or clothes creates common experiences for people who have never met but who nevertheless share the sense of belonging to a single national community. Aesthetics can also function to create a sense of shared social class, as Bourdieu has argued, or of shared political a liation, as the critics of fascism suggested. Whether a community is de ned in terms of nation, class, ideology, or otherwise, however, aesthetics serves as the a ective glue that binds it together as a community of shared tastes. Aesthetics also functions at the transnational levels. The Japanese educators who argued for teaching children calligraphy in schools were, more often than not, Sinophiles who read Chinese, traveled to China, and had a deep appreciation for Chinese calligraphy. Egyptian advocates of Arabic calligraphy usually had a similar attraction toward Egypt’s Arab heritage, as opposed to the Pharaonic heritage of territorial Egypt or its more recent orientation toward Western practices. Aesthetics created the transnational bonds that made it possible to imagine larger cultural spheres, whether they consist of a Sinosphere, an Arab world, or a universal West. On a global level, full participation in a Western civilizational sphere would have meant the disappearance of colonialism, not because Western expansion would never have occurred but because it would not have been perceived as a colonial but as a civilizational project. A good example is Thomas Macaulay’s well-known “Minute on Indian Education” (1835). In his defense of England’s civilizing mission, Macaulay asked his audience to imagine an Indian elite without desire for anything Indian. It would be an Indian elite that would be “English in tastes, in opinions, in morals and in intellect.”45 If Macaulay had his way, Britain’s conquest of India would not be a colonial project but a civilizational one. British culture would be conceived as India’s national culture, just as British violence would be seen as domestic violence rather than colonial violence. In aesthetic, moral, and intellectual terms, India as a national subject would have lost its ontological raison d’ tre, and there would be no such thing as British colonialism in India. All that would remain is an English national culture that extended beyond the British Isles. If there was to be a di erence between the British

INTRODUCTION

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and the Indian, if Britain’s conquest of India was to be understood as a colonial rather than a civilizational project, then a space would have to separate Britain from India. This book argues that this space is primarily aesthetic.46 Although aesthetics has usually been studied in a single place, within the framework of national history, or in no place, in the universal realm of philosophy, this book seeks to show the role that it can play in global history. That role does not begin and end at the global scale. Instead, it requires linking the theories of individual educators to national policies, to transnational trends, and to the global construction of cultural nations in a modern world of national cultures. A history of aesthetics does not take the nation as given but asks how the nation becomes both an object of desire for its own population and an independent national subject in an international system. This history of aesthetics uses music, drawing, and writing education as three windows through which to glimpse the role that attraction plays at every scale of history, from the scale of individual educators to that of global politics.

Organization of the Book The rst chapter introduces the sources that ground this book’s arguments, placing them within their respective national contexts before comparing them across societies. The chapter is important in that it discusses the archival foundations of this work, but it is the least narrative of the chapters in this book. Those who are more interested in what this book has to say about aesthetics than in the sources that sca old its argument can skip it. The rest of the book consists of two parts, each of which begins with a short chapter that is called an interlude. Like a musical interlude, the interludes in this book serve both to separate its di erent parts and to introduce some of the themes discussed in each part. The rst part begins with an interlude that employs the history of the piano to introduce the modern globalization of culture. It describes how, even though we know of no pianos, piano players, or even piano music that traveled between Japan and Egypt in the nineteenth century, by 1900 children in both Japan and Egypt could be heard playing the piano. This history of the piano suggests

18

INTRODUCTION

that comparing societies that had few if any contacts with each other, like Japan and Egypt, can be fruitful in exploring the processes that su use global culture in the modern age. After this brief interlude, the rst part turns to two curricular subjects, music education in chapter 2 and writing education in chapter 3. The chapter on music education introduces aesthetic education as a method that educators across the world used to try to foster children’s attraction toward and attachment to the teachings of the modern school. As some educators noted, music education was a method for educating children’s hearts. Educators soon became aware, however, that such an education was less an act of inculcation than of suasion. It required that educators wade into an aesthetic economy that included not only school music but also commercial music, festival songs, liturgical music, and a plethora of other sounds that made up the child’s soundscape. While chapter 2 is about attempts by educators to use music to intervene in the aesthetic economy surrounding the child, the third chapter, on writing education, is about their attempts to intervene by teaching children more beautiful writing, or calligraphy. Although calligraphy has a long tradition in both Japan and Egypt, with the exception of wartime Japan it rarely achieved much of a role in modern schools. Unlike music, writing e ciency was important for making children into productive bureaucrats and o ce workers. Chapter 3 highlights a clash between the normative goals of aesthetic education, which used calligraphy education to produce more loyal subjects, and the instrumental goals of much of the modern school curriculum, which was concerned with producing e cient workers. In many ways, chapter 3 is about the limits of aesthetic education in modern schools. The second part of the book begins with another interlude, which draws on the history of the Japanese and Egyptian national anthems. It shows national anthems as operating on two registers. One register is global and representational. In a world in which all modern nations were expected to have a national anthem, the national anthem represented the nation on the international stage. The other register is national and aesthetic. It required that national anthems become mediums of seduction that could breathe life into the body of the modern nation. This interlude both rehearses the entire book’s argument about aesthetics and introduces the twin concepts of representation and aesthetics, which will be echoed in the rest of the second part.

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The second part traces the passage of drawing education from a technical skill to an aesthetic art. As a technical skill, drawing education was not only functional but mimetic of the West (chapter 4). This mimesis came to an end with the introduction of a national aesthetic, which created a space of di erence between the indigenous nation and an imagined Western other (chapter 5). Drawing education continued to change, however, and within a few decades its objective was transformed from the production of national di erence to the encouragement of children’s individual creativity (chapter 6). This is how drawing education became a creative art, which is how most readers will remember drawing classes in primary school. Its role was to give educators a chance to train the child’s inner self. The two parts thus play di erent, if overlapping, roles. The rst part is about the workings of aesthetic education in Japan and Egypt as well as in France, Great Britain, and the United States. This is a global history in which aesthetic education is understood as working in largely analogous ways everywhere. The second part takes into account the asymmetries that in ect the global stage. This leads to a comparison of the ways that Japan and Egypt, two societies on the receiving end of Western expansion, engaged with drawing education as it was taught in three Western countries: France, Great, Britain, and the United States. If the rst part describes the career of the Piper in modern schools everywhere, in the second part the Piper operates on a global terrain in ected by Western expansion and its accompanying asymmetries of power.

1 The Modern School as a Global Archive

All new and old schools, whether in villages or towns, will come under . . . state supervision and inspection. This is so that they can reform themselves, improve their future condition and nancial prospects, and promote their own private interests as well as the public interest. They will do this by educating the people, improving themselves, and providing support and service to their nation. —Law of 10th Rajab 1284, promulgated on the 6th of Mu arram 1285 (April 29, 1868) Every person should pursue learning without misconstruing its purpose. In order to avoid mistakes in learning, the Ministry of Education has recently established a Fundamental Code and will also gradually revise its regulations and promulgate edicts. From now on, common people, nobles, samurai, farmers, artisans, merchants, and women shall never be without education and there shall be no home with an illiterate person. —Fundamental Code of Education (Gakusei), promulgated on August 3 of the 5th year of Meiji (1872)

E

ducation was of direct concern to modern states. In Europe, the United States, Japan, Egypt, and other societies around the globe, education came to be considered essential to the creation of

THE MODERN SCHOOL AS A GLOBAL ARCHIVE

21

good workers and loyal soldiers. This phenomenon was global. A quick look at the educational literature across the nineteenth- and twentiethcentury world immediately leads to obvious parallels. First are the educational pyramids. Mandatory education was designed to have the formal education of every child start in primary school, which was the base of the pyramid. After a required number of years in school, most children were expected to enter the labor force, while a small minority would rise through various levels of more advanced schooling: secondary school, then any number of professional schools or the university. Schooling was one of the state’s earliest interventions in the lives of its younger subjects. Getting children to school, however, was not enough. The state also sought to control the content of the schooling. National curricula everywhere featured grids showing curricular subjects on a horizontal axis, the grades of primary and secondary school on a vertical axis, and, at their intersection, the number of hours that each subject was to be taught in each grade. Even the teachers who taught these subjects were usually the products of a state education. The government usually managed teachers’ colleges, also known as normal schools, as well as the schools that hired the teachers once they graduated. At the center of this system were ministries of education, which orchestrated this national educational system. These features are a part of school systems in all modern societies. Focusing not just on modern schools but on modern primary schools helped to further delineate this book’s archive. In primary school, children were subjected to largely similar curricular requirements, despite some di erences in the curricula for boys and girls or the occasional presence of optional subjects in an otherwise mandatory curriculum. In secondary school, on the other hand, the curricula began to splinter as pupils specialized in literary or scienti c elds. Primary schools provided globally analogous sites with a well-circumscribed archive. Their sources made it easier to put the voices of a global group of educators in dialogue with one another. Whatever their geographic origins, all these teachers taught similar subjects and discussed many of the same topics. The primary school may seem like a strange choice for a focus on aesthetic education. Aesthetics, after all, is usually associated with artists and art schools rather than with primary schools. The advantage of primary schools is that they o er a broader stage on which the uses of aesthetic education can be plotted. For professional artists and art schools, aesthetics has always been omnipresent. Indeed, aesthetics was central to

22

THE MODERN SCHOOL AS A GLOBAL ARCHIVE

the very concept of art as it was formulated in the modern era and taught in modern art schools. When modern primary schools were rst founded, however, they did not teach aesthetics. Yet by around 1950, the end point of this study, they taught music and drawing as art and, for a brief moment in Japan, calligraphy as an artistic practice. In other words, modern primary schools make it possible to trace the birth and trajectory of aesthetic education in a modern institution in ways that art school or the world of professional artists could not. Primary schools and the modern educational systems that encompass them were global. They produced largely the same types of sources in Japan, Egypt, France, Great Britain, the United States, and elsewhere. At the same time, however, these educational systems were deeply embedded in national history. In many ways, they are part of the history of the modern nation-state and of its position on the global stage. The melody of “Old Lang Syne,” for example, meant something di erent in Great Britain, where it was a Scottish melody, from what it meant in Japan, where it was copied from an American textbook and considered a Western tune. While the sources of this study are global, in the sense that they are analogous and available everywhere, their interpretation requires that they be contextualized within the particularities of national history. This chapter places educational sources within their respective national contexts while, at the same time, comparing them among themselves. Teaching manuals were the most important source because they often contained in-depth discussions of how and why teachers should teach each subject. Curricula complemented the teaching manuals by revealing the priorities of ministries of education and showing the importance of individual subjects as measured by the number of hours they were taught each week. Textbooks provided visual materials, lyrics, musical notes, and a general insight into the books that lay on the desks of primary school children. Other sources complemented teaching manuals, curricula, and textbooks. They included educational journals, monographs, newspapers, magazines, conference records, laws, records of government meetings, collections of children’s drawings, statistical compendiums, school examinations, classroom aids, musical scores, autobiographies, yearbooks, and photographs. These various sources have been used both to dive into the universe of national education in each society and to compare and connect these universes with each other.

THE MODERN SCHOOL AS A GLOBAL ARCHIVE

23

Although this book’s sources are drawn from the world of education, its topic is aesthetics. The educators who populate it frequently spoke of children’s hearts, their freedom, and the need to protect them from evil. They were vocal commentators on the role of aesthetics in the modern world. Before entering the world of aesthetic education, however, this chapter will seek to contextualize the sources in this book within the history of education. It will rst look at the structure of educational institutions before turning to the content of the curricula and, nally, the global context that in ected both. In this case, the focus will be on the two central cases of this book, Japan and Egypt, and sometimes also on Great Britain, France, and the United States. This chapter is therefore rst and foremost an institutional history of education in Japan and Egypt. Unlike most such histories, however, it is comparative. It seeks not only to describe the national contexts of education in Japan and Egypt but to show the parallels and di erences between them.

Institutions In Europe and the Americas, as well as Egypt and Japan, the institutional history of the modern school starts during the nineteenth century. In Egypt, a modern system of schools was rst established by the Ottoman governor of Egypt Mu ammad Al (r. 1805–1848), who rose to power after the departure of Napoleon’s army. In 1837 he created the Department of Schools (D w n al-Mad ris) to oversee about fty newly founded primary schools and one preparatory school, as well as a series of training colleges in medicine, engineering, languages, infantry, artillery, and other elds related to his army.1 All these schools were intended to feed into Mu ammad Al ’s army and bureaucracy. In 1841, however, the intervention of the European powers brought an end to Mu ammad Al ’s military ambitions. His army was reduced to less than one-tenth of its former size, and he was stripped of his colonial conquests and state monopolies. Among the casualties were the primary schools established in the 1830s. They were closed in the 1840s, and the Department of Schools was eventually abolished in 1854.2 Mu ammad Al ’s grandson Khedive Ism l (r. 1863–1879) reestablished the Department of Schools in 1863 and promulgated the organic law of

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Egypt’s modern school system known as the Law of 10th Rajab 1284 (November 7, 1867). This law established a modern school system, which, in its simplest form, spawned an educated population that either directly fed into the state bureaucracy or supported its modernizing projects in other ways. The epigraph at the beginning of this chapter makes this clear. School reforms were for “educating the people,” but the ultimate goal of doing so was to provide “support and service to their nation.”3 The Law of 10th Rajab 1284 brought to fruition what Mu ammad Al had attempted three decades earlier. It built an educational system for training the workforce of a modern nation-state. Although the rst modern institutions in Japan were founded half a century after those in Egypt, greater political stability and less foreign interference allowed them to continue uninterrupted. Three years after the Meiji Restoration of 1868, the Japanese Ministry of Education (Monbush ) was established.4 In 1872 it promulgated the Fundamental Code (Gakusei) which, like the Law of 10th Rajab 1284 in Egypt, became the foundation of the modern school system and famously proclaimed: “From now on, common people, nobles, samurai, farmers, artisans, merchants, and women shall never be without education and there shall be no home with an illiterate person.”5 As in Egypt, it created an educational system focused on training an educated workforce that would support the projects of the modern Japanese nation-state. The Fundamental Code was the beginning of the modern Japanese state’s e ort to build a new school system on the ruins of the heterogeneous and decentralized collection of schools that had preceded it. The modern state abolished all existing schools, requiring them to apply to the Ministry of Education before reopening. The criterion for their reopening was that they conform to the newly coined de nition of a school. A “school” was to be a state-regulated public institution that taught children a series of state-approved subjects in a dedicated space where they were divided by grade and instructed by a “teacher,” who was de ned as the graduate of a state-certi ed teachers’ college. This rede nition e ectively replaced the existing decentralized and plural understanding of schooling with a uni ed, state-controlled system with common curricula, textbooks, and training for teachers.6 The structure of this newly established school system was typical of modern school systems everywhere. It consisted of a pyramidal system

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25

that aimed to provide a minimum education to the entire population and fed into increasingly specialized forms of more advanced education. In Japan a child was initially required to attend both a lower primary school (kat sh gaku) and a higher primary school (j t sh gaku) in order to ful ll the mandatory eight years of schooling. The number of years was soon recognized to be too ambitious, and from 1881 mandatory schooling was reduced to three or four years. Beyond this, children with time, money, and ability could pursue two, three, or four years of advanced study in higher primary schools, followed by middle schools (ch gakk ) for boys and, starting in 1892, higher girls’ schools (k t j gakk ) for girls or any number of professional training schools. To provide these di erent levels of education, the Fundamental Code instituted a grid-like system of 8 university districts encompassing 32 middle school districts, which in turn encompassed 210 primary school districts. In general, this framework survives to this day, not only in Japan but in other modern societies. Like Japan, Egypt had a large number of early modern schooling establishments. While Japan’s Fundamental Law sought to transform the entire educational system in one stroke, Egypt’s Law of 10th Rajab allowed most existing schools to continue while establishing a parallel system of modern education. To do so it created a four-tier system of primary education. The rst two tiers consisted of elite government primary schools (almad ris al-ibtid iyya al-am riyya) funded by the central government, and municipal primary schools (al-mad ris al-markaziyya) funded by municipal governments. Both were modeled on Western educational systems and were intended for children of the more a uent elite. The third and fourth tiers (al-mak tib al-ahliyya and al-kat t b al-ahliyya) left in place the large number of premodern kutt b schools, which were funded by charitable trusts (awq f, sing. waqf) and other private sources, while exerting various degrees of control over them.7 These schools were in continuity with premodern indigenous forms of education, linked to the Islamic sciences, taught by graduates of mosque universities, and intended for children of less a uent and often rural backgrounds. While the rst two tiers conformed to the modern de nition of a school, the third and fourth tiers largely perpetuated the early modern understanding of schooling, teaching children to read, write, and memorize by copying and reciting the Quran. The di erence between the rst two and the last two tiers was enshrined in law when a commission in 1880

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made access to modern secondary education dependent on a primary school certi cate, which the third- and fourth-tier kutt b schools could not grant. In the words of Édouard Dor, a Swiss advisor to the Egyptian government, for all but a small elite attending the rst two tiers of primary schools, the system was like a stairway with the middle stairs missing.8 While the Japanese government forcibly integrated or shut down existing schools to make space for a homogenous system of modern schools in the early 1870s, the Egyptian school system came to consist of elite and nonelite tracks that continued to exist separately until the early 1950s.9 Modern schools are usually sta ed by state-certi ed educators trained in state-run institutions known as teachers’ colleges. In Japan the Fundamental Code of 1872 mandated the creation of a network of higher teachers’ colleges (k t shihan gakk ), which were under the direct authority of the Ministry of Education, and regular teachers’ colleges (jinj shihan gakk ), which from 1886 were controlled and funded by prefectural and city governments. Higher teachers’ colleges had greater authority since they taught teachers who populated regional teachers’ colleges and secondary schools. Until 1902 the Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College was the only higher teachers’ college in Japan, and even thereafter it retained a privileged position in the system. Its teachers collaborated with the Ministry of Education and occasionally with the heads of other elite institutions, like the Free Academy higher girls’ school (Jiy Gakuen), in devising curricula, textbooks, and some of the more widely publicized teaching manuals. In Egypt the state created its rst teachers’ college, D r al- Ul m, in 1872 to provide a secular education that would supplement and potentially replace the teaching mosque of al-Azhar, which for centuries had, along with a few other teaching mosques, sta ed kutt b primary schools and madrasa secondary schools.10 Whereas al-Azhar continued to train most teachers who taught in third- and fourth-tier schools, from the 1880s a growing network of teachers’ colleges trained teachers for primary and secondary schools and for government-run professional schools. As in Japan, the educators who taught in these teachers’ colleges frequently also wrote curricula, textbooks, and teaching manuals. They did so in collaboration with other members of the educational establishment, such as Ministry of Education inspectors, who were in charge of particular topics, editors of educational journals, directors of private institutes, or teachers at elite private institutions like the American University in Cairo. Most of

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the sources in this study come from this relatively small group of educators, editors, and bureaucrats.11 In summary, in both Japan and Egypt the birth of a modern educational system translated into much greater control and in uence for the state. The state was at the helm of a pyramidal system of education that included primary schools, secondary schools, professional schools, and teachers’ colleges. Curricula divided students into grades and determined what subjects teachers should be teaching for how many hours a week. Textbooks mandated the content of instruction, while teaching manuals provided further guidance on how to teach the assigned subjects. The vast majority of curricula, textbooks, and teaching manuals were published by state-trained and state-employed educators. This centrality of the state is characteristic of modern educational systems in Japan and Egypt as well as elsewhere. The most important di erence between Japan and Egypt was the size of the modern educational system. Everything was larger in Japan. This was due to a series of factors: First, the population of Japan in the late nineteenth century was about four times that of Egypt. Second, even if we consider not just modern schools but all forms of schooling, school attendance rates were much higher and grew much faster in Japan than in Egypt. A rough calculation based on available government statistics suggests that until the 1950s school attendance rates in Japan were roughly three times those in Egypt. Third, if we only consider children attending modern schools, which includes almost all schools in Japan but only the rst two tiers of Egyptian schools, then attendance rates for modern schools were twenty- ve to fty times greater in Japan than in Egypt.12 The standard narratives about Japan and Egypt adopt school attendance rates as an indication of the success of Japan’s modernization and the failure of Egypt’s. The rapid rise of school attendance rates in late nineteenth-century Japan is often given as a sign of the success of the Meiji era reforms, while the low number of children in modern Egyptian schools until the 1950s is blamed on British imperialism. It is often noted that the British consul general of Egypt from 1883 to 1907, Evelyn Baring (Lord Cromer), believed that educating anything but a limited number of Egyptian civil servants would only risk spawning overeducated and underemployed agitators.13 The value of children’s schooling is thus understood in terms of the priorities of national economic development. Subsequent chapters will show that, despite these di erences in the geopolitical position of Japan and Egypt, despite their di erent policies

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with regard to school reform, and despite the di erence in size between their two school systems, a comparison of the two countries is revealing. In both societies, the modern state attempted to harness aesthetic education for its own purposes. And in both, aesthetics played a role in establishing the national subject in the face of a powerful, wealthy, and expansionist Western world. The common position of Japan and Egypt on the receiving end of Western expansion mattered as much as, if not more than, the di erences in the trajectories of their modern school systems. While aesthetic education saw largely analogous transformations in Japan and Egypt, as well as in France, Great Britain, and the United States, these transformations were not coeval. Sometimes there were only a few years between the changes in each society, but at other times there were decades. Music, for example, was introduced in Japanese schools in the 1880s but entered o cial Egyptian curricula only in the 1940s (chapter 2). Even though analogous transformations were often observed in both societies, they were not synchronous. Indeed, they often occurred successively, with the transformation in Japan occurring earlier than that in Egypt, and transformations in Europe often happening earlier than in Japan. There were exceptions, however, such as when aesthetics was introduced in drawing education classes in Japanese and Egyptian schools, where it served to make weaker and poorer indigenous nation into national objects of attraction, even before it was introduced in European schools (chapter 4). Whereas modernization theory’s focus on the economic bene ts of schooling leads toward a stages theory of growth where Europe always precedes the rest of the world, a focus on the aesthetic aspects of schooling presents a di erent narrative. Non-Western societies sometimes sought to compensate for their lack of economic wealth and military power by introducing aesthetics earlier than their Western counterparts. Although they could not use wealth and power to draw the allegiance of their citizens, at least they could use beauty.14

Curricula While the spread of modern education in Japan and Egypt was di erent in scale, its content was largely similar. This was already true before the advent of modern schools. Education in popular Egyptian kutt b (singular of mak tib and kat tib) schools and Japanese terakoya schools focused on

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teaching children to read, write, and memorize. The child who attended the kutt b did so by copying verses of the Quran on a slate with a reed brush and chanting them out loud, while the terakoya pupil copied instructional handbooks ( rai mono) and other Confucian texts with a soft hair brush before reciting them aloud. Arithmetic was sometimes taught in early modern kutt b and terakoya, but in both cases this was especially common for the children of merchants and was not widespread.15 While terakoya and kutt b schools were for commoners, other schools were reserved for the political elites. Children of samurai usually attended the ef schools of their feudal domains known as hank , where they were taught reading and writing in much the same way as in the commoner terakoya schools, usually with the addition of a few subjects such as arithmetic, formal etiquette, and the arts of war.16 In the case of early modern Egyptian elites, political and military functions were the preserve of the Mamluks, a slave elite educated in palace schools known as ib q, where they also learned reading and writing along with the tenets of religion and the arts of war.17 Egyptian elites who were not part of the Mamluk ruling class generally hired private teachers to teach their children at home. Education in Japan, Egypt, and elsewhere before the modern era thus primarily consisted of instruction in reading and writing, often involving memorization and chanting, along with a few other functional subjects such as arithmetic for commoners and martial skills for military elites. The advent of modern schools brought a dramatic transformation to schooling practices in both societies. Within a few years of each other, national school systems in Japan and Egypt introduced nationally mandated curricula specifying the number of hours of instruction in public primary and secondary schools. The Japanese Ministry of Education promulgated the Fundamental Code in 1872 and the same year issued the rst nationally mandated curriculum for all government primary schools. In Egypt, the Department of Schools promulgated its own fundamental code in 1868 and published the rst o cial curricula specifying the number of hours of instruction for primary and secondary school subjects in 1874.18 The appearance of a lasting system of standardized national curricula for modern primary schools in Japan and in Egypt thus came within a few years of each other.19 Modern schools taught a much more extensive list of subjects than their early modern predecessors. In 1874 the rst four years of primary school in Japan and Egypt included ve common subjects (language,

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writing, mathematics, geography, and morality or religion).20 In these rst four years the number of hours of instruction in both curricula overlapped by 70 percent, and that percentage increases if we include drawing and history, which were taught during the subsequent four years of the modern Japanese curriculum. The only notable di erence between curricula in each society was that Japanese schools taught science while Egyptian schools taught Turkish and another foreign language, usually French or English. Subsequent curricula featured a similar overlap.21 In summary, modern Egyptian, Japanese, French, British, and American curricula differed less from one another than from the early modern curricula that preceded them.22 There are occasional anecdotes of girls attending kutt b or terakoya schools, but before modern schools the formal education of girls was rare.23 In modern Egyptian and Japanese schools, the proportion of girls rose steadily—in Egypt, from 9.3 percent in 1874 to 35.5 percent in 1951, and in Japan, from 23.6 percent in 1875 to 49.6 percent in 1951.24 In the late nineteenth century the content of the curricula for boys and girls in Japan di ered only in terms of “housework” (about 1 percent of the 1881 and 1909 curricula) and sewing (6 percent of the 1881 curriculum and more than 10 percent of the 1909 curriculum). While girls were learning sewing and housework, boys spent more time learning math and drawing, along with either handicrafts, agriculture, or business. In Egypt, the di erence was more pronounced. When in 1913 a curriculum for girls’ elite schools was issued, one-third of its subjects were gender-speci c. These were “the study of things and observation of nature” (4 percent), “hand work” (11 percent), “sewing” (13 percent), “home management” (1 percent), and “cooking, washing, and ironing” (4 percent). With time, these gendered di erences disappeared, and by 1950 there was little if any di erence between what boys and girls learned in both Japan and Egypt. As in the curriculum for boys, the most important divide in the curriculum for girls was not between Japan and Egypt but between modern schools and the educational institutions that preceded them.25 The observations made here are based on the content of the curricula.26 We can assume, however, that there was a di erence between prescriptive texts like curricula and actual practice in the classroom, just as we can assume that there was a di erence between the way that educational practice was experienced by the teacher and the way that it was experienced by

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the pupil. If the objective was to capture the experience of children, there would be precious few sources on which to rely. Autobiographical narratives are unreliable, since memory plays an unduly large role in the way that adults reconstruct their own childhood. School archives containing documents about children’s experiences in music, writing, and drawing classes would be the only options. In Japan, such archives might consist of diaries and personal accounts (kans bun); in Egypt, they would be impossible to come by. In both cases, however, they would lead to a microhistory of particular schools or individuals. Documents by teachers are somewhat more plentiful and include autobiographies and newspaper or journal articles. This book, however, does not seek to capture the voices of children or of their teachers. Instead, it focuses on the discourses of leading educators who taught in teachers’ colleges, made policy in their respective Ministry of Education, or edited leading journals in the eld. It is their priorities and discourses that are captured in the curricula, textbooks, teaching manuals, and journal articles that appear in this book.

The Global Archive Despite the considerable di erence in the size of the Egyptian and Japanese educational systems, their curricula were very similar, just as both were similar to the curricula of other modern school systems around the globe. This similarity made it easier to include all extant curricula, most textbooks, hundreds of teaching manuals, as well as other sources during a period that spanned the short century covered in this study. The list of curricular subjects taught in modern schools around the world is so similar that these sources came to constitute a global archive. Although analogous sources can be found around the globe, the sources themselves almost always come from national systems of education. In this book, each of these systems is conceptualized as a eld. The concept of a eld comes from Pierre Bourdieu, who described it as “a microcosm, a sort of separate world, a world apart, largely closed upon itself.”27 This world has its own actors with their own interests, which are largely, although not completely, independent of those outside the eld. In the case of education, the actors were the elite teachers, Education Ministry bureaucrats, and editors described in this chapter. In many ways they

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operated within their own world. They had their own hierarchies, funds, and discussion forums, and as a group they had their own interests. Although the members of this eld interacted with parents, children, and other members of the state bureaucracy, their debates largely occurred within the eld of education. When researching music, writing, or drawing education in Japan or Egypt, my immediate objective was to understand their role in the eld of education. The di erence between the eld of education in Japan and in Egypt is as much in the content of the archive as in the way that I went about assembling it. In Japan, sources produced by the modern Japanese educational system are available in large repositories like the library of the University of Tokyo’s Faculty of Education, the National Diet Library, or the T sho Bunko Textbook Library. In Egypt, the only large repository of such materials is the outstanding collection at the Ministry of Education Manuscript Library. Beyond it, materials often have to be purchased in used book markets, copied from private collections, or obtained from European and American libraries. Yet the archive in Egypt is also rich, and the very di culty in nding sources led me to search in unusual places, which contributed to diversifying it. Although the Japanese archive is much larger, the Egyptian archive that I assembled is more diverse. At the beginning of this study, my focus was almost exclusively on Japan and Egypt. Yet as the study progressed, the transnational connections that linked aesthetic education in Egypt with Britain and France and in Japan with Britain, France, and the United States became evident. This justi ed a foray into British and French collections. My time in these archives was productive, not only because the collections at the University College London Institute of Education Library and the Biblioth que Diderot of the former Institut national de recherche pédagogique in Lyon are plentiful and easy to use, but because my time researching in Japanese and Egyptian archives had already familiarized me with systems of education in modern societies. In some ways, this similarity seems extraordinarily suitable for a social scienti c approach to comparisons that isolates analogous institutions in di erent parts of the world and parses the similarities and di erences in their development. Comparisons, however, do not necessarily have to be structuralist undertakings. Edward Said once suggested a contrapuntal approach to comparison that made it possible to interweave the history of

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colonial empires and societies on the receiving end of Western expansion. “In the counterpoint of Western classical music,” he explained, “various themes play o one another, with only a provisional privilege being given to any particular one; yet in the resulting polyphony there is concert and order, an organized interplay that derives from the themes, not from a rigorous melodic or formal principle outside the work.”28 The colonizer and the colonized could alternate roles, serving as either the point or the counterpoint. This would allow the narrative of one society to proceed in dialogue with that of the other. Although this book is about two societies on the receiving end of Western expansion and at least three colonial empires, its approach can be described as contrapuntal. Its comparisons go back and forth, sometimes privileging one society as the main theme of the story, sometimes another, but with the narratives of one or more of the other societies always playing in the background.

Interlude How Culture Travels A Global History of the Piano

teamships and trains travel. So do cotton, opium, seeds, and germs. But how do tastes travel Or, in other words, how is demand created for a particular type of sound or sight One way to trace sounds or sights is to look at the instruments that produce them. Take, for instance, what Max Weber considered the quintessential modern instrument, the piano. Not only did the piano allow the “domestic appropriation of almost all treasures of music literature,” by which Weber meant medieval European musical literature, but it was the perfect instrument for an industrial age, its quality actually increasing with mechanical production.1 Like other instruments of modern Europe, in the age of empire the piano spread on the wings of European expansion. The piano reached the shores of non-European societies as a foreign instrument. On the ship that carried Napoleon Bonaparte to Egypt in 1798, the Orient, there was a piano. The composer Henri-Jean Rigel played it at Bonaparte’s Egyptian residence and later to entertain French expatriates at Cairo’s French café, L’Armée ictorieuse.2 In Japan, the rst extant piano was brought by the German physician Philipp Franz von Siebold in 1823. on Siebold was primarily interested in practicing medicine and assembling a prodigious collection of specimens of Japanese fauna and ora, but he also transcribed Japanese tunes into European notation, and for that a piano was helpful.3 As he was preparing to leave Japan in 1828, von Siebold

S

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gifted his piano to his friend, the wealthy merchant Kumaya Goemon Yoshikazu. Soon thereafter von Siebold was arrested by the shogunate for attempting to smuggle maps out of Japan. He was repatriated and never again set foot in Japan, but his piano remained, and today it can be found at the Kumaya Museum in Yamaguchi Prefecture in southwestern Japan (see g. I.1).4 Whether in Cairo or in southwestern Japan, in the early nineteenth century the piano was still an exotic foreign instrument associated with the West and its conquering armies, missionaries, merchants, and scientists.

FIGURE I.1 The square pianoforte that Philipp Franz von Siebold brought to Japan in 1823, when he came with the Dutch mission to the island of Dejima o the coast of Nagasaki. Manufactured by William Rolfe and Sons of London, this is the rst piano known to have reached Japan. Before leaving Japan, von Siebold gifted the piano to his friend, the wealthy merchant Kumaya Goemon Yoshikazu. Inside the piano he wrote: “Tot gedachtenis aan mynen vriend Koemaja. Dr. von Siebold 1828” [In parting (farewell) to my friend Kumaya. Dr. von Siebold 1828 . Image courtesy of the Kumaya Museum in the city of Hagi in Yamaguchi Prefecture.

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The piano was part of the global spread of European music. The rst institution to adopt European instruments and hire European music teachers was often the army. Egypt’s rst music schools were established to serve the army of the nineteenth-century ruler Mu ammad Al , who governed Egypt after Napoleon’s army departed. Mu ammad Al decided to attach one musician to each regiment and brie y, between 1824 and 1841, opened ve schools in which European musicians taught Western military music before circumstances obliged him to shrink his ambitions and simply attach a European music instructor to each regiment.5 When, in the 1850s, Japanese rulers began hiring European and American advisors to help them train powerful armies, they too began teaching music to Japanese soldiers.6 For non-Western states that sought to build modern armies modeled on those of the West, military music was essential. Not only did it encourage soldiers and relay their orders over long distances, but it made it possible to orchestrate the vast machinery that was the modern army. It gave soldiers a rhythm to which they could march and enabled the micromanagement of their movements, telling them when to turn, stop, or retreat. The complex, precise, and synchronized maneuvers of these countless foot soldiers made seventeenth-century observers like René Descartes liken modern warfare to a ballet.7 European musical culture, it seems, was a component of European military culture. When modern schools began to be built in the non-Western world, they also began to teach European music. On the eve of the Meiji Restoration of 1868, the father of music education in Japan, Izawa Sh ji, was a drummer in the Western-style military band of the Takato’o ef. A few years later Izawa was sent to study music with the music teacher Luther Whiting Mason in Boston. After returning to Japan in 1878, he became head of the Music Investigation Committee (Ongaku Torishirabe Gakari), which was responsible for introducing music in Japanese schools. In his study of Izawa, Okunaka Yasuto writes that Izawa never considered school music as anything other than a drill, just like the military drills for which he played the drums in his youth.8 If the goal of military music was to coordinate soldiers, that of school music was to synchronize the nation’s subjects. This was the argument of the former head of the Egyptian Institute of Education, A mad Fahm alAmr s , who in 1933 told his Egyptian audience the story of a French traveler to Great Britain who marveled at how music education was giving

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British children their love of country. Music, he said, fostered a community that stretched across the English nation, between generations, and throughout the life of every British countryman.9 Egypt too ought to use music education to foster such a national sense of community. What music had done for the army, it was to do for the entire nation by disciplining, synchronizing, harmonizing, and motivating it. Whether through the military, through schools, or through local elites eager to acquire some of Europe’s cultural capital, European instruments like the piano became common in Japan and Egypt as well as the Americas and elsewhere in the non-European world. When the predecessor to the piano, the harpsichord, was played in early modern Europe, there were no such instruments in the Americas. The world of the harpsichord was Europe. By the late eighteenth century pianos were being built in Philadelphia. The world of the piano was now both Europe and North America. A century later, pianos could be found in Japanese schools and in wealthy Egyptian households, and by 1900 the rst piano was manufactured in Japan. While it could still be associated with Western music, the piano had become the instrument of a global culture. As a new generation of musicians and audiences was brought up on it, the piano became a requisite of upper-class homes in non-European societies. Like other instruments of European music, the piano was no longer exclusively European. This led some to argue that music had synchronized not only the army and the nation but the entire world. In a lecture on Japanese education delivered in 1909 at the University of London, the Meiji era bureaucrat Baron Kikuchi Dairoku, who served as president of Tokyo Imperial University and later as minister of education, told his British audience that when Western music was rst taught in Japan, there was some opposition because Western tunes “were strange to Japanese ears.” Soon, however, teachers improved, people became accustomed to the new sounds, and “now you will hear children singing in Occidental fashion in every village.”10 Japanese villagers could now read the same musical scores and play the same chords as villagers in Europe and countless other parts of the world. European music had become a form of Japanese music. Similar claims can be made about drawing. The same year that Kikuchi suggested that European music could be heard in every Japanese village, the leading Japanese painter of Western style of his age, Koyama Shotar ,

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argued that drawing could help Japan communicate with “the nations of the world,” by which he meant the West: During the Russo-Japanese War [of 1905 an unfortunate event occurred. Russia used drawings to communicate, but Japan used mostly text. The Japanese took tens of thousands of Russian prisoners. They were taken to Nagoya, where they were lent bicycles and we did various other things to comfort them. At the time many [Japanese people voiced their disapproval of such preferential treatment, but [this treatment was not reported to the nations of the world because we did not use drawings. Russia, on the other hand, had relatively few prisoners from our country, and its treatment [of them was not as good as our country, but it was [positively reported all over the world because it used drawings.11

Such references to music and drawing as international languages were popular in the twentieth century, voiced by European writers and echoed by non-Westerners like the Egyptian primary school teacher ab b ak , who argued that drawing could help societies overcome the Tower of Babel.12 Music and drawing are not, of course, inherently global. Richard Kraus has shown that both Westerners and non-Westerners often pretended that music, or for that matter drawing or any other form of expression, was an international language.13 For well-intentioned Europeans and Americans, writes Kraus, the international language metaphor made it possible to “prettify their cultural in uence over weaker peoples.”14 For non-Western societies, the international language metaphor made it possible to overlook the fact that the forms of musical expression that predated the coming of the West had, for most purposes, been overwhelmed by Western forms of art.15 The global hegemony of Western music or Western drawing cannot be separated from the imperial context in which it was achieved. But European expansion was not the end of the multiple forms of music and drawing traditions that preceded it. It was just one event, albeit an in uential one, in the long history of auditory and visual culture in these societies. For the purposes of this book, however, the global spread of Western music and drawing is neither the end nor the middle, but the beginning of the use of music and drawing to mobilize children in the new global institution of the modern school.

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This short interlude has sought to show that artistic practices travel just as easily as people, goods, or germs. Their journeys are best understood as forms of transculturation, to borrow Sylvia Spitta’s concept, which she de nes as the “many di erent processes of assimilation, adaptation, rejection, parody, resistance, loss, and ultimately transformation.”16 In fact, these journeys need not be thought of as beginning in Europe and ending in Japan or Egypt. They began in particular parts of Europe, spread to other parts, reached the shores of Japan or Egypt, soon became a part of Japanese exports to Asia and Egyptian exports to the Middle East and the Sudan, and later were reexported to Europe either in a material form, as pianos made in Japan, or as performances played by Japanese or Egyptian musicians. Before we know it, the link between the piano and the West is dissolved, if not in nationalist memory then at least in the travels of people and objects. When tracing the global peregrinations of musical or drawing instruments or practices, however, we risk forgetting the most important thing about them. Both music and drawing were aesthetic practices that had an emotional, physical, and visceral impact on their audiences. Educators discussed in this volume will often be heard saying that they are looking for sounds that will capture children’s hearts or drawing techniques that will mold their tastes. Practices like music or drawing owe their power to both Western expansion and their aesthetic impact. These two forms of power are not contradictory. As Pierre Bourdieu has written, aesthetics is not pure.17 It is shot through with power. Although it was the power of Western expansion that brought the piano to the shores of Egypt and Japan, and although the piano did become a marker of class privilege, it was also a source of pleasure and a conduit for desires. It is in the impurity of the history of the piano, at the juncture of power and attraction, that lies the social signi cance of the piano, of music, and of all aesthetic practice.

2 Music Education and the Uses of Aesthetics

Woe to the man who, stone cold, does not know [music’s irresistible charm. Woe to the careless politician, to the unskillful legislator who, imagining men to be abstractions, and thinking that he can move them like pawns on a chessboard, does not know that they have senses, that these senses form passions, that the science of guiding men is nothing other than the science of directing their sensibilities, that the basis for human institutions are public and private morals, and that the ne arts are essentially moral, since they make the person who cultivates them better and happier. —Marie-Joseph Chénier, 1795 For it must come from the heart That which is supposed to act upon the heart. —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1808

product of Western expansion, the piano traveled along with Western armies, scientists, and missionaries. Despite these burdensome companions, it never lost its powers of enchantment and continued to elicit pleasure, desire, and attachment. Like the piano, music education in primary schools also possessed a power of enchantment,

A

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but the introduction of music education in modern schools was preceded and accompanied by countless discussions among policy makers and educators. This chapter is about these discussions. It uses them to explore the concept of enchantment and its relation to moral education in modern societies. The chapter begins by describing the global interest in using music to educate children’s inner selves. It then traces the dramatic transformation of music from private pleasure to public policy and ends by examining the di culty of using music to educate children’s hearts. How far could modern schools instrumentalize music without eviscerating its power of enchantment

Music’s Uncanny Power Over Children’s Hearts Whether in Egypt, Japan, Europe, or North America, modern debates about music education often began with children’s hearts. Music reached the heart, penetrated it, infused it, and moved it. At the same time music was the language and expression of the heart. Although the word “heart” (alqalb in Arabic, le cœur in French, shinj , shinz , kokoro, or haifu in Japanese) was frequently used, others were too. These included “soul” or “spirit” (alnafs in Arabic, l’âme in French, seishin in Japanese) and “mind” (al aql or aldhahn in Arabic) or being (l’être in French). All these terms referred to the child’s inner life, which music was tasked with educating. Music was powerful because it was visceral. Songs “stop the child’s crying and even the ignorant savages enjoy singing. Indeed, it pricks people at the root of their heart [shinj ,” wrote the Japanese educational theorist Sat enjir in 1907.1 In a speech at the American University in Cairo in 1933, the Egyptian educator A mad Fahm al- Amr si similarly argued that “it is likely that man sang before he spoke, for everything in the world sings and chants . . . music is one of the most important ne arts, for it has the most powerful e ect on the soul [nafs and is the fastest at penetrating the heart [qalb .”2 The clearest, and most condescending, comparison between children and savages may have come from the British educator Charles T. Smith when he wrote that “the musings of the babe correspond to the formless and monotonous apology for melody emitted by the savage.”3 The parallel between primitive peoples, who stood at the beginning of humanity, and children, who were at the beginning of human life, was

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not uncommon among the writers on drawing education who are described in the second part of this book. In the context of drawing education, it was part of a social evolutionary logic that saw children’s drawings resemble those of the primitive predecessors of modern civilization, or of their equally savage Oriental others. In addition to this evolutionary approach, however, the literature on music emphasized the raw, visceral power of music. It envisioned music as a Dionysian force that harbored the potential for unbridled passion, ecstasy, and intoxication. The e ects of music spilled beyond the human world and into that of animals. In 1924 Ikuo Jun, a musician and teacher at the Tokyo School of Music and Nara Women’s Higher Teachers’ College, wrote: I have heard that no living thing hates music. Records from ancient times contain countless stories [about animals and music , like that of a person who played the violin to prevent a wolf from attacking him. And in the mountain music was forbidden at night out of fear that poisonous snakes and wild animals would gather [to listen to it . Even a monkey running around wildly in its enclosure will approach the edge of his cage to try to listen to music.4

Japanese, Egyptian, European, and North American sources also spoke of music’s in uence on cats, dogs, horses, cows, bu alos, birds, and even plants and minerals.5 This menagerie served to make a simple point: the attraction to music was natural. It was deeply engrained in the natural world and, as a result, was part of human nature. As A mad s , a medical doctor, amateur historian, and member of a variety of associations, including the Higher Council of the Egyptian National Library, noted in the preface to his collection of children’s songs, “It is natural for children to dance to song and rhymed verse, and the same can be said of wild animals.”6 Music was such a force of nature, many authors suggested, that it should not be allowed to remain beyond the purview of the modern school. Music soon became not only a desirable element of children’s education but an essential subject without which their education was found lacking. Both the power of music and the danger of not putting it to use may have been most e ectively expressed in a teaching manual from 1937 by two prominent educators, Konishi Shigenao, former president of the prestigious University of Kyoto and professor at various teachers’ colleges,

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and Asada Arata, president of the Hiroshima University of Humanities and Sciences and founder of the Japanese Society of Education: “Since ancient times it has been said that music is the language of the heart [shinz no kokugo . . . . In particular, children’s emotions are preconceptual and reside at the core of their spiritual life. . . . From our experience it is clear that among all of the arts, music most directly penetrates our hearts [haifu and moves our feelings [shinj .”7 Konishi and Asada were not music teachers, only fervent advocates of music who participated in a stream of literature about music’s importance for educating the heart. Their comments about the connection of music and children’s hearts are not particular to the wartime era. They could also be heard in the late nineteenth century and even in the postwar era. Such comments could also come from any place on earth. A century earlier, in a seminal lecture at the inaugural meeting of the American Institute of Instruction, the progressive American educator William Channing Woodbridge quoted the German Pestalozzian writer Bernhard Gottlieb Denzel in making his case for the importance of music: “The formation of the voice is too important, and the in uence of vocal music on the mind and heart too great, to permit us to dispense with it in common schools.”8 A popular French book entitled The Child’s Soul: 50 Songs for Schools (1897) similarly concluded that “song is thus one of the most powerful factors of moral education.”9 And although in Egypt arguments for including music in school education became frequent only in the 1930s, in a 1910 guide for youths a military o cer who was concerned with morality already spoke of the importance of music: “Know that without enthusiastic songs put to music there is no patriotic feeling and no moral education, for these are essential aspects of civilization.”10 Together these arguments won the day, for music became a staple of modern schools across the world. This heart, soul, or spirit existed as part of what could be called a musical cartography of the human body. Music reached the heart through the ears and emanated from the heart through the vocal chords, larynx, and lungs. The body thus stood as a passageway between the heart inside and the world outside. Some of the more adamant advocates of music went even further and infused the entire body, and more speci cally its blood and esh, with musical sounds. Yamamoto Hisashi, a music teacher who is known for introducing literature on music appreciation from the United States, wrote that with a proper education, “the spirit of music infuses the

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esh and blood of the child, cultivating his musical potential, so that when one day he goes out into society he will be able to function as a harmonious musical being.”11 Such a permanent infusion of the child’s body was also broached by some Egyptian educators, such as the above-mentioned A mad s , who wrote that with a proper musical education, “the child grows into an adult and [the music that is printed on his body and mixed with his esh and blood [b la mihi wa dammihi cannot thereafter be erased from his mind.”12 For these authors music was literally an embodied experience.

Music and the Boundaries of the Egyptian and Japanese Nations The similarities in global discourses about the education of children’s hearts can obscure some of the di erences that separated educators who operated in di erent geopolitical contexts and with di erent historical antecedents. The most striking di erence was the half century that separated the introduction of music in Japanese and Egyptian primary schools. Music education was introduced in Japanese primary schools in 1886 but not until 1931 in Egypt, and even then in only a few schools near the capital. It was only in 1947 that music entered o cial curricula and was taught in all Egyptian primary schools. This chronological di erence between Japan and Egypt could be due to any number of reasons, such as the smaller size of the Egyptian educational system or its lack of funding. Or it could be due to the dynamics of nationalist opposition to British rule, which, until Egypt’s formal independence from Great Britain in 1922, was more concerned with teaching children about the Arabic language, Egyptian national history, and the Islamic religion than about music.13 In either case, until the 1930s Egyptian sources show little concern for music education. When music education did begin to be discussed in 1930s Egypt, however, it was in terms that are strikingly similar to those in Japan during the same period. In both Japan and Egypt, the 1930s saw a nationalist wave that created a clear dichotomy between Western music and Arab or Japanese music. In Egypt, this interest in Arab music (al-m s q al-sharqiyya)14 is most clearly documented in the Record of the Congress of Arabic Music of 1932, a weeklong international gathering of leading musical experts in

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FIGURE 2.1 Participants at the Congress of Arab Music, 1932. The Congress brought together leading Egyptian, Western, and Middle Eastern musicologists to discuss the future of Arab music. Its proceedings lasted seven days and were divided among six commissions: the Commission on General Issues, the Commission on Modes, Rhythms, and Composition, the Commission on Musical Scales, the Commission on Instruments, the Commission on Recordings, and the Commission on Music Education. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, 1933.

Cairo that was held under the aegis of the Egyptian monarchy ( g. 2.1).15 As its name implies, the congress brought together leading musical experts, primarily from Egypt and Europe, to discuss the preservation of the Arab musical heritage. Although the participants often had con icting views, the dominant tone of the congress was a concern that the Arab musical heritage was disappearing in the face of the spread of “European music” (al-m s q alrubiyya) or “Western music” (al-m s q al-gharbiyya). One example is the alarm about the spread of the piano and wind instruments at the cost of local instruments, such as the zither (q n n) or the lute ( d): “The Commission [on Music Education of the Congress of Arab Music concludes that the duty of the of the Egyptian composer is to inspire himself from all that surrounds him and from the local environment in which he lives, not from foreign elements. The composer should not copy a foreign [Western

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musical art that is already ripe, but attach himself to the art of his country to ensure its progress.”16 The congress’s call for an indigenous Arab music resonated for several decades in the literature on music education. One example is a teaching manual for Arabic language by Mu ammad A iyya al-Ibr sh , a graduate of Exeter University and London University and the school inspector for the region of Southern Cairo, who wrote: “We want Arab songs with an Arab taste and an Eastern beauty, and literature and a literary spirit, in a pleasant language which the child understands.”17 This manual was written in 1948, one year after music education was made a part of o cial curricula. By the 1930s, generations of Egyptians had grown up playing instruments like the piano, but advocates of Arab music looked for their musical heritage in a more distant past, one that predated Egypt’s nineteenthcentury engagement with the West. Only a few years before the Congress of Arab Music, in the late 1920s, Japanese educators began their own revolt against Western music. This was an era when Japanese writers across disciplines began to exalt in the idea of a native Japanese lifestyle rooted in the blood and soil of Japan. A typical line was that “songs should come out of common living on the land, from its smells and tastes.”18 This discourse resembled the nativist nationalism at the Congress of Arab Music, even though its tone was often more strident. An early example of this trend was a teaching manual from 1926 by Sakurai Hir , an advocate of child-centered education, who wrote: “Western music is the life of Westerners, namely, it is the product of Western lifestyles, which require a particular Western blood (chi) and climate (f do). To bring it into our completely di erent blood and climate brings as much trouble and change as replacing Japanese clothes with Western clothes.”19 The trouble with Sakurai’s argument, of course, was that by the 1920s the majority of Japanese were more familiar with a “Western” instrument like the piano than with Japanese instruments like the shamisen (similar to the banjo) or koto (similar to the zither). It was the adoption of Japanese music that would have constituted a lifestyle change. In Japan, as in Egypt, however, authenticity required leapfrogging the more recent past and its intensive engagement with Western practices in order to get in touch with an older and purportedly indigenous identity.20 The 1930s saw both Egyptian and Japanese educators conceive of an indigenous musical heritage that was in contradistinction with that of the

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West. In both cases, this was a national heritage. Yet Egyptian and Japanese sources imagined the nation with very di erent boundaries. As its name implies, the discussions at the Congress of Arab Music framed Egypt’s music not as Western, Islamic, Ottoman, African, or Pharaonic but as Arab. In contrast, Japanese educators almost never spoke of music in Asian terms. Court music (gagaku), for example, was considered quintessentially Japanese, despite its origins on the Asian continent.21 Music illustrates how from the 1930s Egypt participated in a broader regional identity while Japan de ned the indigenous self in territorial terms, namely, as speci cally Japanese music or Japanese art.22 Had music education been introduced in Egyptian schools in 1886, as in Japan, it is not unlikely that either European band music or Ottoman band music ( abl kh na) would have featured in the curriculum. Military bands had a long history in the Middle East, but by the early modern period they were associated with Ottoman armies and featured drums, trumpets, reed pipes, utes, and cymbals. European armies adopted Ottoman military band music in the early modern period, and its percussion instruments were eventually used in a genre of orchestral music known in Europe as “Turkish music.”23 In early modern Egypt, which from 1517 was part of the Ottoman Empire, governing authorities commonly used military bands for festivities and ceremonies.24 Even in the early twentieth century, Ottoman band music still had some advocates. Colonel Ibr h m R j preferred such music to the urban Arab musical tradition, which he found “a weak e eminate lament.”25 “If a Spaniard . . . hears an Arab song,” he wrote, “he will not feel joy, because it is not a musical sound. But if he hears a Turkish song he will feel joy even if he does not understand the meaning [of the words .”26 Yet R j belonged to a bygone era. He published his manual in 1910, at the very end of the Ottoman era, a few years before the empire was confronted with the Arab Revolt, lost World War I, and was dismantled into independent nationstates. In the interwar era a new middle class of native Egyptian professionals began replacing the Turkish-speaking elite, and it would demand the adoption of Arab rather than Ottoman Turkish cultural forms. There was also a cultural sphere that, despite its celebrated musical culture, was never considered a candidate for Egyptian music. Africa was Egypt’s Orient. In many ways, Egyptian attitudes toward Africa echoed Western Orientalism, which saw the Orient as the exotic but primitive

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opposite of the Western self. Africa was the location of Egypt’s nal colony, the Sudan, and was often imagined as Egypt’s primitive frontier. Eve Troutt Powell has described how well-known Egyptian anticolonial activists fought British colonialism while simultaneously claiming the Sudan as Egyptian and maintaining a caricatured image of the Sudanese as primitives, slaves, and domestic servants.27 Sources on music education made virtually no references to Africa, but a drawing manual from 1929 by Mu ammad Y suf Hamm m and Fu d Abd al- Az z Mu ammad, two drawing teachers with art degrees from Great Britain who taught at Egypt’s Higher Teachers’ College and at the Secondary School of Shubra, can give us a glimpse into how African art was perceived: If we look at the contemporary inhabitants of central Africa or any other region of Africa, or if we researched their vestiges from past ages, it becomes apparent that the human spirit is innately imbued with the spirit of the ne arts. Can you see how, without interruption, they decorated their faces and bodies with tattoos, colors, tree leaves, roses, and weeds; and how they decorated their crafts ingenuously with harmonious drawings 28

In a typical Orientalist move, Ham m and Mu ammad depict Africa’s present as similar to civilization’s past. Both are primitive, consisting of practices like tattoos, which would have been unthinkable for any modern Egyptian. When Egyptian educators looked south, they saw a less modern and less civilized world that served to con rm their position in the middle of the civilizational hierarchy of nations, somewhere between the West and Africa. Instead of expanding the boundary of Egypt to the Arab world, to Africa, to the Ottoman world, or even to the West, there was always the option of limiting it to the valley of the Nile, or in other words to the contemporary states of Egypt and the Sudan. Pharaonic music represented Egypt’s territorial nationalism. Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski have described Pharaonicism (al- r awniyya) as a mood that arose in the aftermath of the Egyptian nationalist Revolution of 1919, the discovery of the tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amon in 1922, and Egypt’s formal independence from Britain in 1922. In the minds of its advocates, these three events were

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linked by a common thread: the return of Egypt to its rightful place at the forefront of world civilization. Pharaonicism reached its height sometime between 1924 and 1930, after which it began to decline in favor of supraterritorial Arab and Islamic ideologies.29 It did not disappear but often became the rst stage of a ve-stage paradigm of Egyptian history (Pharaonic, Greco-Roman, Coptic, Arab-Islamic, and Modern).30 The most prominent work on Pharaonic music was written by the secretary general of the Congress of Arab Music himself. At the congress, Ma m d A mad al- ifn gave few clues as to his interest in Pharaonic music, but four years later he wrote a highly technical, detailed, and lavishly illustrated work on the music of ancient Egyptians, M s q qu am al-mi riyy n ( g. 2.2).31 In this work, al- ifn echoed a common argument of Egyptian territorial nationalism, namely, that Egypt was the cradle of world civilization. In 1930, in a lecture at the American University in Cairo that promoted music education, A mad Fahm al- Amr s , former director of the Egyptian Institute of Education, made a similar argument. “Why would our schools today abandon singing ” he asked, “Egypt was the cradle of music and the country of song in old and new times. . . . The rst musical piece in the history of mankind was the following piece on papyrus, written in hieroglyphs and now in one of the museums of Paris.”32 Despite al- Amr s ’s claim, the trouble with Pharaonic music was that it had neither a system of notation nor any lyrics that could be traced to reliable sources. Pharaonic music was more of a historical narrative than a musical practice. No one knew what it sounded like. Pharaonic music was nevertheless useful in what could be called a battle of the ancients. A 1935 curriculum of secondary schools for girls, one of the earliest to feature music, taught the history of music in the “ancient kingdoms” of Syria, Babylonia, India, China, and Rome but placed special attention on music in ancient Egypt and ancient Greece.33 Finding a native Egyptian equivalence for ancient Greek cultural practices was an obsession for Egyptian writers, who sought in the relation of ancient Egypt and ancient Greece the opposite of that governing modern Egypt and the modern West. In The Music of Ancient Egyptians, al- ifn used music to assert Egypt’s superiority over Greece: “If the [ancient Greek sciences are considered one of the strongest pillars of knowledge of the Arab nation and of all kingdoms in the Middle Ages, and even of the modern age, [ancient Greek culture—and [ancient Greek musical culture in particular—is

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FIGURE 2.2 An illustration in Ma m d A mad al- ifn ’s The Music of Ancient Egyptians showing the instruments that were played in Pharaonic Egypt. Although music in ancient Egypt was not notated and thus impossible to preserve, the appearance of the musical instruments is still visible in the drawings. Al- ifn , M s q qudam al-mi riyy n.

derived from ancient Egyptian culture.”34 In this narrative, Egypt’s former greatness was a backdrop for its current decline and its future revival. The last two national communities that Egypt could have belonged to were the Islamic world and the Arab world. These were not mutually exclusive, especially in the prewar era when Arab nationalism often had an important Islamic component. The concept of Islamic music was not, however, broadly accepted, as will be described later in this chapter. Arab music, on the other hand, had considerable currency, as can be seen by the Congress of Arab Music. It is true that premodern Arab music did not have a system of notation, but at least Arab music belonged to a recent past. Its scales, instruments, melodies, lyrics, and culture were alive across Egypt and beyond it. Arab music was also part of a larger turn toward the Arab world, which was how Egyptians were increasingly imagining Egypt’s language, culture, history, and art. New media such as radio and cinema only reinforced these bonds. Even in this earlier period, the Arab world was a single media market, one in which Egypt’s entertainment industry was already playing a dominant role. In many ways, it is di cult to imagine that Egyptian music could have been anything other than Arab music. Although by the 1930s most Egyptian authors described Egypt’s music as Arab, modern Japanese writers almost never described Japan’s music as Asian or Chinese. As in Egypt, Japanese writers about music education used Greece as a trope, even if they did so in very di erent ways. Any references to China were generally counterbalanced by those to Greece. The double reference to China and Greece served to show music’s universal

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relevance in the East and West. In a teaching manual published in 1907, Koyama Samonji, a teacher at the Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College, wrote: “In ancient Greece, [music was used in education along with physical education. In China it need not be said that it was among the six arts.” In references to antiquity, both Greece and China were civilizational referents. For the modern age, however, China usually fell by the wayside and the only reference was to the West. After speaking of music in the age of antiquity, Koyama turned to the modern age, writing that “today, civilized nations have all included it [music in education.”35 By “civilized nations,” Koyama was referring only to the modern West. Modern Asia was for Japan to compete with and eventually to lead. This competitive engagement with the Asian mainland was already expressed in 1901 by the educator Kitamura Yoshitar : “While it might be too much to ask that this country become the center of world art, in the future I wish that it become the center of Asian art, like France in Europe.”36 Kitamura wanted Japan to become the cultural leader of Asia. Others admired Asia while simultaneously objectifying it and fashioning Japan as its modern apotheosis. The best-known late nineteenth-century advocate of Asian art was the aestheticist, curator, and writer Okakura Kakuzo. Although he is often remembered for his claim that “Asia is one,” which expressed his vision of the spiritual unity of Asian cultures, his most revealing phrase may have been that Japan was “the museum of Asiatic civilization.” Okakura’s Japan was not the origin of Asian art, only its repository and synthesis.37 Using almost the same words, the prewar musicologist Tanabe Hisao wrote that Japan was “the museum of Asian music.”38 While art and music on the mainland had been swept away by war, neglect, and the passage of time, in Japan Asia’s art objects and artistic traditions had survived and ourished. Japan was a living museum of Asian art. It was not uncommon for Japanese collectors of Asian art, even those with the greatest admiration for artistic pieces from the Asian mainland, to see in Asia an earlier version of the Japanese past. Even the mingei arts and crafts movement, which originated among liberal Japanese aesthetes struck by the beauty of later Chos n era Korean ceramics, Korea was cast as a pure and infantilized version of Japan.39 The need to assure Japan’s preeminent position in Asia was especially important in art education. “There are not a few outstanding artistic cultures among the people of Greater East Asia,” wrote a 1944 commentary on middle school curricula

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by the Japanese Broadcasting Association. “In order to assure [Japan a leading position, it is clear that along with culture in general, artistic culture must be developed.”40 Schools were entrusted with assuring Japan this leading position in Asian art. As in Western Orientalism, in Japanese discourses about music, knowledge and appreciation of art were matters of state as much as matters of taste. Japan’s leadership of the arts was one aspect of its leadership of Asia, which justi ed its colonial project. The comparison of Egypt and Japan is replete with similarities and differences. Music education was introduced much later in Egyptian than in Japanese schools. Yet in both cases, the West was a foil for the construction of a national music. The boundary of this nation, however, was not the same. From the 1930s modern Egyptian music was primarily referred to as Arab music, whereas Japanese music was never referred to as anything other than Japanese. As has often been observed, colonial empires need a discourse to justify their own superiority, and the Japanese empire was no exception. Japanese educators needed to imagine themselves as the cultural leaders of Asia. Despite the di erence in the way that music was imagined in Egypt and Japan, however, and despite the half century that separated the introduction of music education in each school system, the purpose of music education was the same. For both Egyptian and Japanese educators, if the modern school was to instruct the deeper recesses of the human heart, it had to incorporate music in its educational project.

Music Before the Modern School Although music had long been used in religion and in the army, the idea of using music to educate the hearts of millions of children in thousands of schools was unprecedented. The modern age saw a global transition in children’s education from a multitude of largely independent, local, and mostly private schools to a national system controlled by the state, whether the national government as in Egypt, France, and Japan or the local government as in Great Britain and the United States. Concomitant with the development of a centralized educational system based on o cial curricula, modern schools saw a transformation in their curriculum. What had been a curriculum based on the three Rs—reading, writing, and sometimes arithmetic—came to include subjects like drawing and music

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education. To trace music’s transition from a liminal, if not outright proscribed, aspect of children’s lives to its new role as a mandatory part of each child’s education, we will go back to the role of music in the lives of Egyptian and Japanese children in the few centuries before the advent of modern schools. When applied to Egypt, the word “music” immediately runs into di culties. Islamic piety was intricately related to the word, the voice, and the melody; yet it was, and still is, controversial to speak of Islam as having its own music. There is little doubt, however, that Islam has its own sounds. Foremost among these is Quranic cantillation (tajw d), in which the Quranic text is recited melodically.41 Muslims, however, never referred to this cantillation as music (m s q ) or song (insh d, pl. an sh d). Religious orthodoxy and centuries of religious practice prevented the classi cation of Quranic cantillation as music, despite their shared aesthetic standards and melodic systems (maq m t, sing. maq m). The principal di erence between Quranic cantillation and music was in the text. Quranic cantillation was, by de nition, limited to the Quranic text. As a result, a number of rules applied. The text could be interpreted by each individual reciter, but the melody could not be notated since that would have glossed the word of God. Thus, despite their similarities, and despite the many de facto overlaps between Quranic cantillation and music, the two categories remained distinct. While melodic cantillation is part of Islamic religious practice, it is never notated or referred to as music.42 Although music could often be heard at various times and places in the Islamic world, whether at the court or at weddings and circumcisions, it retained a liminal role on the margins of Islamic society. This role is visible in works of Arabic literature, such as Ab al-Faraj al-I bah ni’s tenthcentury classic Kit b al-Agh n (Book of songs): Abdall h ibn al- Abb s al-Rab i, the grandson of the chamberlain of [the Abbasid vizier al-Fa l ibn al-Rab , who lost his father as a child, fell in love with a singing-girl belonging to his aunt, and he claimed to be interested in learning to sing in order to be able to spend time with her. His doting aunt allowed him to take lessons with her. Not only did the love a air progress, but Abdall h became a ne singer, to his grandfather’s horror ( I , 212–22).43

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The horror of this tenth-century grandfather was echoed in the distress of the father of akariyya A mad, a leading twentieth-century Egyptian musician and composer. Upon telling his father that he wanted to become a musician, akariyya A mad was told: “You’re a son of a respected family and you’re going to become one of those whose lives [consist of singing Oh night, oh my eyes ’ ”44 In both cases, music was associated with love and sexuality and, often, also with wine and intoxication. Respectable families and musicians did not mix. This was indirectly indicated in the entry on music and song in the Dictionary of Egyptian Customs and Expressions written in the 1940s by University of Cairo professor A mad Am n: “Recently the status of male and female musicians has risen to the point that the honorable person is not condemned for sitting in the company of a great male or female singer.”45 Even the most famous musicians remained objects of stigma. In 1946, for example, one of King F r q’s uncles, Sharif abr P sh , proposed to marry Umm Kulth m, the most famous Egyptian singer of the modern age. Although the royal family quickly forbade their union, “that such a marriage could have been contemplated seriously at all,” writes irginia Danielson, “was a source of amazement to many observers.”46 Music, though frequently played and heard, remained an object of controversy and sometimes di dence. Music was the most controversial art in the early modern Islamic world, more so than the frequently cited proscription of visual representation. A heated and long-lasting debate about music, known as the sam polemic, elicited everything from calls for the complete abolition of music to the acceptance of all forms of music and dance.47 For some, singing was in competition with Quranic cantillation and the call of prayer (adh n) and ought to be outlawed. In the nineteenth century this was the attitude of the Wahhabi movement, which originated in the Arabian Gulf and is at the origin of the Saudi Arabian state. It forbade music in any context. For others, music had the potential to elevate the worshipper’s heart and soul toward God. This led Su sm, an Islamic form of mysticism, to use song and sometimes dance in religious contexts. At the intermediary between the complete outlawing of all forms of music and its use in religious practice were the four legal schools of Islam, which forbade music in liturgical contexts but usually allowed it in daily life. Ab mid al-Ghaz l (1058–1111), for example, the leading medieval Islamic scholar, refused to condemn

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music, arguing that it could not be sinful per se since its value depended on what was being sung and on the context in which it was performed.48 In this way and with the exception of Quranic cantillation, which was not referred to as “music,” music remained a frequently practiced but liminal and controversial aspect of life in most of the Islamic world, including Egypt.49 An early nineteenth-century British traveler in Egypt, Edward Lane, observed that, although Egyptians were fond of music, their elites considered it “unworthy to employ any portion of the time of a man of sense, and as exercising too powerful an e ect upon the passions, and leading a man into gaiety and dissipation and vice.”50 Had Lane traveled to Japan instead of Egypt, he is likely to have made a similar observation. As in Egypt, before the modern era Japanese did not have a term to refer to what we now understand as music. Instead, as the musicologist Hosokawa Sh hei has suggested, there were a number of “musicking” practices associated with di erent segments of society.51 Gagaku music was a part of courtly life, n gaku was associated with the shogunate, and sh my chants were part of Buddhist ritual. Most of what we now call music, however, was performed at events such as festivals or popular theater and associated with popular commoner culture. For the male samurai who stood atop early modern Japan’s o cial status hierarchy, popular music was a forbidden pleasure. The autobiography of Fukuzawa Yukichi, the iconic reformer of late nineteenth-century Japan, gives insight into music’s position among the bushi warrior status group in mid-nineteenth-century Japan: As an instance of the discipline observed, we never had a musical instrument like shamisen in our home, nor did we ever think of hearing it, for that was an amusement unworthy of the samurai. Likewise, it was natural that it never occurred to us to go and see a play. In the summer time during a festival, there would sometimes be a series of plays lasting seven days together when the traveling actors set up their temporary stage in the Sumiyoshi temple-yard. Then there would always be a proclamation that the samurai of our clan should not attend the plays or even go beyond the stone wall of the temple. Though the proclamation sounded very strict, it amounted to a mere formality. Many of the less scrupulous

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samurai would go to the plays with their faces wrapped in towels, wearing only the shorter of the two swords which all samurai wore—thus making themselves appear like common people. These disguised samurai broke over the bamboo fence of the theater, whereas the real common people paid their fees. When the management tried to stop the intruders, they would utter a menacing roar and go striding on to take the best seats.52

This quote re ects the role of music in early modern Japan. It was proscribed for males of the warrior status group but widely enjoyed by commoners. This proscription of music, however, was not absolute. Samurai women typically had greater leeway than their male counterparts and often took music lessons, although their choice of instruments usually di erentiated them from commoners. They would typically learn to play the koto, a harp-like instrument that had roots in court music and can be found in such literary classics as The Tale of Genji, rather than the shamisen, a threestring, banjo-like instrument that was associated with theater and geisha entertainers.53 Furthermore, despite the o cial prohibition of popular music for the warrior class, by the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries many samurai found it extraordinarily attractive. Not only did they cover their faces and go watch popular plays, as narrated by Fukuzawa, but their daughters often learned to play the koto, as did the daughters of commoners who sought to marry into samurai households.54 If Edward Lane had traveled to nineteenth-century Japan, he would have recognized a similar mix of public proscription and private fondness for music that he noticed among upper classes in nineteenth-century Egypt. In 1871, a couple of decades after Fukuzawa witnessed the samurai of his clan jumping o the fence dressed as commoners to watch a play in the temple yard, Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa, the younger brother of the nal lord of the Iwakuni domain, left Japan with the Iwakura Mission, which circumnavigated the globe in a quest to learn about the world and Japan’s place in it ( g. 2.3). While the rest of the mission pursued their journey, Kikkawa and a few other young Japanese students were left in the Boston area to complete their studies. Kikkawa, who was twelve years old, was enrolled at Rice Grammar School. From there he went on to study at the

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FIGURE 2.3 Photograph of Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa (1860–1915) around the time he was at the Rice Grammar School in Boston. Kikkawa, The Autobiography of Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa.

Chauncy Hall School and then Harvard College, nally returning to Japan in 1883 to take up a career in the Foreign Service and eventually become a member of the House of Lords. While at Rice Grammar School, Kikkawa and the other Japanese students studied the full range of subjects taught in American schools at the time, from language and arithmetic to history and geography. The one exception was music: “There was also singing at the school, but I, with others of my countrymen who attend [sic the school, obtained excuse [sic on the ground that we had all we could do in pursuing other studies. But in reality, we had in those days the old Japanese notion that singing was vulgar. It might be said en passant that I never learnt dancing, for I had the same sort of feeling on that subject.”55 Kikkawa and his classmates would be the last generation to harbor such feelings about music. A decade later, music became a mandatory subject in Japanese public schools, completing its metamorphosis from a symbol of vulgarity to an instrument for imbuing virtue in children’s hearts. The great transition that occurred between early modern and modern Japan was not the introduction of music, for music always existed, but its insertion into the public realm as an instrument of education at the behest of the state (see gs. 2.4 and 2.5).

FIGURES 2.4– 2.5 Model music classes in 1930s Egypt and Japan. Figure 2.4 shows a teacher in Egypt using a blackboard to instruct pupils how to sing the song. Figure 2.5 shows a performance by the orchestra of a higher primary school in Tokyo. Even though music education sometimes involved musical instruments, in Japan as in Egypt, most music education still consisted of singing lessons. Figure 2.4 is from Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya 1933, 70; gure 2.5 is from T ky shi atago k t sh gakk 1936, n.p., in the collection of the University of Tokyo Graduate School of Education Faculty of Education Library.

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Music After the Modern School A Japanese teaching manual from 1936 recounted the transformation in the role of music as follows: Since the Middle Ages our country’s music has mixed the respectable and the vulgar. It [music has come to be perceived as the realm of performers and vulgar people. Namely, there was an important tendency among important people, the people who discuss the institutions of our country, to regard music education with contempt. The times changed, however, and the sociability of music was in demand. It developed into a necessity of life and came to play a very important role in school education.56

What was the “very important role” that music came to play in modern Japanese schools The answers provided by Japanese sources are similar to those provided by sources in every other modern society that introduced music education. Although there were occasional references to music’s usefulness in educating healthy bodies, elegant girls, and expressive children, almost without exception educators reiterated music’s role in cultivating moral children. In the 1884 manual that suggested the introduction of music in Japan, the Music Investigation Committee spoke of music as an alternative to the “lowest amusements”: Among the students in our schools, the ones who enjoy drinking and neglect their studies are not few. Since they don’t know other enjoyments they engage in the lowest amusements like drinking. The solution is to teach them how to enjoy themselves with music. [Music preserves one from the bad habits of playing with women and drinking. It does not cost money and is accessible to both rich and poor. [The pupils of elite schools , in escaping from the di culties of study, drink alcohol and engage in lowest of amusements. Music provides an alternative entertainment.57

This alternative entertainment was already what the historian Mark Jones, referring to the interwar period, called “enlightened forms of pleasureseeking.”58 It sought to enable young Japanese men to both enjoy themselves and reform themselves, just like the young men in a Swiss village described

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by the American educator William Channing Woodbridge in 1830: “I have known and visited a village in Switzerland, where a set of drinking disorderly young men were led, by the cultivation of music among them, to an entire reformation, which was regarded with as much surprise as the change in regard to temperance in our own country.”59 In the eyes of Woodbridge and other Anglo-American authors, this personal reformation was a part of the larger Protestant Reformation. Music was a way, wrote Woodbridge, to “stir up each other to new life in the worship of God.”60 This concern for religion, morality, or both was common in discussions of music in modern schools. If morality is about the distinction between right and wrong, however, musical taste was about the distinction between the beautiful and the ugly. All the educators mentioned here believed that neither morality nor good taste was a matter of personal choice. In fact, most argued that good musical taste was necessary to achieving good morals. In a 1932 article on “good taste,” the Egyptian drawing teacher Mu ammad Y suf Hamm m atly stated that “good taste accompanies good morals every step of the way.”61 Almost without exception, Japanese educators agreed that taste was commensurable with beauty. One example is the superintendent of the Mie Prefecture Women’s Teachers’ College, Nakamura Y kichi, who, in 1931, wrote that “a person who is musically accomplished will cast a discriminating feeling upon the beauty or ugliness of the world of sound, and will be able to distinguish between good and evil in human life.”62 This relation between morality and taste, or justice and beauty, not only was global but has remained a ubiquitous issue in the study of aesthetics. In her work On Beauty and Being Just (1999), Elaine Scarry argues for the commensurability of beauty and justice. Beautiful things, she writes, give a sense of reciprocity and fairness. They provide for the “symmetry of everyone’s relation to one another.” This sense of aesthetic fairness, she concludes, greatly assists in achieving ethical fairness or justice.63 Alexander Nehamas disagrees. What is beautiful is not necessarily just, he writes: “Beautiful villains, graceful outlaws, tasteful criminals, elegant torturers are everywhere about us. Salome, Scarpia and Satan do not exist only in ction. And neither, of course, does Quasimodo.”64 Most late nineteenthand early twentieth-century bureaucrats and educators would have dissented. Beauty was as much a moral norm as justice, and the modern school was entrusted with the task of inculcating both.

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Beauty as well as morality, however, came in di erent avors. In the United States and protestant Europe, music education was frequently envisioned as a preparation for church music. This was especially true for the Protestant Church. “The chorales of Luther,” wrote British educator E. W. Howson, “were among the most potent in uences which hastened on the Reformation.”65 Catholic churches similarly incorporated music, although some observers argued that they were less encouraging of audience participation than Protestant churches.66 The importance of music in Protestant and Catholic churches led some non-European observers like Sasaki Seinoj to conclude that in the West music education in primary schools was inevitably tied to the church.67 Yet, as Yves Déloye has amply shown, Republican statesmen like Jules Ferry were no less interested in morality than the church was.68 Music was just as important for the secular French state as it was for religious ceremonies. In fact, Republican France may have been more interested than the Catholic Church in using music education to implant morality. The earliest Republican apologist for music education could be Marie-Joseph Chénier, the playwright and poet who in 1789 staged the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, a piece that has been credited with encouraging the French RevI to the guilloolution.69 In 1795, two years after voting to send Louis tine, Chénier told the French National Convention: Woe to the man who, stone cold, does not know [music’s irresistible charm. Woe to the careless politician, to the unskillful legislator who, imagining men to be abstractions, and thinking that he can move them like pawns on a check board, does not know that they have senses, that these senses form passions, that the science of guiding men is nothing other than the science of directing their sensibilities, that the basis for human institutions are public and private morals, and that the ne arts are essentially moral, since they make the person who cultivates them better and happier.70

Heeding Chénier’s words, the French National Convention established the Conservatory of Music to train teachers and performers for a new republican age. And when the French republican statesman Jules Ferry made education mandatory in 1882, music education was among its compulsory subjects. The aesthetics of music served secular morality as well as religious

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faith. Music did not vanish in the modern era but became more useful than ever for the modern state.71 The relationship between morality and religion is uid. At rst it may seem that music education in Egyptian schools was more related to religion than in Japanese schools. Music education in Egyptian schools often referred to religion. The 1953 primary school curriculum, for example, told educators that music would help them “fuel [children’s religious and national feelings by pleasurable means.”72 The context was very di erent from that in Japan. Until 1907 morality was taught as part of Quranic recitation (qur n kar m or qur n shar f) and thereafter as part of religious education (al-ta l m al-d n ).73 This di ers from Japan, where moral education classes (sh shin ky ju or just sh shin) were part of the curriculum from the beginning. Despite the absence of these references to religion, music education in Egyptian schools may have been closer to the moral education of Japanese schools than it may initially seem. Referring to the reform of the primary school curriculum in 1907 that transformed Quranic recitation class into religious education, Gregory Starrett has argued that this was the moment when Egyptian schools instrumentalized religious education. “The traditional study of the Qur’an,” writes Starrett, “whose purpose had been to learn how to use the sacred word in appropriate context, now became the study of Islam as a moral system, a study removed from its living context and placed on the same level as the other secular categories of knowledge.”74 If Egyptian schools, to use Starrett’s phrase, “put Islam to work,” they also decided to put music to work.75 “Children tend to enjoy singing and are enchanted by songs. They are sources of their energy and pleasure,” according to the 1953 curriculum, “and in educating them we should bene t as much as possible from this tendency.”76 By teaching children speci c songs, the modern school was seizing one source of children’s aesthetic pleasure and putting it to work. Not only was the use of religion in Egyptian schools similar to the use of morality in Japanese schools, but the opposite was also true. The cult of the emperor in prewar Japan led most Japanese to believe that the emperor was a god. The cornerstone of this cult was the Imperial Rescript on Education (Ky iku Chokugo). Promulgated in 1890, its teachings were grounded in Confucian concepts of virtue and its sacred nature was conrmed by its storage in a pedestal, along with the emperor’s portrait.

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A short text, it was memorized and recited by both students and teachers. One year after its promulgation, in 1891, it was supplemented by a songbook. In the introduction to the songbook the author, Matsumoto Nikichi, asked his readers a rhetorical question: “People read the Imperial Rescript on Education, but does this make them emotional ” No If people were to dedicate themselves to “ful lling the imperial command” and “performing loyalty to the emperor,” they needed to become emotionally invested in the Imperial Rescript. “In order to reach the height of emotion,” he wrote, people “also need to sing this song.”77 In this example and others, sounds of music resided in a uid area that encompassed both secular and religious elements. Music helped to reinforce moral education, whatever avor it came in.78 As in Egypt, morality and religion in Japan were closely related. This is not surprising if we consider that in both of these societies, and in many others, beauty and the good were seen as commensurate with one another. What was good could only be beautiful, just as what was beautiful had to be good. While the good was the purview of morality classes, beauty was the domain of art. Each functioned in its own way. Morality could be taught with precepts and anecdotes, while music trained the senses by means of sensory pleasures. Such attempts to harness the power of aesthetics were not new, but their systematic use to inculcate a national moral norm dates to the introduction of aesthetic education in modern schools.

The Difficult Task of Harnessing the Muse Without Killing It As educators soon discovered, however, music was a double-edged sword. Music’s very potential to in uence children’s hearts depended on its ability to elicit pleasure, but pleasure was a ckle terrain. The songs taught in school might not appeal to pupils, just as songs from outside the school might prove seductive. The ip side of music’s awesome power was its corrupting potential. Literature on music education was sprinkled with stories of corrupting music, such as the 1933 yearbook of Egypt’s Emir Fawziyya Secondary School for Girls: “During the Great War there was in Egypt poverty and sadness. Souls adopted what consoled them and Satan whispered

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to some performers and composers, who spread vulgar songs and pro igate melodies that debased song and corrupted morals until the situation became alarming and the demand arose that the state implement reforms to rectify this situation.”79 Like their medieval and early modern predecessors, modern educators believed that music had the ability to bypass the faculties of rational judgment and to directly arouse the passions. This was dangerous for children, who were like sponges, ready to absorb whatever songs pleased their ear. In an undated teaching manual, an Egyptian pioneer of music education, Abd al- al m Al , who in 1935 earned a master’s degree in music education in Paris before returning to Egypt to become inspector of music, fretted about the degree of control the school could exert over the child’s soundscape: The child is like a recorder, he has the sensitivity of a microphone, his ears receive whatever reaches them, and there are many things that he can perceive and conceive without being instructed in them. . . . We must therefore nd a way to make him consume music so that he absorbs what we choose for him. . . . It is incumbent to make him listen to good music until he acquires a good taste and to distance his ears from sinuous poetry and all of what is cheap and vulgar. In this way, the spirit of the child will be primed and opened to artistic learning, and the soil will become fertile, suitable for fruits. Once the child has learned to appreciate music in general, he needs to learn to di erentiate between good and poor music, between sincerity and pretense, between the greatness of the spirit and the pretension of grandeur; and only here will the real troubles begin, for it is easy to tell the child that this is a good music and this is bad [music , but how do we convince him 80

For these educators in 1930s Egypt, the school was not teaching the child music in a vacuum. The child’s soundscape was already saturated with vulgar, pro igate, sinuous, cheap, and popular sounds. When music was o cially introduced in Egyptian schools, one of its goals was to “turn the minds of pupils away from songs that have vulgar expressions and accustom them to hearing moral and re ned forms of expression that plant the love of virtue and good morals in their hearts.”81 School music was the antidote to the corrupting sea of popular music.

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Japanese educators had been concerned with the dangers of music since the 1880s, when music was rst introduced in Japanese schools. Indeed, songs were potent means of both hegemony and resistance. Patricia Tsurumi has shown how the songs of factory girls in early twentiethcentury Japan contained none of the devotion to the company or nation that was in the songs taught by the company. Mariko Tamanoi discovered how around the same period nurse maids (komori) subversively transformed the songs they were taught in school in order to express their plights, hopes, and desires. Anne Clément’s analysis of the songs of Egyptian peasants working for French archeologists at the turn of the twentieth century has similarly described how songs enabled workers to become performers in a colonial system that silenced them.82 Countless other examples exist of the power of slave songs, strike songs, or revolutionary songs to subvert what James Scott calls the “public transcript” of o cial discourse and create a “hidden transcript” of their own.83 Educators in nineteenth-century Japan were aware of these subversive sounds echoing throughout popular life and afraid that they might subvert the national morality they espoused. “It is at a time when such evil music is occupying the hearts of men that music education is most important,” wrote in 1894 Tanimoto Tomeri, a professor at the prestigious Kyoto Imperial University Faculty of Letters.84 If in the early modern period “evil music” was seen as a reason to prohibit music, in the modern period it was a reason to introduce school music as its antidote. The great fear of popular music, however, welled in the 1920s and 1930s, and like many other aspects of the modern history of music, it was global. In the passage cited above, the Egyptian educator Abd al- al m Al warned against “all of what is cheap and vulgar (sha b ).”85 Japanese educators were equally skeptical about popular music. In 1931, for example, the primary school attached to the Wakayama Prefecture Teachers’ College noted: “We cannot deny that there are rather suspicious things in folk and popular songs. We should nonetheless ponder the deep reason why we feel an inexpressible seduction that draws us toward them.”86 Writing about Japan, the historian Hiromu Nagahara traced the war on popular songs from the 1920s, when the rise of mass media made them more dangerous than ever, to the 1960s, when the triumph of mass culture made attacks on popular songs seem elitist.87 Like Japan, Egypt saw popular music acquire respectability in the 1950s and 1960s, with stars like Umm Kulth m becoming national symbols who played an important role in

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buttressing populist governments. Until then, however, educators in Japan and Egypt saw popular music as suspicious if not outright dangerous. This critique of popular songs was global. The same year that the primary school attached to Wakayama Prefecture Teachers’ College stated its objections to popular songs, in the United Kingdom the Caernarvonshire Education Committee published a short Memorandum on the Teaching of Music in Secondary and Primary Schools in which it assailed “the exaggerated and expressionless so-called melody’ of many popular songs.”88 Music teachers in a wide variety of contexts expressed similar doubts. French educators were distraught about the popular songs streaming out of cafés and into the ears and hearts of their pupils.89 The Chinese Nationalist Party (Guomindang) promoted patriotic songs while working to abolish “vulgar” folk and popular music.90 Educators across the world were mobilizing against popular music. This global outcry against popular music was not a coincidence. New technologies like radio and the phonograph had spawned an age that the historian of Egypt iad Fahmy refers to as “media capitalism.”91 Record companies made enormous pro ts by selling popular songs to a mass audience. Suddenly the state and its national morality were not just faced with mere factory girls, nurse maids, or day laborers. Powerful transnational record companies like Columbia Records, which operated in Japan, Egypt, and elsewhere, were making enormous pro ts from popular music. So were new industries like radio and lm. The state was now confronted with the much more powerful forces of transnational capitalism and the logic of the mass market (see gs. 2.6 and 2.7). New technologies allowed these forces to reach the ears and, most worrisome of all, the hearts of children. In the eyes of some educators, this was a time of crisis.92 The epicenter of media capitalism and popular music was the big city. A manual edited by the Tokyo City Atago Higher Primary School in 1936 complained: Day and night people living in modern cities are surrounded by a jumble of music, whether cultured or vulgar. Although we know that in antiquity saints taught [people not to listen to base songs, modern man is forced to hear them incessantly in the street and on the radio. This is why education in music appreciation should foster an independent attitude by adopting elevating and pure-hearted songs and abolishing lowly vulgar ones.93

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FIGURES 2.6– 2.7 These two Columbia records illustrate the transnational reach of record companies. The Egyptian record ( g. 2.6) of the song “Wahawi Yaha” (Greetings greetings O moon), which was sung by female star Az za ilm , is estimated to be from the early 1930s, while the Japanese record ( g. 2.7) of the song “ saka Ondo” (Osaka marching song), sung by Fujimoto Fumikichi, is from 1933. Columbia was the only large multinational company operating in both markets; most of the other large companies in Egypt or Japan were either transnational companies or joint ventures between local and transnational companies. The image of “Wahawi Yaha” is courtesy of Jonathan Ward.

Whether it was Satan whispering vulgar songs in Egypt or saints refusing to listen to base songs in Japan, the popular neighborhoods of urban agglomerations were festering pools of impure sounds. School music was enrolled in the task of defending children from what was considered a dangerous, immoral, and subversive popular culture. The trouble was that school music often lost its ght against popular music. Schoolchildren did not have to resist, to speak back, or to subvert school music; they only had to forget it. This was often a major source of concern for policy makers and educators. A manual by Yoshida Kumaji—a teacher at Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College and Tokyo Women’s Higher Teachers’ College and a professor at the elite Tokyo Imperial University— warned Japanese teachers in 1913 that children were not enjoying the national songs that the school was teaching them. “While in school primary school students sing these [school songs , outside of the school they are rarely sung. In particular, it is undeniable that once they become adults, with the exception of [the de facto Japanese national anthem Reign of Our Lord’ you will not hear a school song coming from the mouth of a member

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of the general population.”94 In 1926 Sakurai Hir , an advocate of childcentered education who taught at Nara Girls’ Higher Teachers’ College and founded the journal Ky iku bungei (Art and literature for education), lamented that children sing songs “as if they had never been to school, and most of [the songs that they do sing consist of popular songs (zokka zokuy ).”95 A few decades after the introduction of singing in Japanese schools, school songs were failing in their mandate to shape children’s hearts and desires. The answer was a collective cry for reform. Yoshida and others believed that songs ought to be made more appealing to children, in their lyrics as much as in their tune. In 1927 the Research Section on Curriculum of the primary school attached to Tochigi Prefecture Girls’ Teachers’ College suggested that making school songs simpler, easier to memorize, and more related to children’s daily lives would help.96 Others believed that the only solution was to co-opt popular songs and introduce them in school music classes. Instead of ghting popular songs, wrote Sakurai, “we should introduce popular songs to singing class. . . . It will truly awaken us.” Yet Sakurai quickly conceded that this was unlikely, noting that “I know that many are opposed to this.”97 The most radical critique of school music, however, was by those who claimed that the moral nature of school songs was itself responsible for their lack of popularity. This critique usually came from musicians and music teachers like Koide K hei, a composer and professor of music at Gakush in University, who resisted music’s subordination to morality. In 1927 Koide wrote that music is “the language for the soul. Like the warmth and light of the sun it sustains human existence.”98 Some people kill music, he argued, by making it into moral education. Koide was a rare voice among prewar music teachers. Egyptian teaching manuals from the rst half of the twentieth century did not feature similar misgivings about the role of morality in education.99 The bestknown critique of morality in music education may have come out of the historical experience of Germany, where the Frankfurt school theorist Theodor Adorno wrote several essays on music education. Adorno’s critique began in the 1930s, when he argued that the modern state was using music education to create a false consciousness that obscured the economic realities of life and pushed people toward an unre ective communitarianism. Music education was used, wrote Adorno, to create an aesthetic desire for community (ästhetischen Gemeinschaftswillen) that mobilized

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the emotional ties that bound people together to create a conformist society in which di erence was not tolerated and violence was facilitated.100 “It may well be the secret of fascist propaganda,” wrote Adorno, “that it simply takes men for what they are: the true children of today’s standardized mass culture, largely robbed of autonomy and spontaneity.”101 The Nazi seizure of power seemed to con rm this dark view of society. Having discovered in music a means of fostering a homogeneous racial identity and mobilizing society for war, the Nazi regime increased the importance of music education in primary schools.102 Adorno, who was a Marxist intellectual of Jewish ancestry, went into exile. When he returned to Germany after the war, he found German educators preoccupied with using music education to transform human beings, just like their prewar and wartime predecessors. Only this time, music education was made to serve not fascist nationalism but liberal humanism. At a meeting of the Institute for Modern Music and Music Education (Institut für Neue Musik und Musikerziehung) in 1954, Adorno once again criticized Germany’s educators for seeking to use music to engineer a postwar moral renewal.103 The dominant classes, the state that represented them, and the capitalist music industry were yet again corrupting children’s spontaneity, creativity, and aesthetic desires. Music was being put to work again. Although this book is a study of the thoughts and fears of adults who taught music, drawing, and calligraphy in modern schools rather than of the children who experienced their teachings, occasional references remind us of children’s ability to resist passively. The educators who complained that children rarely remembered a school song into adulthood appear to contradict Adorno’s fears that modern humans have lost their autonomy and spontaneity. In their desire to use music to teach morality, educators were always at risk of smothering the very musical muse that made music so powerful a means of in uence. To Adorno’s dystopia we can oppose Goethe’s utopia. “For it must come from the heart,” wrote Goethe, “that which is supposed to act upon the heart.”104 Only genuine heartfelt feelings can lodge themselves in the listener. The educators discussed in this chapter seemed to give credence to both of these approaches. On the one hand, they acknowledged music as a powerful means of shaping children’s hearts. Music was not pure but implicated in the project of moral suasion and control. On the other hand,

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the success of school songs depended on their ability to attract children and enchant them. Music could not work as cold calculation. No matter how morally e cacious they might be, songs that did not have an aesthetic appeal remained impotent. In fact, it was this double nature of music, as both an embodied aesthetic experience and a vehicle for moral education, that made it so powerful. Sounds of music can be attractive while being shot through with attachment to a school, nation, star singer, or just the boy or girl next door. As some of the educators in this chapter keenly understood, it was this impurity of musical sounds, and more broadly of aesthetic tastes, that gave them their power as agents of social control, even as it made their instrumentalization all the more slippery.

3 Writing Education and the Location of Aesthetics

Because people’s activity is becoming more and more rapid, every day it becomes more urgent that we require speed in writing. —Primary Research Group of the primary school attached to Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College, 1923 Calligraphy is an act of spiritual discipline. —Kagami Torao, 1938

alligraphy education di ers from music education in the options that it presents to the educator. With music, the choice is either to teach music or not to teach music. If schools chose to teach music, it was usually to educate children’s inner selves. Schools do not, however, have the option of not teaching writing. Writing is one of the three Rs—writing, reading, and sometimes arithmetic—which are considered the foundation of schooling. Schools could either teach writing alone, with no emphasis on calligraphy, namely, on the beauty of the characters, or teach both writing and calligraphy. These were the options available to educators as they discussed the role of writing in modern schools. The double nature of writing education brought in dialogue two competing strands of modern schooling. One was the promotion of rationality,

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functionality, and e ciency; the other was the use of aesthetics to instruct children’s inner selves. For most of the period of this study, school systems in Japan and Egypt as well as in Great Britain, France, and the United States did not consider writing education to be an aesthetic practice. Calligraphy education lay outside of the purview of the modern school, or at most on its fringes, as an occasional or optional topic of instruction. The one exception was wartime Japan. From 1941 to the abolition of the wartime curricula in 1947, calligraphy was a mandatory part of Japanese primary and middle school education. Children were instructed how to place their feet, hands, and hips at their desk, how to breathe, and how to collect themselves in preparation for the moment when they would put brush to paper. As the Japanese state prepared for total war, it decided to use calligraphy for spiritual training. This chapter introduces the discourses of educators, both in favor of calligraphy education and against it. In so doing, it asks why educators usually understood writing education as a functional practice, sometimes as a spiritual practice, and sometimes as both.

The Disappearance of Writing as an Independent Subject When calligraphy was included in the ne art section of the First Domestic Industrial Exhibition in Tokyo’s Ueno Park in 1877, it drew an outraged response from Koyama Sh tar , a young artist who was to become a leading gure of Western-style painting of the late nineteenth century. To teach children calligraphy, wrote Koyama, is to lead them down a silent, dark alley, away from the lights of civilization and enlightenment. Writing is useful as a code for transmitting meaning, he argued, but has little value in and of itself. If textiles are spun from cotton, so too are texts composed of letters. Writing needed to be functional and nothing else. Koyama’s critique of calligraphy was answered by Okakura Kakuz , who was to become the leading Meiji era advocate of an Asian aesthetic. Okakura argued that just as an architect seeks to construct buildings that both o er shelter and present an aesthetically attractive form, so too should writing be functional as well as aesthetically pleasing. Echoes of this controversy continued to resonate in Japanese literature on writing education for decades, albeit in very di erent ways.1

20

Percentage of curriculum

15

10

5

0 1870

1880

1890

1900

Writing in Japanese schools for boys

1910

1920

1930

1940

1950

Writing in Egyptian nonelite schools for boys

Writing in Japanese schools for girls

Writing in Egyptian nonelite schools for girls

Art in Japanese schools for boys (calligraphy, drawing, manual arts)

Writing in Egyptian elite schools for boys Writing in Egyptian elite schools for girls

Art in Japanese schools for girls (calligraphy, drawing, manual arts, sewing) FIGURE 3.1 This graph shows how writing as an independent subject disappeared from Japanese primary schools in 1886 and from Egyptian primary schools in 1930. In both cases it was amalgamated into language class. This trend re ects a global understanding of writing education as a functional skill for teaching children to communicate clearly, quickly, and e ciently. In Japan, however, writing education appeared in a completely di erent part of the curriculum, as part of the art section, from 1941 to 1947. This curricular change re ected a discursive shift, which, starting in the late 1920s, saw writing become an aesthetic practice for training the child’s inner self. The graph adopts the de nition of “primary school” in the sources, which varied between four and eight years of schooling. Data for Egyptian elite schools are from Am n S m , Taqw m al-n l 1936, book 3, part 3, 1135, for 1874; and from curricula published by the Ministry of Public Instruction (Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya) for 1885, 1888, 1891, 1892, 1894, 1898, 1900, 1907, 1913, 1915, 1924, 1925, 1927, 1930, 1935, 1936, 1947, and 1949. For Egyptian nonelite schools, data for 1905 are from Philippe Gelat, Répertoire général annoté de

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In the short term, Koyama’s critique of calligraphy education was victorious, at least in public school curricula, and writing soon disappeared as an independent subject.2 Writing had been central to Japan’s early modern educational system in both commoner terakoya and samurai hank schools, where copying letters taught children writing, reading, language skills, and Confucian morality, all in a single process. In the rst national curriculum for modern primary schools in 1872, however, an independent writing class was created, next to language and ethics classes as well as mathematics, science, history, geography, and drawing. Although this independent writing class was 16 to 19 percent of the primary school curricula published in 1872, 1873 and 1881, it disappeared in 1886, never to reappear again (see g. 3.1).3 Thereafter, writing was taught to children in language class. Its tendency was toward mimesis and functionality. It copied teaching methods and adopted writing utensils from European and American education. Most importantly, it ful lled the demand of a modern industrial society for functionality, speed, and clarity by favoring the pen or pencil over the brush, small letters over large letters, and the fast semicursive script over the slower block script. In so doing, Japanese writing education imitated Western curricula. In 1865 Charles Northend, a New England teacher and school administrator, wrote a teaching manual in which he quoted an 1855 manual dedicated to writing education: “Good writing is characterized by legibility, rapidity, and beauty.” Northend’s manual was one of the rst teaching manuals to be translated into Japanese. It was published in 1873 as Required Reading for Teachers (Ky shi hitsudoku), and its three criteria for good

la législation et de l’administration égyptiennes 1840–1910 [Annotated compilation of legislation on Egyptian legislation and administration, 1840–1910 , vol. 5, part 2 (Alexandria: Imprimerie J.C. Lagoudakis, 1905–1910); and for 1906, 1913, 1916, 1930, 1937, 1947, and 1949 from curricula published by the Ministry of Public Instruction for nonelite primary schools. For Japanese primary schools, data are from curricula reprinted in Ky ikushi Hensankai, ed., Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsu shi, vols. 1–5, 7 (Tokyo: Ry ginsha, 1938–1939); Kindai Nihon Ky iku Seido Shiry , ed., Kindai Nihon ky iku seido shiry , vols. 2, 22, 23 (Tokyo: Dainihon Y benkai K dansha, 1956–1959); and Sengo Ky iku Kaikaku Shiry Kenky kai, ed., Monbush Gakush shid y ry , vol. 1 (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sent , 1980), for 1872, 1873, 1881, 1886, 1891, 1900, 1903, 1907, 1909, 1919, 1926, 1941, and 1947.

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writing—legibility, rapidity, and beauty—became standard in discussions of writing education, even if beauty sometimes fell by the wayside.4 “The objective of writing in primary schools is not to write in the style of calligraphers,” wrote Tomizawa Naonori, a teacher at the Fukushima prefecture and Ibaraki prefecture teachers’ colleges, in an 1893 teaching manual. Instead, writing “must be about the order of strokes, the clarity of letters, their arrangement, and the ow of the writing.”5 Egyptian educators generally agreed with him. After enumerating several of the bene ts of calligraphy, from fostering cleanliness to patience to precision, asan Tawf q, an Egyptian teacher of Arabic at the School of Oriental Studies in Berlin, still managed to sound exactly like Tomizawa: “We don’t need them all [children to become calligraphers,” he wrote in 1892.6 This was an era when even those who sympathized with calligraphy education insisted that it had very little, if any, role to play in modern schools. This focus on functionality can be illustrated by a rare instance in which a writer mentioned the importance of beautiful calligraphy. In 1907 Mizutani Kamesabur , a teacher at a teachers’ college in Gunma prefecture, wrote a teachers’ manual in which he suggested that, in addition to ensuring the clarity and speed of writing, writing education should foster the faculties of observation and aesthetic judgment.7 Mizutani’s manual was prefaced by none other than Minister of Education Sawayanagi Masatar , who generally lauded the work but criticized what he referred to as Mizutani’s confusion of the “two faces” of writing.8 While the art of calligraphy is the realm of the specialist, he admonished, the primary school teacher is responsible for teaching children the practical everyday skill of writing. Most teaching manuals from the period adopt this line of argument and do not incur the opprobrium of the minister of education. It is not di cult to imagine a conversation between the Minister Sawayanagi and Egyptian educators. In 1910, three years after Sawayanagi wrote his preface, an inspector of the Egyptian Ministry of Education, Abd al- Az z J w sh described writing as a “mechanical technique” that did not re ect the quality of a person’s character: “It is well known that writing is a mechanical technique which does not depend on intelligence and the strength of ideas. One often sees that the pupils with little ability pay the most attention to the rules and requirements of writing. The reason for this is that in this way they seek to compensate for their [lack of intellectual

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abilities until they are able to match their peers and to compete at their level.”9 Both J w sh and Sawayanagi participated in the same conversation, discouraging calligraphy as an artistic practice focused on beauty and encouraging writing as an everyday mechanical skill concerned with the communication of meaning. By the 1910s and 1920s Japanese educators can be seen trying to keep up with the demands of government and industry by encouraging children to write more rapidly. A manual edited in 1916 by the normal school teacher Sait Gakusan fretted about how educators could best train children to meet the demands of the increasingly rapid pace of day-to-day life. While paying attention to beauty and precision is important, wrote Sait , one must not forget speed, for “speed is the spirit of this age.”10 Echoing Sait , the Primary Research Group of the primary school attached to Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College published a manual in 1923 with the recommendation that “in terms of practicality, [speed is the highest priority. Because people’s activity is becoming more and more rapid, every day it becomes more urgent that we require speed in writing. It may feel somewhat distressing that, in addition to correct and beautiful writing, rapid writing would also be wished for in primary schools. As much as possible, however, great care should be taken on this point.”11 This interest in speed of writing was typical of Japanese manuals from the period. Taylorist principles were infusing Japanese businesses and government bureaucracies with a drive for e ciency, and publications like the business journal Manejimento were calculating how long it took employees to write various documents with various writing instruments, from the brush to the fountain pen to the typewriter.12 Educators responded to this need for speed by encouraging rapid writing. Although educators in Egypt were also concerned with writing speed, there is anecdotal evidence that they were not as anxious as their Japanese counterparts about nding innovative ways to speed up children’s hands. It may well be that in a more industrialized society like Japan, which had a larger proportion of the population employed in o ce work, rapid writing was more of a felt need. Even in Egypt, however, educators were far from unconcerned with speed. In a 1914 manual, for example, Am n Murs Qand l, a graduate of the faculty of education at She eld University and a teacher at Egypt’s teachers’ college for secondary school teachers, wrote that “speed in writing is called for by the circumstances of

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our age, and this prevents us from using [embellished letters.”13 Qand l’s experience in Britain is likely to have alerted him to the premium that modern Western societies placed on writing speed, but it is also possible that Egyptian bureaucrats and teachers were also feeling the need for rapid writing, even if it was less pressing than in Japan. Despite the greater emphasis on speed in the Japanese literature, the similarities between discourses in Japan, Egypt, and other modern societies are striking. Writing was a functional skill that, rst and foremost, required clarity and speed. The policies were also very similar. At the inception of modern schools in the 1870s, writing education in both Japan and Egypt went from a staple of early modern education to an independent subject. By 1886 in Japan and 1930 in Egypt, however, writing had been amalgamated into language class ( g. 3.1). A more industrialized Japan, which also had a much larger and better-funded school system, may have been faster to respond to a capitalist economy that demanded speed and clarity. Yet in both Japan and Egypt early modern aspects of schooling like recitation or calligraphy lost importance as the semantic function of the text gained importance. In modern societies it was not the form but the content of the writing that mattered.

Script Styles for a Modern Age Debates about writing education came together around discussions about the proper script to teach children. In the beginning of modern school systems, children in both Japan and Egypt each learned to write three scripts. All but one of these scripts was characterized by a balance between the demands of clarity and speed, the two key characteristics of writing education in modern schools. As a rule, clarity and speed were inversely correlated. Clear scripts were usually slower, while rapid scripts were less clear. The debates about which scripts children should learn to write rst reveal the calculations of educators who were attempting to make primary school education responsive to the demands of modern bureaucracies. Of the three scripts taught in Japanese schools and the three in Egyptian schools, the clearest were the kaisho script ( g. 3.2) in Japan and the naskh script ( g. 3.5) in Egypt. The kaisho script is clear because its letters are independent. In Japanese, as in English, letters can be written either separately using a print script or strung together with a cursive script.

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The kaisho script was therefore similar to a handwritten print script. Sometimes referred to as the block script, kaisho is not only the clearest of the three Japanese scripts but also the slowest. Unlike kaisho, naskh is not a print script for the simple reason that in Arabic the ligature is obligatory between some letters. In this sense, Arabic has no print script, only cursive. But naskh is functionally similar to kaisho and to handwritten print letters in English in that it is the clearest and most easily read of the three Arabic scripts taught in Egyptian schools. For this reason, at the inception of the modern Japanese and Egyptian

FIGURES 3.2– 3.4 The three styles of scripts taught in Japanese schools, arranged by degree of cursiveness: gure 3.2 shows kaisho, the print or “block” style, which was the slowest to write but the easiest to read; gure 3.3 shows gy sho, the semicursive or “running” style; and gure 3.4 shows s sho, the cursive or “grass” style, which was the fastest to write but the hardest to read. Ono Kannosuke, K t sh gaku joshi sh ji ch [Writing manual for girls’ higher primary school , rst year, vols. 1 and 2 (1892; Osaka: Yoshikawa Hanshichi, 1893). Courtesy of Anne Walthall.

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MUSIC, CALLIGRAPHY, AND THE EDUCATION OF THE INNER SELF

FIGURE 3.5– 3.7 The three scripts taught in Egyptian schools: naskh ( g. 3.5), the clearest and most legible script; ruq a ( g. 3.6), the fastest to write but not as clear as the naskh script; and thuluth ( g. 3.7), both slow and harder to read. Naj b Haw w n , al-Sal sil al-dhahabiyya: naskh kur sa 2 [The golden lineages: Naskh (script), book 2 (Cairo: D r al- ib a al-Qawmiyya, n.d., ca 1930s), 9; Naj b Haw w n , al-Sal sil al-dhahabiyya: Ruq a kur sa 6 [The golden lineages: Ruq a (script), book 6 (Cairo: D r al-Na r, n.d., ca 1930s), 3; and Al Ibr h m, al-Majm a al- ad tha li-ta s n kha al-thuluth: al-kar sa al-r bi a [New series for the improvement of the thuluth script: Book 4 (N.p.: Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, ca. 1916), 24.

school systems, kaisho and naskh were the rst scripts that children learned during the rst two years of schooling.14 When children were rst learning to write, it was clarity that mattered most. After the initial two years of schooling, children learned cursive scripts that made it possible to write faster. In Japan there was a semicursive script called gy sho ( g. 3.3). Here, the individual Chinese characters were

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still independent of each other, but the strokes within each character often ran together. As a result, gy sho was less clear than the kaisho script taught in the rst two years of school, but it was faster. The same can be said of the script that was taught in Egyptian schools starting in the third year of schooling, the ruq a script ( g. 3.6). With ruq a, as with gy sho, the letters were less distinct. Shortcuts were more common, letters were abbreviated, and sentences were not as clear or easy to read as with the naskh script. In the same way that gy sho was faster than kaisho, however, ruq a was faster than naskh. The hand owed across the page without need to carve out the shape of each letter. By the nineteenth century ruq a had become the script of choice for scribes, who used it for rapid note taking, and it quickly became a staple for bureaucrats concerned with the speed of writing. If kaisho and naskh were, like the handwritten print script in English, crucial to teaching children to write letters clearly, once they were able to do so schools taught them gy sho and ruq a, two more cursive scripts that were more common in professional life. With time, speed came to outweigh clarity. Japanese schools began teaching the faster semicursive script in the rst year of primary school only a few years after the rst curriculum for modern schools was published in 1872. In 1877 Nishimura Shigeki, a member of the Meirokusha Society15 and government inspector of schools who would become one of the leading writers about educational issues of his day, wrote a report to the Ministry of Education. In it he argued that teaching the kaisho script was grounded in an old “theory of Chinese calligraphers” and that in the modern age it was impractical because, after two or three years in school, children still did not have a script for everyday use. Instead, he suggested that children begin by learning the gy sho semicursive script immediately and using it to practice writing typical business documents like deeds, letters, and receipts.16 Nishimura’s recommendation was soon adopted, and from this moment onward gy sho became the rst and most important script of primary school writing education.17 Unlike in Japan, Egyptian schools did not change the order in which they taught scripts in school. Naskh continued to come rst, followed by ruq a. By 1916, however, there were hints that educators could be emphasizing the faster ruq a script earlier. That year the o cial curriculum for awwaliya primary schools noted that “the objective of Arabic penmanship

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lessons in primary schools is the improvement of pupils’ scripts, especially the ruq a script.”18 It is not unlikely that the ability to write faster was gaining importance in Egyptian society, even if, as previously noted, it was taking longer than in Japan. At the beginning of the twentieth century, as the need for speed became more acute, Japanese educators went even further. One of the most proli c thinkers about writing education, Mitobe Toramatsu, suggested that the semicursive gy sho script be replaced by an even faster script, the s sho cursive script ( g. 3.4), starting from the very rst grades of school instead of only in more advanced classes. S sho was the fastest of the three scripts, but it was also the most di cult to read. Letters in s sho are so abbreviated that they often become indistinguishable to anyone not familiar with the method by which they were abbreviated. In this sense, s sho was akin to shorthand. It was a system for rapid writing that required special training for both writing and reading. The problem with s sho was that, just as there are multiple shorthand systems, so too are there multiple ways of abbreviating each character. The solution that Mitobe suggested was to unify the various s sho cursive scripts into a single national cursive script that would then be taught in the rst grades of primary schools. For Mitobe, this was part of a larger plan to dedicate the s sho cursive script to writing and the kaisho block script to reading, much like in the West where cursive was used for documents that needed to be written quickly and print, whether handwritten or machine printed, was used for documents that needed to be more easily legible. Only in this way, argued Mitobe, could writing in Japan manage to adapt to “a hyper-busy society [that unforgivingly demands convenience.”19 Such a uni cation of the numerous types of cursive scripts was not an easy task, however, and the Ministry of Education never went beyond reducing the age at which children were introduced to the cursive script. In Egypt, there was only one clear script, the naskh script, and one rapid script, the ruq a script. The third script was an outlier in that it was neither clear nor fast. The advantage of the thuluth script ( g. 3.7) was in its beauty. After explaining how the rapid ruq a script was “the best means of communication,” an early twentieth-century teaching manual meant for training normal school teachers continued: “As for thuluth, it is much needed for it is one of the ne arts which fosters good taste in pupils, and it is also used in books and needed by school principals for writing general titles and

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the heading of announcements.”20 With its laborious and ornate style, thuluth embodied the aesthetics of calligraphy. In the early modern period, it was used to write inscriptions on the gates of schools, mosques, or palaces. In modern schools, it continued to be taught starting in the third year of primary school, but in 1947 it was moved from language class to drawing class.21 In an educational system that prepared children for modern professions, a script that was concerned with beauty belonged in the ne arts rather than with the functional language skills. In both Japan and Egypt, it seems that the beauty of the script was, at best, of minor importance, and at worst, a distraction that was irrelevant to the needs of writing in everyday life. In both places, educators clearly prioritized clarity and speed over beauty. This was part of a trend that saw writing become a technical skill for communicating meaning. Instead of laboriously learning to craft beautiful letters, children were taught to write e ciently. The emphasis on scripts that were clear and rapid went hand in hand with the disappearance of writing as an independent subject in both Japan and Egypt. When it disappeared as an independent subject, writing was amalgamated into language class, where it became a language skill, like grammar, spelling, and punctuation, without any additional value for educating children’s morals, their character, or their ability for artistic expression.

The Return of Writing as an Aesthetic Practice in Wartime Japan If the previous two sections show how writing education in modern schools, in both Japan and Egypt, was mostly concerned with clarity and speed, the next two sections are about the one great exception to this rule. In wartime Japan, starting in the late 1920s and until Japan’s loss of the fteen-year war in 1945, discourse on writing education came to include not only writing as a functional, everyday practice but also writing as an aesthetic practice. This is not to say that some authors had not always placed more importance on the beauty and moral signi cance of writing than others. In 1899, for example, the educator Morioka Shinez tried to complement his era’s concern with clarity and speed by suggesting that beauty and tradition also had a place in writing education: “If calligraphy is only about writing letters, then it is possible to regard it as a part of the

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language section. . . . If we see writing class as an integral part of language class, then it is su cient that exercises in copying letters be correct and rapid. However, in the calligraphy of our country, and from a perspective which values the [brush stroke and the grace of the lines, [writing is an art and analogous to drawing.”22 Advocates of infusing writing education with aesthetics and emphasizing its national character, however, remained a minority and lost the struggle for shaping the national curriculum, at least until a period of Japanese history commonly known as the early Sh wa era (1926–1945). By the beginning of the Sh wa era the voices of these educators begin to resonate in teaching manuals, and by the mid-1930s it is almost impossible to nd a Japanese teaching manual that does not refer to writing as a “cultivation of character” (shinsei t ya) or “the perfection of character” (jinkaku kansei). With references to the premodern past, to China, and sometimes to Buddhism, bureaucrats and educators made calligraphy into a form of “spiritual training” (seishinteki sh ren or seishinteki kunren) or “spiritual cultivation” (seishin sh y ).23 This was a means for school education to expand its mandate beyond intellectual, moral, and physical education— to cite Herbert Spencer’s trilogy—and into the very spirit of the child.24 In 1938 Kagami Tora , a supervisor of libraries for the Ministry of Education and a frequent contributor to discussions of writing education, spoke of the role of writing in shaping the spirit. Educators no longer “stop at the beauty of the form,” he wrote, but “now take into consideration the beauty of the spirit (seishin) hidden within the letters.”25 It was this “spirit” that the authors of teaching manuals sought to cultivate. That same year a teaching manual by Tanaka Kaian, a teacher at the Tokyo City Toshima Teachers’ College, spoke of writing as a cultivation of the spirit: In calligraphy the spirit of the person is devoted to the task. Devoting the spirit means focusing the entire soul upon the calligraphic work. Focusing the entire soul on the calligraphic work means engaging the entire body’s strength and energy, from the hair on one’s head to the tip of one’s nails, so that the strain of the entire body is directed toward the brushstrokes, and this e ort must go forth as if electricity were discharged from the tip of the brush. . . . It is at the boundary of this renunciation of self, at this symbiosis of mind and body, that calligraphy becomes spiritual cultivation.26

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This concern with educating children’s inner self was a far cry from the earlier interest in writing education as a functional means of writing clearly and rapidly. Writing had become, to quote a 1941 teaching manual by the educator Sunami Genichi, “nothing other than [a way of putting the real self on the path of training.”27 It was a vehicle for introducing spiritual practice into the schoolhouse. When new curricula were written in the early 1940s, this discourse about writing education as a training of the child’s spirit was inscribed into public school educational programs. In 1941 writing became part of the newly created art section (gein ka) in primary school, along with drawing, music, the manual arts, and sewing for girls.28 In 1943 it became a part of secondary school education, but under a new name. In this class, writing was no longer referred to as sh ji, the term commonly used in Meiji era curricula, or kakikata, a translation of the English word “writing.” Instead, for the rst time in the history of modern Japan, the word shod entered the curriculum of government schools.29 The expression shod is literally translated as the “way” (d ) of “writing” (sho). The character for “way,” d , appeared in one other subject of the secondary school curriculum of 1943: the martial arts were collectively referred to as bud , “the martial way.”30 Both shod , “the way of writing,” and bud , “the martial way,” were thus introduced in the 1943 secondary school curriculum.31 This idea of education as a path for training the child’s inner self ts easily within the broader discourse of wartime Japan. Like the members of the Japanese romantic school, advocates of calligraphy believed in transcending rational logic and achieving an intuitive apprehension of the world.32 Life was about the heart rather than the mind, the spirit rather than matter, and immediacy rather than calculation. This led educators from this era to oppose the functionalism that animated writing education in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The emphasis was on the tension of the moment. “The learning of penmanship detests corrections that are made afterward,” wrote Ishibashi Keij r , a leading writer on calligraphy who taught at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts and the Tokyo Children’s School: “Since when the brush is put down success or failure is played out in perfect clarity, the delusion of deception and blu ng are denied.”33 The idea of putting one’s fate on the line with a de nitive stroke of the brush was a popular theme in wartime discourse. Young men were asked to decisively put their lives on the line, just as Japanese leaders had

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decisively put the fate of Japan as a whole on the line when they ordered the attack on Pearl Harbor against a foe whose economy was about ten times the size of Japan’s. The relationship between an inner and an outer self was also recongured hierarchically. The training of the body was meant to act on the soul. Plying the child’s body was a way of reaching into his heart. In his 1938 manual Kagami explained: “First the posture must be correct. If the posture is correct the heart will be puri ed on its own. Compose your heart, unify your spirit, and face the paper and brush. In this manner, [writing will become a spiritual exercise” ( gs. 3.8 and 3.9).34 It was not just posture that could serve as an entry point into the child’s heart. Kagami added that other embodied practices like the grinding of ink were also e ective: Calligraphy is an act of spiritual training. For example, even if we grind ink, ink is not simply a mechanical grindable thing. . . . No matter how good your technique may be, if the color of the ink is not appropriate you cannot write true calligraphy well. This is not a question of the di erence in color between low-grade and high-grade ink. No matter what the grade of the ink, as long as the individual quality of the ink is manifested that is ne. What of the grinding of the ink Put in other words, when grinding ink the state of the spirit, whether good or bad, is manifested as such in the calligraphy.35

Like posture, the act of grinding ink served to polish the child’s spirit. If morality education taught children moral precepts, calligraphy education was using the child’s body to create moods, moments, and mindsets. Calligraphy was here similar to other embodied practices, like physical education or music or drawing. In fact, calligraphy was sometimes compared to the martial arts, which began to be taught in the secondary school curriculum in 1943. In 1938 the educator Tanaka Kaian wrote that both calligraphy and the martial arts called for a state of persistent tension and preparedness.36 Educators cultivated this tension with great care. Ishikawa Mokugyo, a teacher at ita Women’s Teachers’ College, compared the tension of putting brush on paper to tiptoeing: “You want to arrive quickly, but if you go more quickly you are discovered. There you seek to take steps

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FIGURES 3.8– 3.9 This teachers’ version of a 1942 government primary school textbook for writing with the brush described the proper posture when sitting in a chair. It explains the child’s proper posture as follows: “With legs slightly apart, place the feet at on the oor, with the feeling that pressure is being applied to the front part of the feet. It is better not to push the hips back too much [in the chair . Position the top half of the body rmly and straight on the hips, and when writing lean the weight of the body slightly forward. At the same time, exert a feeling of pressure on your lower hips, and place the left thumb of your left hand on the front edge of the desk and the other four ngers on top of [the desk holding the paper. There should be a slight space between the stomach and the desk, and the eyes should be kept about 30 centimeters above the surface of the paper.” Monbush , Ky shiy shot ka sh ji ni [Primary-level penmanship for teachers, book 2 (Tokyo: Monbush , 1942), 40–41. Both images are from the collections of the University of Tokyo, Graduate School of Education, Faculty of Education Library.

that are both quick and silent. In such a case you must strain not just the feet but the entire body and x your eyes on the task. There are countless such examples, but it is approximately in such a state of tension that you practice putting the brush to the paper.”37 In this and other texts, calligraphy is seen as the mediation between the body and the inner self, often

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referred to as “the heart.” Just as calligraphy is an expression of the heart, so too is the heart molded by the practice of calligraphy. The tradition advocating the commensurability of the heart and the brush in the late 1920s was invented, to be sure, but it was invented out of pieces from Japan’s pasts. From the Edo period (1603–1867) it adopted a concern with the relationship between the heart and the brush that was often referred to as the “correctness of heart and brush” (shinsei hipp ron).38 The well-known Confucian scholar Kaibara Ekiken explained this concept when he spoke of writing as an “image of the heart”: “People of old said that writing is the image of the heart. The image of the heart means that what is at the center is pushed outwards and becomes an image. This is because in a good or bad script the goodness or badness of the heart becomes visible. Since through writing the inside of the heart can be seen, take heed and do it correctly.”39 The idea that the quality of a person’s heart could be read in the person’s script is also not di cult to nd in early modern Islamic literature. This poem by the early seventeenth-century judge and mathematician Q A mad ibn M rmunsh al- usayn is one such example: O you, who wish to become a calligrapher ... Discard your desires, Turn away from the road of covetousness and greed, Wrestle with the cravings of the concupiscent soul, ... Purity of writing proceeds from purity of heart.40

Egyptian teaching manuals, however, rarely if ever suggested a commensurability between the heart and the brush. A representative sample of how they did see the role of writing comes from a teaching manual written in 1934 by Mu ammad Kha b Ha an and Abd al-Ra m n Mu ammad Ibr h m, two graduates of the elite D r al- ul m Teachers’ College who taught at teachers’ colleges for women. They considered that writing education had ve purposes: 1. Further familiarize the students with seeing and precise observation. 2. Foster their power of judgment and their personal critique.

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3. Train the hand in the correct movement and in writing quickly with a

good script. 4. Accustom pupils to good organization, cleanliness, and coordination of their actions. 5. Plant in them the virtues of patience and perseverance.41

Other manuals from 1892 to 1938 and beyond attribute an extraordinarily similar set of bene ts to writing education. Writing teaches children skills and virtues. In some manuals, it even teaches them a “feeling of beauty” (shu r bi-al-jam l) or a “sense of the beautiful” (isti s n al-jam l).42 In no case, however, does it establish a commensurability of heart and brush, as in the early modern text by Q A mad.43 In Japan, on the other hand, references to the relation between heart and brush became a regular part of the instructions included in manuals for writing education during the 1930s. “Make your heart correct and your brush will be correct,” noted the Aoyama Teachers’ College of Tokyo Prefecture in 1938.44 Recalling the common trope of samurai warriors who, after a heated battle, tested the calmness of their spirit by picking up a brush, Kagami wrote that “in the written character, the intrinsic nature of the writer is re ected . . . when the spirit is serene, the script will be invested with a serenity of spirit, and when the movement of the heart is lively, the script will be over owing with vitality.” “There are not many things that truly re ect a person’s heart like calligraphy,” he concluded.45 Writing, in other words, was a mirror of the child’s inner self. It is not coincidental that it was in wartime Japan that writing education was transformed into an aesthetic practice. During the wartime era the number of hours allocated to art classes rose dramatically. Part of this rise was due to the inclusion of calligraphy in the newly created art section. Never had calligraphy held such a prominent position in the school curriculum, and never since has it been so prominent. The rise of calligraphy is a testimony to how important the arts were for wartime mobilization. During the war, it was not math, science, or even morality classes that mattered the most. The subjects that saw the biggest increase in wartime Japan were physical education, which physically prepared children for war, and art, which spiritually prepared them for war. Calligraphy was part of the e ort to mobilize children by enchanting them. In some ways, the double characteristic of calligraphy, both as a visual art and as a vessel

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for the national language, may have made it exceptionally well suited for this task.

Wartime Japan’s Bifurcated Modernity There were advocates of calligraphy as a “perfection of character,” to use a term common in the Japanese literature from the 1930s, in Egypt, France, Great Britain, the United States, and probably most any other modern society. It is only in Japan, however, that after disappearing from the curriculum of modern primary schools, calligraphy made a return. This may seem surprising for a modern industrial society like Japan, one that employed millions as o ce workers in the public and private o ces of a sprawling empire. How could schools a ord to spend time teaching children to write slowly and beautifully instead of participating in what educators themselves termed a hyperbusy society that demanded speed and e ciency A look at the evolution of Japanese school curricula gives the answer. When in 1941 writing became a part of the art section in Japanese primary schools, or when in 1943 it became an independent subject in secondary schools, writing in language class (kokugo) was not abolished. It continued to be taught just like before. Children wrote large, ritualized, aesthetically pleasing letters with a brush in the art or calligraphy class and small, semicursive, and functional letters with the pen or pencil in language class ( gs. 3.10 and 3.11). In this way, writing education led a double life. On the one hand lay the functionality of writing in language class. On the other was the training of the inner self pursued in the art section or in the independent calligraphy class in secondary schools. Aesthetics gained importance in the wartime era, but this newfound importance did not come at the expense of the practical needs of writing education as taught in language class. Writing did not have to be bifurcated in this way. Educators could have tried to teach both functional and aesthetic writing in a single class. Such an integrated approach to writing education had its advocates. In 1926 two calligraphy experts, tsuka Jiroku and Kasai Yoshio, argued for overcoming the division between functionality and aesthetics: “In the case of [calligraphic art, practicality should be in the background, just as in the case of practical [writing , artistic signi cance should also be included. I don’t

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FIGURES 3.10– 3.11 Pages from a 1941 primary school writing used in language class ( g. 3.10) and a 1942 primary school textbook used in art class ( g. 3.11). In language class, small letters were written in pencil on paper with squares. The circles (in red in the original) are the evaluation by the teacher. In art class, large letters were written with the brush. Monbush , Kotoba no Okeiko ni [Language practice 2 (Tokyo: Nihon shoseki, 1941), 61–62; Monbush , Shot ka sh ji 1 [Primary Level Penmanship Class I (Tokyo: Monbush , 1942), 2. Both images are from the collections of the University of Tokyo, Graduate School of Education, Faculty of Education Library.

believe that there is any necessity to be shackled by a dichotomous understanding [of these categories . Almost everything in the world, the more it gains in pragmatism the more it adds in beauty. Nothing ever exists without beauty.”46 Denying the opposition between the practical and the beautiful was not an uncommon move in wartime Japan. It echoes the well-known quest to “overcome modernity.” This was the title of a 1942 symposium of leading Japanese intellectuals, whose goals

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included overcoming the specialized spheres of knowledge that fragmented modern life. Although the idea of “overcoming modernity” has been seen as emblematic of the impossible challenge that Japanese intellectuals gave themselves in the wartime era, in the realm of writing education in modern schools, at least, it never came to pass.47 Japanese schools did not abandon modernity, if that is what we refer to when we think of functional writing, nor did they try to combine it with an education of children’s inner selves. Instead they pursued clear, rapid, and functional writing in one class while working to train the child’s heart, soul, and spirit in the other. This bifurcation between the functional and the aesthetic was a model not for overcoming modernity but for bifurcating it.48 The American occupation of Japan brought a dramatic change in the role of writing education in Japanese schools. From the perspective of the advocates of aesthetic writing whose voices permeate the previous section, this was an unmitigated disaster. Their complaints can be heard in an article by Ishibashi Keijur that appeared in an educational journal in 1956. By this time Ishibashi, an advocate of calligraphy education who, when we encountered him earlier, was explaining how the brush re ected the movement of the heart, had become the head of postwar Japanese Association of Calligraphy Education: It can be said that in Japanese education this [calligraphy was a victim subject of the loss of the war. . . . In the postwar curriculum the traditional arts su ered the most serious blow. Judo and Kendo were the rst to disappear from the curriculum. . . . The disappearance of writing with the brush from primary schools was probably unavoidable. In the new Guidelines for the Course of Study in Japanese-Language Primary Schools, writing was one of the four educational objectives, along with speaking, listening, and reading. Only writing with the pen or pencil was acceptable. Furthermore, this Course of Study was created by a committee of language experts that was established under the advice of the occupation forces. In no way does it re ect the evolution of our national language or script. It is an adaptation of the course of study (k su obu sutade) of Western language education.49

Ishibashi was referring to the removal of writing from the two locations in the wartime curriculum where its aesthetics and its training of the spirit

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had been emphasized, the art section in primary schools and the shod calligraphy class in secondary schools. Writing remained only in language class, where it was taught as a functional practice. Of course, with the exception of the period 1941 to 1947, this is how writing education had been taught since 1901, if not earlier, so Ishibashi’s claim that postwar writing education was a foreign transplant imposed by American occupation was wrong. He was right, however, that writing as an aesthetic practice was a victim of Japan’s defeat. Yet writing as an aesthetic practice was not completely excluded from the postwar curriculum. It remained as a smaller, optional part of it. This passage from the primary school curriculum of 1947 re ects some of the reservations of the policy makers who made calligraphy an optional subject: If the pupils nd writing with the brush necessary, if this need is conrmed by the school, and if writing with the pen or pencil has been assiduously pursued, then [writing with the brush can be introduced at an appropriate time in or after the fourth year of schooling. Of course, in this case writing with the brush is to be a part of language class. It is undesirable to have an [independent calligraphy class at the primary level of schooling.50

The progressive reformers who drafted postwar curricula associated writing as an aesthetic practice with wartime fascism. The discourse about training children’s spirit had been used to inculcate children with values of self-abnegation and a discipline that had served to propagate the state’s ideological agenda. To counter this, they did for writing education what they had done for much of the curriculum. They decentralized it, leaving it up to individual regions, individual schools, and even the pupils themselves to decide whether they wanted to learn writing with the brush. Even then, however, postwar policy makers erected safeguards against what they saw as potential excesses. Writing with the brush could be taught only from the fourth year of primary school and had to be done in language class, not as a separate subject. Ishibashi was displeased by this arrangement, complaining that teachers were unskilled and pupils uninterested. He pleaded: “I want our nation’s writing education not to be a dry businesslike (bijinesuchikku)

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writing education, but to be connected to a human character imbued with feelings.”51 Yet writing education in the postwar period remained a functional a air, and in most schools writing as aesthetics was left out of the school curriculum. With the postwar curriculum, the short-lived experiment with a bifurcated writing education that included instruction in both functional writing and aesthetic writing ended. Writing education was no longer tasked with enchanting schoolchildren, only with teaching them a means to communicate. It is not that calligraphy lost its power. The handwriting on a sign protesting working conditions in a coal mine could still be eloquent, wielding a charisma that a printed sign could not. Calligraphy placed in the tokonoma alcove of a Japanese-style room could still alter the mood of its occupants. But government schools no longer sought to use the power of calligraphy to train children’s hearts. The association of calligraphy with wartime nationalism had e ectively proscribed mandatory calligraphy education in postwar schools.

The Threat of Romanization and the Reform of Arabic If in postwar Japan writing as aesthetics was largely excluded from the curriculum, in Egypt it was never admitted in the rst place. This is not to say that the beauty of writing was never a concern for Egyptian educators. The o cial curriculum for 1947 is clear that “the objective of penmanship in elementary schools is that the child write with reasonable speed, with a clear handwriting, and with a touch of beauty (mas at min al-jam l).”52 Yet nowhere in the discourse on writing education, whether in o cial curricula or in teaching manuals or textbooks, does this “touch of beauty” ever expand into anything approaching writing as self-expression or as a training of the spirit. In the case of music education, we saw that the 1930s marked the rise of indigenous music education in both Japan and Egypt. Yet in the case of calligraphy, even though starting in the late 1920s Japanese educators showed considerable interest in calligraphy education, Egyptian educators never did. Neither did the Egyptian state. After disappearing as an independent subject in 1930, writing education never returned to prominence. Why

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were Egyptian educators so uninterested in drawing on Egypt’s long indigenous calligraphic tradition One answer comes from the struggles of the Arabic script at the beginning of the twentieth century. In the late 1920s the Arabic script was an object of intense debate. In 1928 Turkey, the heir to the Ottoman Empire, which had for centuries exerted nominal control over Egypt, replaced the Arabic characters that had been used to write the Turkish language with Latin characters. The Turkish Alphabet Reform was not without its supporters in Egypt. The best-known was Sal ma M s , a proli c writer and political gure who advocated replacing modern standard Arabic with colloquial Arabic and, later, with colloquial Arabic written with Latin characters. Up until the end of his life, M s believed that “the time will come when we will go the way the Turks went.”53 M s ’s arguments for Romanizing Arabic were generally similar to those by Turkish and Japanese advocates of Romanization.54 The Latin script would simplify language, increase literacy by making the written language more similar to the spoken language, force a break with antiquated traditions, and make it easier to acquire scienti c knowledge from the West. Although in both Egypt and Japan Romanization remained a fringe movement, for Egypt Turkey was a regional model of modernization that had managed to evade colonialism and was undergoing a successful economic expansion. The Turkish Alphabet Reform was understandably much more in uential in Egypt than in Japan.55 To stem the threat of the Turkish Alphabet Reform and its Egyptian supporters, the Egyptian government worked to reform the Arabic language. A pamphlet authored in 1931 by the Egyptian Ministry of Education explained that after Turkey adopted the Latin alphabet, the Egyptian monarchy focused on a reform of Arabic writing. This pamphlet, and Egyptian attempts to reform the Arabic script reform in general, can indeed be traced to a commission convened by Egypt’s King Fu’ d I in 1928, the year of Turkey’s Alphabet Reform. Instead of replacing the Arabic script, the Egyptian reform sought to improve it. Although the Turkish Alphabet Reform was cast as a threat to the Arabic language, for the Egyptian monarchy it was also an opportunity. Both Turkey and Egypt had been centers of Arabic calligraphy, but with Turkey’s abandonment of Arabic characters altogether, the Egyptian state declared

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itself the last champion of the Arabic script and all the cultural heritage that was associated with it. “We have come to say,” noted the pamphlet by the Egyptian Ministry of Education, “that even if all traces of the Arabic script were e aced from every place, it will not die in Egypt.”56 The reforms were intended to cement Egypt’s role as the standard-bearer not only of the Arabic script but of the Arab-Islamic culture that came with it. The Egyptian reforms of the Arabic script consisted of two parts. The rst standardized the rules of punctuation, introducing punctuation marks like the semicolon, parenthesis, question mark, and exclamation mark, all of them borrowed from Latin languages.57 To this day, these punctuation marks have remained a part of the Arabic language. The second reform introduced something that is unheard of today, but which temporarily transformed the appearance of Arabic letters: Arabic capital letters. Letters in the standard naskh script were adorned with a loop to make them capitals, while those in the more rapid and functional ruq a script were topped with a circum ex accent ( gs. 3.12 and 3.13). The use of capital letters was similar to English. Indeed, one of the key gures behind the reform was the British Orientalist Denison Ross.58 The rst word of a sentence was capitalized, as were the words in the title. Although they can be found in more than a dozen writing textbooks published by the Egyptian Ministry of Education in the 1930s, by the time the next set of textbooks was published in 1947, Arabic capital letters had disappeared.59 Although the introduction of capital letters into Arabic, a language that had never had any and has never had them since, may seem odd to Arabic readers today, in the early 1930s Arabic’s lack of capital letters was one of the main critiques of the Arabic script. In an English-language address to the Congress of Orientalists in Leiden in 1931, for example, Ha z A Pasha, who had just nished a term as Egyptian minister of foreign a airs, explained that the standardization of punctuation and the introduction of capital letters responded to “the two main reproaches usually brought against Arabic writing.”60 Arabic is, of course, not the only language to lack capital letters: Chinese, Japanese, and many other scripts around the world do as well. The inexistence of capital letters in Arabic appears as a lack only when viewed from within a paradigm of knowledge grounded in European languages.61 If the stated goal of Egypt’s script reforms was to make Arabic characters as functional as Latin characters, then what was the value added of

FIGURES 3.12– 3.13 Two samples from textbooks for teaching Crown Letters, both published by the Egyptian Ministry of Education in 1931. The rst taught Crown Letters for the ruq a script, which capitalized letters by adding a circum ex accent ( g. 3.12). The second taught Crown Letters for the naskh script, which capitalized letters by adding a loop above the letter ( g. 3.13). In the original, corrections by the teacher are in red. Abd al-Q dir sh r, ur f al-t j: majm at kha al-ruq a, al-karr sa 2 [Crown Letters: Collection of the ruq a script (Cairo: Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, 1931), 1; and Mu ammad Al al-Makk w , ur f al-t j: majm at kha al-naskh, al-karr sa 4 [Crown Letters: Collection of the naskh script (Cairo: Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, 1931), 1.

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Arabic characters Why not replace Arabic characters with Latin characters According to the defenders of the Arabic script, the value added of Arabic characters was their beauty. In the address cited above, Ha z A Pasha explained to his audience that the Egyptian monarchy was “anxious to preserve traditional calligraphy . . . on account of its incomparable beauty.”62 Even if the existence of the Arabic script was justi ed by its aesthetics, the government sought to make Arabic less of a burden for its users by making Arabic characters as practical as Latin characters. It is important to note that none of the sources ever claims that Arabic characters will become more practical than Latin characters, only that they will be equally practical. The ultimate justi cation for the Arabic script was not its functionality but its beauty. If beauty was central to the ontological raison d’ tre of the Arabic script, then how can we explain the lack of calligraphy classes in Egyptian school curricula Egyptian curricula could have included calligraphy, whether as an independent subject or as part of an art section, like Japanese schools. That they did not shows that Egyptian educators were primarily concerned with the functionality of writing, and that the Turkish Alphabet Reform of 1928 only made them concerned with making Arabic more functional. Beauty may have justi ed the existence of the Arabic script, but none of the sources suggests that there was any fear that Egyptians were unaware of the beauty of Arabic characters. Since the detractors of the Arabic script argued that it was not modern, the Egyptian reform of the Arabic script in 1931 sought to make Arabic characters more functional and therefore more modern. In conclusion, the e ciency of writing was central to modern schools for most of the period of this study. The central role of the school was to train e cient, modern workers, and writing was one of the core skills taught during this training. It was too important to be sacri ced for the purpose of enchanting schoolchildren, and in fact it never was. Even in wartime Japan, functional writing continued to be taught in language class. Its aestheticized twin was taught in a separate calligraphy class that was part of the art section. In Egypt, the defense of the Arabic script in the face of growing calls for Romanization occurred on the terrain of functionality, not on that of beauty. Making Arabic more functional was the best way to guarantee its survival, even if the ultimate reason for its existence was, in fact, its beauty.

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In this sense, whereas the previous chapter on music showed the uses of aesthetic education, this chapter points to its limits. A focus on the normative aspect of writing, namely, on its formal beauty, could hurt the functionality of written communication. Writing in the modern world was characterized by the successive separation of the hand from the text, rst with the “hard tip” of the pen that replaced the brush, then with the typewriter that replaced the pen, then with the word processor that replaced the typewriter, and nally with the personal computer that replaced the word processor. With each of these steps, the hand of the writer and its vibrations, failures, and emotions was more extensively divorced from the written word. If we understand legibility as the standardization of characters whose uniformity makes them easy to read, then much of the project of the modern school was about making writing more legible. At best, beauty had only a small role in the business of writing, even if it was central in justifying the existence of what were considered indigenous scripts.

Interlude Mimesis and Seduction in National Anthems

ike national cuisines, national anthems cannot exist outside of a world of other national anthems. Arjun Appadurai asks how one could have Chinese cuisine other than next to French or Indian cuisine.1 In a world where all cuisine was “Chinese,” there could be no “Chinese cuisine,” just like in a world without national anthems, a national anthem would just be an anthem. It is the international that opens up the space in which the national can exist. In other words, the national is necessarily mimetic. Not only can national anthems not exist outside of a world of national anthems, but, as Michael Geisler has noted, they are chronically intertextual. Haydn’s hymn for the Austrian emperor, for example, became the national anthem of Germany. And in cases when the melody was not borrowed, its composer sometimes was. Shortly after harmonizing a new version of the Japanese national anthem in 1880, the German musical advisor to the Japanese Navy Franz Eckert found himself in Korea, where in 1902 he wrote the melody for the Korean national anthem. The government used it for a few years, until 1910, when Japan annexed Korea and the Korean national anthem was scrapped in favor of Eckert’s earlier composition, the Japanese national anthem. A German musician like Eckert could contribute to the composition of the Japanese and Korean national anthems

L

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because national anthems are inherently mimetic. They can operate only by imitating, quoting, and engaging with other national anthems.2 Mimesis is here a type of relationship that determines the interaction between entities that we call nations. In this example about national cuisines and national anthems, the mimetic relationship did not discriminate. The mimesis of national cuisines and national anthems cut across nations, continents, and hemispheres. There are other mimetic relationships, however, that occur on a global terrain that is in ected with inequalities of power. This happens when societies on the receiving end of Western expansion imitate the wealthier and more powerful West. This type of mimesis is central to this part of this book. In addition to their inherent mimeticism, national anthems must be aesthetic. The nation cannot be reduced to nothing other than the space between nations, to the hyphen that separates the inter-national. The “national” must be seductive. How else could it propel people to action, to war, and sometimes to their own death Although national anthems are mimetic, in that they all represent a nation, if they are to enchant the imagined community of the nation they must be seductive. If the rst part of this book used two curricular subjects, music and calligraphy, to look at this process of enchantment and its limits, the second part will use drawing education to look at the interplay between mimesis and enchantment on a global stage where power was not evenly distributed. Before doing so, it will begin by paying attention to the Japanese and Egyptian national anthems. Initially, at least, the history of the Japanese national anthem was a story of mimesis. In 1869 the Englishman John William Fenton, who was teaching military band music to young samurai of the Satsuma domain, one of the two domains that had led the revolt against the Tokugawa shogunate and whose leaders now held the reins of national power, told his hosts that Japan ought to develop a national anthem if it was to gain a place in the society of nations. He suggested that they compose lyrics analogous to “God Save the King,” which he would then put to music. The band members consulted with their superiors, who agreed. yama Iwao, a nephew of the Meiji era oligarch Saig Takamori, recalls them saying: “Indeed, our country does not yet have something called a national anthem (kokka). This is regrettable. But instead of making one from scratch, I suggested that we select one from an old song.”3 The lyrics that they recommended were those of “The Reign of Our Lord” (Kimi ga yo), a

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popular song that, in a slightly di erent version, dated back to the tenthcentury anthology of poetry Kokin wakash (Collection of old and new poems). Sometimes heard in early modern Edo period ction, poetry, Noh plays, and other forms of theater, its lyrics were believed to refer to the emperor. Fenton adapted them to music, and Japan had its rst national anthem.4 In so doing, Fenton and his Japanese hosts created a song that combined Japanese-language lyrics, which were plucked out of an existing cultural heritage, and a newly composed melody that was intelligible to Western ears. The melody of “The Reign of Our Lord,” however, was displeasing to the ears of the military band members who played it. Fenton did not know Japanese, and there was widespread agreement that the melody he composed was ill-adapted to the lyrics. Yet the turbulence of the rst decade of the Meiji era delayed its revision until January 1880, when the Imperial Household Ministry took up the navy’s request for a new melody. The new version was composed by Hayashi Hiromori, the head musician of court music at the Department of Ceremonies of the Imperial Household Ministry (Kunaish Shikibury ), and harmonized by Fenton’s successor, the German musical advisor to the navy, Franz Eckert. The Department of Ceremonies was the leading representative of what is known as Japanese court music (gagaku), which dates back to the seventh century, when it spread to Japan from China via the Korean peninsula. Court music has its own instruments, scales, theories, and notation. Because of this, it might have been expected that the old lyrics of “The Reign of Our Lord” would be adapted to the conventions of gagaku in order to make Japan’s national anthem less similar to Western music. But an analysis by the musicologist Hermann Gottschewski has shown that the new version of “The Reign of Our Lord” was nothing more than a rearrangement of Fenton’s version. It put Fenton’s composition in the scale of gagaku and removed what court musicians and band members felt were painful mismatches between the lyrics and melody, but it otherwise kept much of Fenton’s rhythmic structure and melodic movements. Although it adopted some of the norms of gagaku, the anthem that the court musicians composed was hybrid. It mixed Japanese lyrics with a melody that was based on Fenton’s conception of what a Japanese anthem should sound like. This second version was therefore also mimetic, although somewhat less so than the rst.5

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There was one more version of “The Reign of Our Lord.” It can be found in the rst music textbook of modern Japan, the Compilation of Songs for Primary Schools (Sh gaku sh kash ). Commissioned by the Music Investigation Committee (Ongaku Torishirabe Gakari), this textbook was written by Luther Whiting Mason, who had been invited to serve as music advisor by his former pupil and head of the committee Izawa Sh ji. It is not surprising that the music textbook that Mason wrote in Japan was very similar to the one he had previously published in the United States. Two-thirds of the melodies came from his earlier textbook, while most of the remaining third came from popular American songs, such as “Old Lang Syne,” which were often themselves of European origin, with only a handful composed by Japanese. Although the melodies were mostly of Western origin, the lyrics came from Japanese songs. One example of this combination is the fteenth song in the collection, which was entitled “The Reign of Our Lord” and consisted of the same lyrics as the two previous versions surveyed above. In Mason’s Japanese textbook, however, the melody was neither the one by Fenton nor the one by the court musicians and Eckert, but the tune of the American song “Glorious Apollo.” Like most other melodies in this textbook, the melody for “The Reign of Our Lord” was perfectly mimetic of Western melodies.6 Of these three versions of “The Reign of Our Lord,” the second version, which was recomposed in 1880 by the court musicians and Eckert, is the one that endured ( g. II.3). It is not surprising that one of its rst known public performances was in 1888 in front of foreign delegations. In an international context in which Western nations each had their national anthem, it was only natural for the Japanese government to perform the national anthem that had, since the rst version of “The Reign of Our Lord” composed by Fenton, been meant exactly for such international gatherings. In 1889 the second version composed by Eckert and the court musicians was included as the rst song in the textbook Middle School Collection of Songs (Ch t sh kash ), replacing the melody of “Glorious Apollo” featured in Mason’s earlier textbook.7 A few years later, in 1893, the Ministry of Education decreed that “The Reign of Our Lord” was to be sung on o cial holidays and at large festivals. In one sense, the history of “The Reign of Our Lord” is part of the history of modern Japan’s entrance into a Western-centric international society. Not only was its melody largely composed by Western advisors to the Japanese government, but its very raison d’ tre was as an analogue to Western songs

FIGURE II.1– II.2 The melody for the song “The Reign of Our Lord” (Kimi ga yo) in the rst Japanese music textbook published in 1881 ( g. II.2) was an adaptation of the American song “Glorious Apollo” ( g. II.1) by Samuel Webbe (not Weber as indicated in the score). This melody was probably chosen by Luther Whiting Mason, an American advisor to Japan’s Music Investigation Committee who headed the e ort to create Japan’s rst music textbook. Within a few years, however, this version, along with the version composed by Fenton in 1869, was replaced by the version composed in the early 1880s, which is still used today. Eichberg, The High School Music Reader, 77; and Monbusho Ongaku Torishirabe Gakari, Sh kash , 17. Figure II.2 is from the collections of the University of Tokyo, Graduate School of Education, Faculty of Education Library.

FIGURE II.3 The rst printing of the Japanese national anthem, “The Reign of Our Lord” (Kimi ga yo), was in 1888. The top line reads “ceremonial of Great Japan” (dai nihon reishiki). Below it is the chrysanthemum crest of the Japanese emperor, followed by the German words meaning “Japanese hymn” and “according to an old Japanese melody.” The German text testi es to the role of Franz Eckert, the German musical advisor to the navy, who was a member of the four-person committee that revised the melody of “The Reign of Our Lord.” The other members were the court musician of the Department of Ceremonies of the Imperial Household Ministry (Kunaish Shikibury ) Hayashi Hiromori, the head of the army

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like “God Save the King.” It served to represent Japan in a society of nations in which every modern nation had a national anthem. Although a national anthem was important for representing Japan in international society, the anthem also had to have a seductive potential, what was sometimes referred to as the ability to move people’s hearts. Three years after the de nitive version of “The Reign of Our Lord” was performed in front of foreign dignitaries, the two educators Kinoshita Kunimasa and Kuroda Teiji wrote a teaching manual in which they commented on Japan’s newly minted anthem. Their comments were prefaced by a discussion of music’s power over people’s hearts, which echoed many of the themes discussed in chapter 2. Music was a source of pleasure for individuals as well as for groups, but it was also a source of power. “In times of war,” they wrote, songs can “raise the morale of millions [of men and may well wipe out a great foe.”8 Their teaching manual was part of a trend that attributed considerable power to music. The relation between music and war was directly relevant in the 1890s. The Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895 and the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905 were about to make Japan into the hegemonic power in Asia, and, at least for these educators, music had a role in galvanizing Japan’s soldiers.9 Compared to their soaring rhetoric about the power of music to “wipe out a great foe,” Kinoshita and Kuroda had relatively staid comments about Japan’s recently composed national anthem. In their 1891 manual they wrote: “Every Western country has its national anthem, and often uses it to encourage men’s hearts. In our country we still have not de nitively decided [on a national anthem , but the lyrics of The Reign of Our Lord’ will do.”10 Japan’s national anthem was a functional necessity. If for members of the Japanese government and military the anthem was primarily a means of representation, for the Japanese educators cited here it had a completely di erent function. Its role was “to encourage men’s hearts,” namely, to inspire people. What these educators wanted was to inject the

band Yotsumoto Yoshitoyo, and the head of the navy band Nakamura Suketsune. Although the lyrics were rst heard in a modern ceremony in 1870, the current melody was written in the early 1880s and was introduced to foreign delegations in 1888. It was not until 1999 that it was legally recognized as Japan’s national anthem. From the collections of the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force Tokyo Band.

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national anthem with some of the seductiveness of the Pied Piper’s ute, so that Japanese children could be instilled with national fervor and led not into the mountains but onto the battle elds of Japan’s modern wars. Unlike the history of the Japanese national anthem, which consisted of attempts to adapt the lyrics to a melody, the Egyptian national anthem was born as a melody without words. There are several narratives of its birth, some of which claim that it was composed by an Egyptian, but the only one that sources support is that of the Italian cornet player Giuseppe Pugioli. According to a French and an Italian source, in about 1871 Pugioli came to Egypt to perform in erdi’s Aida, which was commissioned by Khedive Ism l to celebrate the opening of the Suez Canal. When the performance ended, Pugioli remained in Egypt and was eventually hired as a music instructor by Lambert Juppa, the head of the khedive’s military band. It was customary for Egyptian recruits to be drilled to the sound of a drum beat that was paced by a metronome. Pugioli replaced the drum with his cornet, eventually playing short, improvised tunes to pace the march. It is said that one day, while visiting the Citadel where the recruits were training, the Khedive Ism l heard Pugioli’s tune. It pleased him so much that he made it into his personal ceremonial song, “Salutation to Our Lord” (Sal m afand na), or, in the version published by Pugioli, just “l’A endina” ( g. II.4). This story is said to mark the birth of Egypt’s rst national anthem, which was performed until the mid-1950s.11 Musical scores con rm that Pugioli’s tune for “l’A endina” ( g. II.5) is almost the same as the tune of the “Khedival Hymn” and “National Hymn” ( gs. II.6 and II.7), which appear in compilations of national anthems published in French and English.12 In most of these Western collections of national songs, the Egyptian anthem is one of the very few from Asia or Africa. Of the sixty songs in The Most Popular Songs of Patriotism published in New York in 1916, for example, only three came from Asian and African countries. In addition to the national anthems of Japan and Egypt, the Turkish anthem was also included.13 Similar patterns occur in other early twentieth-century European, American, and Australian collections of patriotic songs and national anthems.14 If we think of national anthems as representing nations in international society, namely, as making the case for the ontological existence of Japan or Egypt as self-standing members of that society, the inclusion of the Japan and Egyptian anthems in such a collection was a mark of the success of their respective national anthems.

FIGURE II.4 The cover of the score of “Salutation to Our Lord” (Sal m afand na), published as “l’A endina” in Milan. Composed by an Italian music instructor in Khedive Ism l’s army, Giuseppe Pugioli, “Salutation to Our Lord” served as Egypt’s uno cial national anthem from the 1870s to the mid-twentieth century. Although Egyptian and Western sources often attribute it to Giuseppe erdi or to Turkish or Egyptian musicians, several documents, including this one, point to Giuseppe Pugioli instead. From the British Library Board. An earlier image was provided courtesy of Hassan Kamel-Kelisli-Morali.

FIGURE II.5– II.7 The score of “l’A endina” by Giuseppe Pugioli ( g. II.5) compared to two collections of national anthems featuring Egypt’s “Khedival Hymn” in 1916 ( g. II.6) and “National Hymn” in 1943 ( g. II.7). The similarity of the melodies suggests that Pugioli’s 1870s tune was the source of the uno cial Egyptian national anthem until the 1950s, whether it was known as the “Khedival Hymn” or the “National Hymn” in English, or as “Salutation to Our Lord” (Sal m afand na) or “Salutation to the King” (al-Sal m al-malak ) in Arabic. This melody did not have broadly accepted lyrics. While “l’A endina” was written in honor of Khedive Ism l, the “Khedival Hymn” refers to Khedive Abbas Hilmi (1892–1914), and the “National Hymn” refers to King Farouk (1936–1952). These di erences illustrate the critique of Egyptian nationalists, who argued that this tune was an anthem for the monarch, not for the nation. Image of “l’A endina” is from the British Library Board. An earlier image was provided courtesy of Hassan Kamel-Kelisli-Morali. “Khedival Hymn” is from The Most Popular Songs of Patriotism (New York: Hinds, Hayden, and Eldredge, 1916), 147; “Egypt: National Hymn” is from National Songs of the Allies and Other Lands: With English Words (Melbourne: Allan, 1943), 18.

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(continued )

Despite its success in representing Egypt on the international stage, however, “Salutations to Our Lord” was unpopular among Egyptian educators and bureaucrats. As a melody without words, it was considered incapable of galvanizing people’s hearts. Yet in the aftermath of the 1919 nationalist revolt against British rule, various attempts were made to remedy this situation. One suggestion was to give the melody lyrics. In 1920 a commission headed by the soon-to-be minister of education Ja far W l announced a competition for poets to write the lyrics of a national anthem, with a top prize of 100 Egyptian pounds. Many participated, and Egypt’s

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FIGURE II.5– II.7

(continued )

leading early twentieth-century poet, A mad Shawq , is said to have won with an entry that began “Sons of Egypt your place is ready It is waiting for you to prevail.” Yet this song did not seem to garner a consensus, for it was never adopted as Egypt’s national anthem, and “Salutation for the King” continued to be used but was criticized for its want of lyrics and the lack of emotion that it elicited.15 By the time of the Congress of Arabic Music in 1932, Al al-J rim, a bureaucrat from the Egyptian Ministry of Education, suggested that a national commission of poets, composers, and singers meet to compose a “national anthem” (nash d mm).16 This also does not seem to have borne

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any fruit, because a few years later the Ministry of Education asked its head inspector of music education, Mahm d A mad al- ifn , to research the introduction of “national songs” (al-nash d al-qawm ) in Egyptian schools. Al- ifn ( g. II.8) had become the ministry’s rst inspector of music in 1930, the year he returned from Germany after earning a doctorate in music from Humboldt University in Berlin. Like the head of Japan’s Music Investigation Committee, Izawa Sh ji, some half a century earlier, al- ifn became responsible for establishing most aspects of music education in Egyptian schools. He was the secretary general of the Congress of Arab Music in 1932 and president of its Commission on Music Education. And as Egypt’s rst inspector of music, he wrote the rst music curricula for Egyptian schools and supervised the training of music teachers.17 When asked to research the introduction of national songs in Egyptian schools, al- ifn reported that Egypt did not have a real national anthem because “Salutation to Our Lord” was a melody without words. There had been various attempts to nd lyrics for this melody, he wrote, but none of them became o cial, or merited becoming o cial. “Salutation to Our Lord” “has an important role to play in cheering and greeting [the king , but it cannot serve as a national anthem which sets the heart ablaze and

FIGURE II.8 Ma m d A mad al- ifn (1898–1975), secretary general of the 1932 Congress of Arab Music and director of music inspection at the Egyptian Ministry of Education. A mad A iyat All h, Taqw m al-ta l m (N.p.: D r al-Hil l, 1934), 73.

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causes enthusiasm of the soul.”18 Egypt needed not only a national anthem but one that had the aesthetic power to arouse nationalist fervor. Al- ifn proposed separating “ceremonial songs” (nash d rasm ) like “Salutation to Our Lord” that were sung at formal events from “national songs” (nash d qawm ) that were meant to set “the heart ablaze.”19 Yet it was not until the monarchy was overthrown in 1952 that the melody of “Salutation to Our Lord” was renamed before being altogether replaced by the martial anthem “Wa All h zam n y sil ” (It’s been a long Time, O weapon of mine), which was passionately sung by the Egyptian diva Umm Kulth m.20 Although “Salutation to Our Lord” was successful in

FIGURE II.9 The rst page of a 1941 music textbook for primary schools published by the Japanese Ministry of Education, featuring the lyrics to Japan’s national anthem “Kimi ga yo” against the backdrop of the Imperial Palace. By the end of World War II, some people considered “Kimi ga yo” to be a symbol of the militarism, nationalism, and dei cation of the emperor that led Japan into war. In this version of the textbook, the postwar American occupation authority censored the lyrics and background image with dashed lines, which are red in the original. Monbush , ed., Uta no hon j [The book of songs I , rev. ed. (1941; Tokyo: H bunkaku, 1982), 1. From the collections of the University of Tokyo, Graduate School of Education, Faculty of Education Library.

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representing Egypt on the international stage, its perceived failure to enthuse people’s hearts doomed it long before the end of the Egyptian monarchy allowed for its replacement.21 In Japan “The Reign of Our Lord” had better success. Although it went through several versions, and although it initially encountered only tepid support, by the mid-1890s it was established as Japan’s de facto national anthem and was regularly sung in schools, at public events, and in international venues like the Olympic Games. It was one of the practices that were used to fuel patriotic fervor in wartime Japan and, as a consequence, was banned from school books during the American occupation. It was reintroduced in schools after the occupation ended and was eventually legally enshrined as Japan’s national anthem in 1999. But to this day there are teachers who, because of its wartime association with militarism, fascism, and colonialism, refuse to sing it in school ceremonies. Both the Japanese national anthem and the Egyptian national anthem claimed to represent the nation, whether it be the Japanese nation or the Egyptian nation. In this regard, they largely succeeded. Both were featured in international collections of national anthems, and both served in o cial functions. Sometimes they failed to e ectively represent the nation, such as when the Egyptian anthem was associated not with the Egyptian nation but with its monarchy, or when the Japanese anthem was associated not with the Japanese nation but with its wartime militarism. Among non-Western national anthems, however, the Japanese and Egyptian anthems were two of the most successful, as attested to in collections of national anthems that contained few others from outside the Western world. They represented the nation in an international realm in which national anthems imitated one another, even as each claimed to have a unique association to a single nation. The potency of an anthem, however, is measured not just by what it represents but by its power to echo within individuals. To do so it must succeed not only on a representational but on an aesthetic register. Educators were particularly attuned to the aesthetics of national anthems. They had to become mediums of seduction that could pluck the strings of their listeners’ hearts, making them want to be English, Egyptian, or Japanese rather than anything else. It was not su cient for national anthems to represent the nation. They had to contain the aesthetic component that would help to breathe life into the torpid body of the modern nation.

4 The Mimetic Moment The Age of Global Mimesis and Representational Mimesis

The world can be described as an agglomeration of drawings. So if one wants to describe this world they need to learn how to draw. In other words, drawing is something with which, if [its scale is enlarged, it can describe everything that is under the heavens, and if [its scale is shrunk, it can describe the microcosm. There is nothing that does not rely on drawing in order to be expressed. In other words, if one is going to live in this world, they cannot be without knowledge of drawing . . . so naturally in primary schools [children should comprehensively learn the skill of drawing. —Kusabe Sannosuke, 1893

hen national anthems in Japan and Egypt imitated national anthems in other parts of the world, they were performing one type of mimesis, which I will refer to as global mimesis. National anthems were not the only ones engaging in global mimesis. At the beginning of primary school curricula in Japan and Egypt, starting in the mid-1870s, drawing curricula in Japan, Egypt, France, Great Britain, the United States, and most every modern educational system were virtually indistinguishable from one another. This global mimesis is the rst type of mimesis discussed in this chapter.

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Unlike national anthems, however, drawing education invites a second type of mimesis. Songs do not commonly imitate nature, at least not directly. A song may imitate the sound of birds, but national anthems do not usually do this. Drawing education, at least the type of drawing taught in schools, sometimes has the child imitate an object. This could simply be the textbook, or it could be the scene outside of the schoolhouse window. When in the epigraph above Kusabe Sannosuke refers to the world as “an agglomeration of drawings,” he is referring to an agglomeration of drawings that mimetically represent the world.1 Since this second type of mimesis is concerned with representing the world faithfully, it will be referred to as representational mimesis. The remaining chapters of this book use drawing education to explore these two mimetic relationships, one between societies on the receiving end of Western expansion and the West, and the other between the child who draws and the object the child is drawing. The three chapters in this second part proceed chronologically. This chapter concerns the approximately two decades that followed the introduction of drawing education in Japanese and Egyptian schools. This period is referred to as the mimetic moment because it saw both global and representational mimesis. The mimetic moment was characterized by both an imitation of drawing education that emanated from the global center of power, which in this case was England, and a concern not with the child’s creativity but with his or her ability to faithfully imitate the object of the drawing. As noted in chapter 5, children continued to imitate the textbook or the scene outside of their window. But in 1888 in Japan and 1894 in Egypt, drawing curricula gradually began to introduce national forms of art that were speci c to Japan and Egypt. For the rst time in modern schools, drawing textbooks in Japan and Egypt ceased to be completely similar to drawing textbooks in France, Great Britain, and other modern societies and, as a consequence, also ceased to resemble each other. The introduction of national art into school curricula marked the entrance of aesthetics, in this case a national aesthetics, into the school curriculum. It also signaled the end of a global mimesis. In chapter 6, the second shoe falls. Representational mimesis also disappeared. Children were no longer asked to faithfully represent the textbook or the outside world. Instead, a global movement known as the free drawing education movement asked them to express themselves

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beautifully and creatively. Drawing was no longer about the faithful representation of the object of drawing but about the creative expression of the subject who was making the drawing, which in this case was the child. Much like music and calligraphy education discussed in the rst part of this book, this focus on aesthetics, expression, and subjectivity was part of an e ort to train the child’s heart. The di erence with drawing education is that, unlike music and calligraphy education, it makes it possible to think about the relationship of aesthetic education to both global mimesis and representational mimesis. Although the theme of enchantment has been central to this book, it is largely absent from this chapter. In the initial decades of the modern school, drawing education was a functional skill, not a creative one. Like mathematics or mapmaking, it served to foster industrial and military skills, not to teach art. This was true for the British South Kensington School of drawing education and for the modern school systems across the world that were modeled on it. The concern was not with pleasure, attraction, beauty, or creativity but with accuracy, precision, and functional utility. In chapter 5 the introduction of a national art will help to make the nation into an object of attraction, and in chapter 6 drawing education will become primarily concerned with aesthetics, enchantment, art, beauty, and creativity. In this way, drawing education will complete its trajectory from a functional instrumental skill to an aesthetic art with normative goals. This chapter describes the mimetic moment in Japanese and Egyptian drawing education. Before I trace the global spread of the South Kensington School of drawing education and the three methods of mimetic drawing that spread in its wake, however, a few paragraphs will set the scene by introducing two ways that the world could be imitated. The rst is from a compilation of didactic tales for Japanese primary school children from 1891, which includes a few short stories about the extraordinary feats of the legendary eighteenth-century painter Maruyama kyo. One of these is about kyo’s drawing of a wild boar: [Hoping to draw a sleeping boar, kyo inquired with a woman selling rewood. She answered that wild boars could often be seen in Yase village. kyo begged her to let him know when she saw a boar. One day, the woman came running to tell him that in the bamboo grove behind her

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house a boar was sleeping. kyo immediately took his drawing utensils and with the woman went to the place, where a large boar was sleeping. There, kyo contemplated the boar and painted it, then warmly thanked the woman and returned [home . A few days later, chance brought an old hunter from Kurama Mountain to kyo’s home. kyo showed him the painting of the boar from a few days earlier. The old hunter said as follows: “This is not a sleeping boar, but a sick boar. The reason is that the boar is a savage beast, even when it is sleeping the hair on its back is standing. This image represents a sick boar.” Later, when kyo inquired with the woman selling rewood, she told him that two or three days after [he drew it the boar had died at the same place.2

This is an anecdote of perfect optical mimesis. The painter does not interpret the boar. He does not even understand it. What makes him legendary is his faithfulness to what he is representing. In this case the reality of the painting comes from its verisimilitude to the object of representation.3 The second anecdote comes from the editorial comment to an article that appeared in an Egyptian journal of education in 1928. The story is said to have originated in an American journal of education, and its protagonists are American children. Yet the anecdote must have struck the journal’s Egyptian editor, ab b Jurj , a well-known educator and professor at the American University in Cairo, for he paraphrased it as follows: With regard to the connection to the natural world, we recall an event that we recently came across in an American magazine. One of the inspectors of drawing in one of the large American cities visited a primary school and asked the children of a beginner class to draw a chicken. His astonishment was great when he saw most of the pupils drawing slaughtered chickens with their heads dangling, hung by their legs from hooks at the grocery stores. So he excused these poor little boys for they had never seen a chicken other than at the grocery store or at the butcher’s, and they did not have the opportunity to connect directly with nature.4

The children’s drawings were true to the object of representation, at least to the object as they knew it. That was not, however, the reality that the drawing inspector, and we can also assume the editor of the Egyptian journal, wanted. They wanted the children to be “true to nature”—not to

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nature as they saw it but to nature as the educators imagined it. Children were to represent chicken according to the ostensibly true nature of chicken as a species.5 The two images of the boar and the chicken do not imply a di erence between Egypt and Japan, or between 1891 and 1928. They only demonstrate what E. H. Gombrich wrote half a century ago, that “there never was an image that looked like nature; all images are based on conventions.”6 If these two images are comparable, it is in terms of their di ering representations of reality. While the image of the boar conceived of drawing as an exercise in perfect mimesis, the image of the chicken was not faithful to any one particular object but to the alleged nature of chickens. If the image of the boar was like a photograph, the image of the chicken was like a sketch in an encyclopedia entry on the subject of chickens. Each revealed a particular aspect of reality. Most scholars of aesthetics would expand the de nition of reality even further. They would argue that every image, including abstract and nonobjective images, represents some aspect of reality.7 Geometric drawings of symmetrical shapes and ornaments are just as realistic as pictorial drawings of fauna and ora. They only represent a di erent reality. From this perspective, what we need to ask is not whether an image represents reality, but what reality it is representing. In the rst Japanese curriculum for modern primary schools in 1873 and the rst Egyptian curriculum for modern primary schools in 1874, drawing education represented reality in two ways. The rst was geometric drawing. Geometry was devoid of an external referent. It did not represent an external reality, like a tree, but an internal realm of symmetry and order that was particularly well suited to the conditions of modern life in the 1870s. The second was pictorial drawings, which did have children draw a tree. This was not the tree outside of their window, however, but the image of the tree in their textbook. By imitating the image in the textbook, children were meant to absorb its techniques and contents. Yet by the turn of the century this pictorial representation of the textbook became an object of critique, in Japan, Egypt, and elsewhere, and was soon replaced by the pictorial representation of the outside world. Children came to draw a tree from the physical tree outside of their window. The objective was to teach them to faithfully capture empirical experiences conveyed by their senses. These three methods of representation each imitated the world in a particular way, and each had its purpose.

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The Global Spread of the South Kensington School of Drawing Education In May 1851 the Great Exhibition opened in London. By the time it closed its doors ve months later, British designers and educators were already taking stock of its accomplishments and failures. It had been a grandiose display of British industry and imperial possessions that was visited by nearly one- fth of the British public and put on display Britain’s global empire for an international audience to see. At the same time, it had conrmed what some British artists and designers already knew. The design of British manufactures did not appeal to a public that preferred French designs. The solution suggested by the exhibition’s chief organizer, Henry Cole, was to reform the British system of drawing education. On the South Kensington corner of the exhibition grounds in Hyde Park, Cole founded a school of drawing. Its method of drawing education, known as the South Kensington method, taught linear drawings based on geometric designs as opposed to human gures or landscapes. The geometric drawings of the South Kensington School were such a success that they came to dominate drawing education curricula until the rst half of the twentieth century, not only in Britain but across the world. The story of the global spread of geometric drawing in France, the United States, Canada, Brazil, Australia, Japan, and elsewhere has been told in numerous books and articles.8 It is the story of drawing education put to the service of industrial capitalism in the age of imperialism.9 The South Kensington method of drawing education was introduced to British public schools in 1853 and within a few decades became a global phenomenon. It spread to Massachusetts in the 1870s, where the headmaster of the Leeds School of Art, Walter Smith, became state director of art education and principal of the New England School of Fine Arts; to the province of Ontario in Canada in the 1880s, where Walter Smith and others argued that the South Kensington system could increase Canada’s exports of manufactured goods; to South Australia in the 1890s, where an alliance of educators, manufacturers, and artists contributed to making the South Kensington system a compulsory part of the school curriculum; and to Brazil, where the deep impression made by Smith’s exhibit of children’s drawings from Massachusetts at the Centennial Exhibition of 1876 encouraged Brazilian educators to adopt his methods as a more popular

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and practical alternative to the elitist in uence of the ne arts. In this way, the linear and geometric drawings of the South Kensington method came on the heels of the global spread of industrial capitalism, feeding its demand for better-designed manufactured goods. It is not surprising that the rst Western drawing textbook translated into Japanese was in uenced by the South Kensington method of drawing education. In 1871 Kawakami Kan, a leading expert of Western-style painting at the former Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books (bansho shirabesho), translated the British manual The Illustrated Drawing Book by Robert Scott Burn. This manual was published by the Japanese Ministry of Education as a Guide to Western Drawing (Seiga shinan) and used to train drawing teachers in the newly established national school system (see gs. 4.1– 4.2).10 Kaneko Kazuo has shown that compared to the South Kensington drawing manuals, which focused exclusively on geometric and linear drawing techniques, Burn’s manual took the leeway to include landscapes, still-life paintings, and drawings of the human body. In this sense, Burn’s manual cannot unambiguously be referred to as a Western, European, or even a British manual but was a popular and eclectic version of the manuals that were used in British schools. Like other manuals from this period, however, it was structured by the conventions of geometry. Children began by drawing straight lines, the foundation of the South Kensington method.11 They then moved on to drawing the human body or landscapes. Even then, however, the manual superimposed straight lines onto the human face to show its proportions, and diagonal lines onto the landscape to show a one-point perspective in which remote objects vanished into the distance. Not only was this obsession with straight lines, characteristic of the South Kensington School, translated into Kawakami’s manual, it was adopted by Japanese bureaucrats and educators when they began to write their own textbooks. In a typical textbook published by the Japanese Ministry of Education in 1878, the rst dozen images were all encased in straight lines in order to show proportions and perspective.12 Although born in Britain, the South Kensington method and its rectilinear geometric conventions had made their way into the classrooms of modern Japan. The British South Kensington method of drawing education also became the model for French politicians and industrialists. In France, as in Britain, insecurities about the loss of national power were re ected in discourses on drawing education. Starting with the Great Exhibition in

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FIGURES 4.1– 4.2 The teaching manual in gure 4.1, The Illustrated Drawing Book, is a popular British drawing manual from 1852. Its translation, Seiga shinan (Guide to Western drawing) ( g. 4.2), was published by the Japanese Ministry of Education in 1871. It was the rst drawing manual intended for modern Japanese schools. The in uence of the South Kensington method of drawing education is visible in these and most other drawing manuals from this period, whether in Europe, the Americas, Egypt, Japan, or Australia. Almost all began by teaching children to draw straight lines, which were fundamental to the geometric shapes and linear drawings that followed. The objective was not to teach children art but to prepare them for modern professions like industrial design, urban planning, engineering, and medicine. Burn, The Illustrated Drawing-Book, 10 (from the collections of the Harvard Fine Arts Library); and Kawakami, Seiga shinan, 4 (from the collections of the National Diet Library).

London, a cacophony of voices began to argue that the decline in France’s industrial exports was due to the decline in the prestige of its decorative arts. A report to the French government alleged that at the opening of the Berlin Museum of Decorative Arts the German crown prince had declared that improving the decorative arts would enable Germany, which had

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defeated France militarily in 1870, to defeat it “on the battle eld of commerce and industry.”13 The question was what kind of drawing education would allow French children to achieve leadership in industrial design. The rst half of the nineteenth century had seen French educators divided between advocates of teaching the human gure and advocates of teaching geometry.14 By the 1860s the success of the South Kensington School cemented the victory of the advocates of geometric drawing, which became the standard method of teaching in French schools. One French textbook that was grounded in the geometric drawing of the South Kensington School was the primary school teaching manual by Jean Carot, The Key of Drawing (La clef du dessin) (1869). Its rst shape consisted of “straight lines, horizontal and parallel.”15 This was followed by various geometric shapes and eventually by geometric ornaments. When in the late 1860s the Egyptian government created a school system to train a small cadre of government bureaucrats, it used these French drawing textbooks. An 1888 curriculum prescribed the “Carot method” for government primary (ibtid iyya) schools, almost certainly referring to the work of Jean Carot mentioned here ( g. 4.3).16 In this way, Japanese and Egyptian manuals that were modeled on British and French manuals, respectively, came to share in the same global paradigm that had originated in Europe and, as a consequence, resembled each other without ever having enjoyed direct contact with each other. If within Europe the South Kensington School of drawing education was justi ed as a way to catch up with the manufacturing prowess of British or French rivals, for non-Western societies the most urgent imperative was to compete with European imperial powers. Educators were clear about its purpose. The Japanese teacher Got Yoshiyuki, much like Kusabe Sannosuke cited at the beginning of this chapter, wrote that “if we see that the recent [global competition in wealth and strength is nothing other than a competition in industrial techniques [. . . we will understand that this subject [drawing is much more important [than other subjects .”17 In other words, Got told his countrymen that they should embrace drawing education not as a frivolous education in art but as a technology that would prepare their children for manufacturing competitive industrial products. The South Kensington School answered a quest for “wealth and strength” that was particularly crucial for non-Western societies that feared for their own independence like Japan and Egypt.18

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FIGURE 4.3 As in other textbooks modeled on the South Kensington School of drawing education, the rst illustrations in Jean Carot’s La clef du dessin taught the principles of the straight line. This textbook was recommended by the 1888 and 1891 Egyptian primary school curricula. Carot n.d., 1. ictoria and Albert Museum, London.

Geometric Representations Geometry was at the core of early drawing curricula in both Japanese and Egyptian modern schools. They almost all began with the straight line, the foundation of almost every curriculum or textbook that followed the South Kensington method. In Egypt, the curriculum of 1892 had children draw proportional lines, angles, geometric shapes like triangles and squares, and ower and star patterns during their rst three years of schooling, followed by more advanced techniques like shadowing, geometric, curves taken from tree trunks, and, in their fourth year, tree leaves.19 This was typical not only in Egypt but in Japan and in every other drawing curriculum in uenced by the South Kensington School. Although some authors have argued that early modern in uences a ected drawing education in Japan, and although it would also be possible to claim that the importance of geometry in early modern Egypt a ected modern Egyptian educational curricula, these in uences were incorporated into the template provided by the South Kensington School.20 Even

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though Japan and Egypt had very little contact with each other, in the 1870s and 1880s drawing education curricula in the two countries are lled with a similar array of geometric shapes, starting with the straight line. Geometry, and more speci cally the straight line, ushered in dramatic changes in modern societies, starting with urban planning. In 1889, for example, the in uential iennese writer on city planning Camillo Sitte defended the appearance of his ienna against the “fanatics of the straight line” whose sole preoccupation was with encouraging the ow of tra c by creating “straight-lined streets” and what Sitte termed “geometry man.”21 More recently, in discussing how the built environment orders daily life, David Harvey referred to Baron Haussmann and Le Corbusier as the instigators of a “tyranny of the straight line.”22 Haussmann famously destroyed the tortuous streets of medieval Paris to replace them with the straight, symmetrical boulevards of the modern city. His principles soon spread beyond Paris, ienna, and Western Europe, to Istanbul and Cairo. In these cities and many others, modern streets came to rely on geometric principles and ways of ordering space that were taught in drawing classes in primary schools. The geometric structuring of space had practical consequences. In Ottoman Istanbul, for example, Suraiya Faroqhi describes how straight roads facilitated the ow of wheeled tra c, making it possible for suppliers and re ghters to quickly reach their targets.23 In Cairo, geometry enabled the modern state to police its urban spaces. Khaled Fahmy has described how in 1850s and 1860s Cairo, decrees mandated “that every e ort should be made to straighten old streets and to make new streets absolutely straight.”24 The new streets not only helped the circulation of wheeled tra c but also contributed to creating an order that gave the state unprecedented power. The tortuous streets of early modern Paris or Cairo were di cult to map and even more di cult to police and control. This was not the case for the modern city, which left fewer hidden, sinewy, and disordered spaces. It was this transparency to the gaze of the state and this abdication of power to a centralized authority that so concerned opponents of the straight line like Sitte and Harvey. Proponents of the straight line, on the other hand, worked to inscribe it not only in the boulevards and buildings of the modern city but, with drawing education, in the hands and eyes of its children. More than a functional tool that was useful for engineers, urban planners, and mapmakers,

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geometric drawing was a technology for seeing or, as Anne Sauvageot has written, “a machine for seeing.” In D’Enfert and Lagoutte’s work on the history of drawing education in France, geometric drawing is seen as particularly suited to the positivist climate at the beginning of the Third Republic in the 1870s and 1880s, which imagined a world grounded in an objective geometric order.25 For Brinkley Messick, just as rectilinear streets replaced curvilinear street patterns, so too did parallel lines of text replace the spiral texts of older Islamic documents and rows of children in modern classrooms replace the circle of students in kutt b mosque schools.26 Geometry created the simple, clear, rectilinear order that became a model for ordering the world. Under its in uence, curved streets came to look crooked.27 In the age of industrial capitalism and the centralized state, it was not only the spaces of the city that were geometrically ordered. The temporal rhythms of life were rearranged in a geometric order. The geometric division of the clock into hours, minutes, and seconds played a much greater role in modern life than in a world in which precise, mechanical, geometric clocks were rare. One example comes from the autobiography of Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa, the younger brother of one of Japan’s early modern domainal lords whom we already encountered in the chapter about music. In 1871, at the age of eleven, Kikkawa was sent to study in Boston, where he stayed with an American family. When they asked him what time he went to bed, he remained speechless, for “it had never occurred to me to x the time for going to bed; I believe I went to bed when I felt sleepy or approximately when every body [sic went to sleep by common consent. The idea of keeping time was revelation to me.”28 Before coming to America, Kikkawa’s time consciousness was dependent either on his body, which became sleepy, or on the communal consensus of those present. The idea of uniformly and mechanically measuring time with a clock came as a shock. Geometric analogies can be found not only in the personal time of an individual’s sleeping hours but in the time of historical narratives. This is illustrated by Harvey’s other tyrant of the straight line, Le Corbusier, who, approximately one century after Haussmann, wrote: “Man walks straight because he has a goal; he knows where he is going. He has decided to go somewhere and walks there straight. The donkey zigzags.”29 The straight line here refers to the utopia of modernity, which posits a passage from a dark past to a better future.30 In both the story of Kikkawa and this quote from Le Corbusier, modernity brings with it new temporal rhythms.

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Although these are not explicitly linked to geometry or geometric drawing education, they exhibit a geometric and linear understanding of time that makes modernity’s restructuring of time an accomplice to geometry’s division of space.

Pictorial Representations of the Textbook After teaching children to draw geometric shapes, the same drawing education textbooks taught them how to draw objects such as a vase or an ax from a textbook. Even then, however, an actual vase or ax was never brought into the classroom. Instead, children learned to draw them by copying a master image in a textbook. Drawing education represented not an outside object but a representation of that object. It eschewed the direct representation of the outside world in favor of an intertextual representation of the model in the textbook. When drawing began to be taught in modern schools in Japan and Egypt in the 1870s, copying from a textbook (ringa in Japan; rasm na ar in Egypt) was essential to teaching young children to visualize forms. The 1886 and 1900 Japanese primary school regulations made it clear that drawing taught children to “perceive common forms and draw them correctly.”31 Teaching manuals similarly encouraged imitation, usually of an image from a copybook. In 1887, for example, Homori Kingo, a leading educator who taught at the Tokyo and Fukuoka teachers’ colleges and served as principal at several other schools, noted that younger children should learn to draw just like they learned to write, namely, without any need to reference a model outside of the textbook.32 In Egypt, curricula up to and including the 1916 curriculum for nonelite primary schools mandated that “the important points in the lesson should be clari ed by drawing simple shapes on the board while allowing the students to copy them.”33 In 1892 asan Tawf q, a former teacher at the D r al- ul m Teachers’ College who spent time teaching in Germany, described how “drawings by youths should resemble the original models and be clean,” where the “original model” was the drawing in the textbook or on the board. He then concluded that “by straining themselves to match the original model, [children are taught to imitate faithfully and to recognize facts.”34 Until the turn of the century in Japan and about 1930 in Egypt,

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drawing education was largely an exercise in the imitation and internalizing of a model in a textbook or on the board. For centuries, copying masterworks, like memorizing classics, had been the principal heuristic method for acquiring knowledge. This was true in both early modern Egypt, where formal education was based on the memorization of a single paradigmatic text, the Quran, and in Japan, where it consisted of learning textbooks grounded in another paradigmatic text, the Confucian classics. In both cases, and in Europe and other early modern societies as well, the importance of memorization re ected an attitude toward the past. Although for its modern critics memorization was a mechanical process of acquisition and storage, for its practitioners it was the remediation of a paradigmatic text in the context of a person’s life, as a way to make sense of one’s lived experience.35 In Europe, this dichotomy was expressed in the opposition between the neoclassicists and the romantics. Art Berman describes it in this way: “Whereas the term commonly applied to the visual and written arts by the neoclassicists was imitation— a praiseworthy compliment indicating the artist’s essential relation to nature (holding up a mirror to nature)—for the romantics this term comes to suggest mere copying.”36 The emphasis that early modern Egyptian and Japanese schools placed on copying and reciting these texts re ected the importance that these societies placed on the internalization of foundational texts that could serve as a lifelong compass for mediating one’s experiences of the world.37 Soon enough, however, educators, thinkers, and policy makers began to critique drawing as an imitation of things. When in his 1892 manual asan Tawf q exhorted children toward “faithfulness in imitation,” he used the word taql d to refer to “imitation.” At that very moment, taql d was coming under the critique of Islamic reformists.38 Mu ammad Abduh, the leading late nineteenth-century Islamic reformer and Grand Mufti of Egypt from 1899 to his death in 1905, contrasted imitation (taql d) to independent inquiry (ijtih d) into the sources of the law. Until the middle centuries of Islam, he argued, scholars of Islamic law had used rational judgment in interpreting the spirit of the law. Thereafter, the gates of independent inquiry were closed, and scholars became occupied with mindless imitation. This led the Islamic world to refuse innovation, which made it fall behind the West in scienti c and technological progress.

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Abduh’s critique of imitation was applied to drawing education by none other than Sa ad aghl l, the foremost political gure of early twentiethcentury Egypt who was to become the leader of the Egyptian Revolution of 1919. In 1907, shortly after becoming minister of public instruction, aghl l wrote a memorandum about drawing in which he critiqued what he considered servile imitation: “Without neglecting the precious bene ts which geometry and linear drawing provide for ornamentation, it seems at the very least useful to pay some attention to coloring and to make use of the admirable models that nature provides us, particularly in the plant kingdom. If they continue to draw according to arti cial models, even the best students will probably end up as nothing other than copyists.”39 aghl l’s opposition of arti ce and nature signaled an epistemic shift in how schools taught children to experience the world. This was the difference between modernist thinkers like Abduh and aghl l, on the one hand, and Tawf q and Homori, on the other. If the latter saw imitation as a didactic technique for acquiring the knowledge of a paradigmatic text, Abduh and aghl l saw it as a form of passive imitation of tradition that had prevented their society from modernizing like the West.

Pictorial Representations of the Empirical World Like other epistemic shifts in drawing education, this empirical turn was global. French manuals also spoke of the need for children to draw “real forms” (formes réelles), while a British drawing manual from 1906 was one of many that spoke of the “absolute necessity for children being taught to draw only from actual objects—not from representations of such made either by the teacher or another.”40 The Egyptian primary school curriculum of 1930 reiterated the injunctions of aghl l’s 1907 memorandum, swapping its critical stance against copying arti cial models into a prescriptive one for representing “the real object” (al-shay al- aq q ): “It is very important that pupils draw from the real objects themselves and not from printed models or by copying what the teacher draws on the board.”41 “Real objects” included natural models such as oranges or tree leaves and manufactured models such as vases or ags ( g. 4.4). These suggestions were shared by most every teaching manual from the era, which noted the importance of reproducing the thing itself rather than its copy. “The most

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important aim of drawing in primary schools,” according to an Egyptian guide for primary school teachers, “is to accustom children to observe things for what they really are and to express what they see correctly and precisely.”42 The verisimilar representation of the world was becoming a form of moral truth. Although by the late nineteenth century Japanese higher education had largely adopted empirical experimentation and the verisimilar representation of the world, younger children were still taught to imitate a static model. It was only at the turn of the century that Japanese teaching manuals began to suggest that drawings that copied the textbook (ringa)

FIGURE 4.4 A drawing class at the Inbaba Teachers’ College for lower primary schools in 1939. Although this image does not depict primary school pupils, it illustrates the basic elements of drawing the “real object.” Instead of copying drawings from a textbook, the students at this teachers’ college represent the vase and swan placed on a small table at the front of the class. In the background are representations of arti cial “real objects,” such as a pitcher or a book, which were taught in Egyptian primary schools in this period, but also images of Egyptian villagers, which were not. The images of villagers are concerned not with the textual object but with the experience of the place they referred to as Egypt. Like the walls of the studio in this photograph, the broader art world was deeply invested in nationalist representations of everything from the peasant to the Sphinx in Egypt, but these methods of drawing were not taught to children until the 1940s. Ministry of Education Museum, Cairo, Egypt.

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should be supplemented with verisimilar drawings of real objects (shaseiga). At this same moment, a new term began to appear in educational literature on drawing: “the real object” (jitsubutsu). This term made its rst appearance in o cial curricula in 1900 and was accompanied by an entire coterie of new terms intended to encourage the empirical apprehension of the material world.43 From the 1890s to the 1910s, dozens of teaching manuals referred to the need to “observe” (kansatsu), “perceive” (kanshu), “come in contact with” (sessuru), or “draw” (kakashimuru) the “real object.” Whether a lemon, an apple, or a co ee pot, the accurate reproduction of the “real object” became central to drawing education.44 For the rst time, young children were made to empirically observe material objects in the world before mimetically reproducing them as precisely as possible. In reality, however, this was not so much a rejection of imitation as a shift in the object of imitation. Rather than the paradigmatic work, whether a text or an image, it was the outside world that became the teacher.45 Drawing education became a method for observing, naming, and representing the outside world. Instead of sitting in a classroom and copying geometric shapes or models from a textbook, children were sent out into the world in order to draw the world. In a 1928 editorial comment in the Journal of Modern Education (Majallat al-tarbiya al- ad tha), the same editorial that contained the earlier story about drawing chickens, the editors suggested sending children to draw in a garden, a zoo, and a museum: “ drawing a ower, tree, or plants growing in the garden is better than copying them from books, models, or drawings; and drawing a gira e, an elephant, or a parrot at the zoo is better than imitating them as such from books, and drawing ornaments from their original models on magni cent buildings, in museums, or at expos, and then using them as ornaments to decorate home furniture is better than copying them dully and keeping them in a drawing workbook.”46 The belief in the heuristic value of the outside world is not unique to this period or to this text. In the same journal, a reference to a passage from Rousseau’s in uential treatise on education, Emile, suggests that it was probably one of the sources that inspired the quote above. Rousseau has the protagonist tell his wife that he wants his child to “have no other master than nature and no other model than real objects. I want him to have before his eyes the original itself and not the paper representing it, to sketch a house from a house, a tree from a tree, a man from a man.”47

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Whether in Rousseau’s Emile or in the Egyptian Journal of Modern Education, the idea of using the observation of the world in order to apprehend the truth about the world de ned the empirical method. Since people apprehended the world through their senses, observation was the rst step to understanding the world, followed by scienti c experimentation. Drawing “the real object” steeped children’s eyes in the modern empirical sciences, accustoming them to a particular way of seeing the world. The empirical method cannot be limited to natural scientists; it served social scientists as well. One example is the ethnographic search for the history, origin, or character of the modern Japanese. In the rst half of the twentieth century, the ethnographer Yanagita Kunio used a precise empirical method in his search for the original character of the Japanese. He did so by collecting, analyzing, and publishing oral legends.48 At about the same time, a similar process was occurring in Egypt. The historian Omnia El Shakry refers to it as “the ethnographic moment,” a period when a series of public intellectuals identi ed the origin of the Egyptian nation with the Egyptian peasant working the soil.49 The photograph of Egyptian students at the Inbaba Teachers’ College in gure 4.4 shows the students making a still-life drawing of a vase while on the wall behind them hung images of peasant men and women. The empirical representation of the vase went hand in hand with the empirical representation of the Egyptian peasant. In other words, empirical realism served nationalism as well as science.50 Even in the more common tasks of everyday life, empirical precision was key to an educated modern subject. Advocates of drawing education touted it as critical to teaching children to empirically apprehend all kinds of physical forms. In a 1909 lecture the leading Western-style painter of the Meiji era, Koyama Sh tar , wrote: “I showed the shape of a broken lamp chimney to the maid and asked her to buy a similar one. Because she bought one of a di erent shape twice, the next time I asked my child, who was coming out of kindergarten, to go with her and they brought one of the same shape. The fact that the eyes of a thirty-year-old maid were less useful than those of a small child speaks to the power of education.”51 Egyptian educators such as Al Umar, the director of education for the governorate of Bahriya, would have agreed. In a 1916 teaching manual, which the Egyptian Ministry of Public Instruction mandated for use in all its teachers’ colleges, he wrote: “[Drawing develops the power of attention and observation. It encourages assiduity in apprehending natural objects

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and increases the quantity and precision of the information.”52 For both Koyama and Al , drawing was justi ed as an exercise in empirical precision. Exact verisimilar drawings of external objects became a method for knowing the truth about the world, whether it be in the natural sciences, social sciences, or in the more humble tasks of everyday life. Although empirical drawings of the outside world were usually cast as a method for knowing the reality about the world, they were an instrument for creating a particular reality by mediating the relationship between the observer and the world. For later socialist and avant-garde writers, artists, and lm-makers, realistic drawing needed to accurately represent the conditions of the working class in order to reveal the ravages of industrial capitalism.53 By asking artists and audiences to represent life under the condition of capitalism, socialist realism worked to create a class consciousness. In early twentieth-century schools, realistic drawing functioned in a similar way. The di erence was that children were taught to represent not the reality of the working class but the empirical reality of nature. In so doing, they created an empirical consciousness that privileged empirical observation over the paradigmatic texts of past traditions.

Global Mimesis and Representational Mimesis Each form of representation is a political project. Geometric drawings did not have an external referent but consisted of an autonomous system of lines and shapes. Their avowed goal was to improve the industrial design of manufactured goods such as vases, sickles, and lamps. Upon closer examination, however, geometric drawings provided an entire system of representation that suited the needs of late nineteenth-century societies. With geometry came a “sense of order,” as E. H. Gombrich noted when he wrote that geometric “regularity stands out against the random medley of nature.”54 It is no accident that a modern industrial age intent on improving its manufactured products, a modern state intent on controlling its urban spaces, and a modern age that created a linear narrative of progress relied on geometric representations of the world. Unlike geometric drawings, pictorial representations of objects in the textbook had an external referent. They located the starting point of action not in an interior realm of autonomous reasoning but in a quest to

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observe the outside world. This world, however, was not the world outside the school window or even the world across the classroom, but the world inside of the textbook. The copy of a tree from the textbook was less the beginning of an empirical concern with the world of things than the last throws of a concern with a paradigmatic text whose truth the child was tasked with assimilating. In this sense, both geometric drawings and the pictorial representation of objects in the textbook relied on a paradigmatic text. They belonged to a world in which the faithful imitation of a model in a book was a virtue. The copying of the textbook, whether in Japan or in Egypt, soon ceded the way to what could be called an empirical turn. Children drew an actual vase at the center of the classroom or a tree outside of the window, like in gure 4.4. Empirical representation inaugurated a new relationship to the outside world. Realism in the arts, wrote Carl Woodring, “represented a commitment to the world.”55 This commitment to a precise and scienti c world sought to create a new type of modern subject, one that was attuned to the empirical realities of the outside world rather than to an order internal to the text. Like the world of the camera obscura described by Jonathan Crary, empirical representation was a model for how “observation leads to truthful inferences about the world.”56 Empiricism helped the child draw from the environment elements with which to build a reservoir of knowledge. More than just three ways of drawing, these three paradigms of drawing education taught children three ways of seeing the world. Their successive importance in drawing curricula re ects trends in ways of knowing the world. All three of these ways of drawing seeing knowing the world, however, belong to a mimetic moment. The beginning of the mimetic moment is clear. It came with the rst drawing curricula in mid-1870s Japan and Egypt. To locate its end, however, we must rst trace the erosion of the global mimesis that saw drawing curricula in Japan and Egypt model themselves on the South Kensington School of drawing education, and then trace the turn away from a concern with the representational mimesis of the object of the drawing and toward the creative self-expression of the subject who was drawing. The next two chapters will take on each of these two tasks.

5 The End of Global Mimesis The Rise of the National Subject

Many people have been debating the merits and demerits of the brush and the pencil. They each have their advantages and disadvantages, but if we consider the [role that the brush [plays in the customs of this country, the brush is much more suitable [for teaching drawing in primary school . —Morioka Shinez , 1899 Drawings of ornaments including Arab patterns. —Egyptian Ministry of Education, 1907

n the 1870s and 1880s drawing education in Japan and Egypt was strikingly similar. The previous chapter described how the global spread of the British South Kensington School of drawing education created this similarity, even though there was little if any contact between Japan and Egypt. The rst clear di erence between them occurs in 1888 in Japan and 1894 in Egypt. In 1888 drawing textbooks in Japan began to teach the use of a soft hair brush that was not used in primary school drawing education in Egypt. In 1894 drawing curricula in Egypt began to teach children to draw Arab designs that were not drawn in Japan. When studied individually, the introduction of the Japanese brush in Japan

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and Arab designs in Egypt point to the rise of an aesthetic discourse of indigeneity. When placed in a global comparative context, however, they point to more than the rise of national forms of aesthetic expression. They mark the end of a mimetic moment when drawing curricula in Japan, Egypt, Great Britain, France, and many other school systems across the world were practically indistinguishable from one another. This chapter argues that the end of this mimetic moment was particularly salient in societies on the receiving end of Western expansion. It is not that non-Western societies like Japan and Egypt did not continue to value universal skills that could improve industrial production. It is only that, in addition to their economic concerns about the success of industry, they faced a crisis of subjectivity that British educators did not. British, and for that matter French, educators were concerned with cultivating a national culture of design. British writers frequently referred to France as the queen of design, while French educators could be heard fretting about what institutional structure would best foster the next genius of French drawing.1 Competition was inherent in the Franco-British relationship. But among the global powers, there was never any doubt that France and Great Britain were fully independent, “responsible,” and “civilized” members of the international system. Japan and Egypt, on the other hand, were engaged in a struggle for their independence. British rule over Egypt justi ed itself by claiming that Egyptians were not ready to govern themselves.2 The Unequal Treaties similarly implied that Japanese laws could not be trusted to try the citizens of Western nations. In such colonial and protocolonial contexts, the independence of non-Western states depended on their ability not only to de ne themselves as equally modern and civilized as Western imperial powers, but also to portray themselves as having a unique essence that authorized them to exist as autonomous entities. Whereas Western colonial powers inevitably considered the laws of non-Western peoples as inferior to their own, art was a di erent story.3 Aesthetics was one of the realms of human activity that had the best chance of escaping from the hierarchy imposed by Western technological superiority.4 Much like a people without history, a people without art lost some of their right to agency.5 For Japanese modernizers, writes the art historian Chelsea Foxwell, the reframing of existing practices like the tea ceremony or calligraphy as art was an “outward-directed and anxiety-ridden

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process.”6 It was aimed at Westerners and fraught with concern because a nation without art lost an important part of what made it distinct. For non-Western societies, the lack of a national art was also a lost opportunity to open another front in the struggle to revise their subaltern status. Art was important for nations like Japan and Egypt because, by escaping the linear narrative of progress that made Europe’s technological superiority indicative of its civilizational superiority, it could become a vital source of cultural capital.7 So when Japanese and Egyptian educators replaced their mimetic embrace of modern Western drawing education with a national art education, they took on a new project. In addition to preparing workers for a modern industrial society, they began to establish a national culture that could claim a place in a world of cultural nations.8 The double nature of drawing education as both a technique and an art is particularly well suited to understanding the interplay between industrial capitalism and national culture. As a method for improving manufactured products, drawing education was a universal modern science, which states like Japan and Egypt were eager to imitate. As an art, on the other hand, drawing was a medium for aesthetic expression that could be central to anticolonial nationalisms. This dichotomy took on particular importance in the non-Western world, where modern material culture came to be associated with a potential for wealth and power that was characteristic of the modern West, while aesthetics became tied to the cultural autonomy of communities claiming independence from Western imperialisms. Drawing’s liminal position between a functional technique and an aesthetic art provides a detailed insight into the need of non-Western societies to construct both a modern material civilization and a modern spiritual culture.9 The late nineteenth-century intrusion of aesthetics into Japanese and Egyptian primary school drawing education was a plea for the independence of Japan and Egypt as self-standing subjects of history, a plea that was intended as much for Western audiences as for non-Westerners who had come to share in the doubt that their societies deserved to exist as autonomous actors on the world stage. This is a key reason why, as early as the 1880s and 1890s, drawing education in Japan and Egypt began to lose its mimesis of Western curricula. In this era, drawing began its transition from an instrument of modern professions, like manufacturing design or architecture, to a subject that was concerned with art and aesthetics.

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In each of these two societies, drawing as artistic expression took different forms. In Japan it was expressed in brush drawings, while in Egypt it was grounded in Arab geometric designs, also known as arabesque, that Egypt shared with the broader Arab world. Yet in both societies there was an analogous concern for teaching children an indigenous form of art that was particular to the nation. It was with the introduction of art into globally mimetic drawing curricula that the nation was able to claim a charismatic cultural core that made it not only into a legitimate subject of history but also into an attractive one.

Drawing Is Not an Art Advocates of the South Kensington method universally agreed that drawing was not an art but a functional skill. In an address to the Council of Arts and Manufactures of Quebec, Walter Smith told his audience that drawing “is not art, any more than the process of reading and writing are literature.”10 Half a world away, he was echoed by asan Tawf q, a leading Egyptian Arabist and educator. Tawf q had graduated from Egypt’s most prestigious institutions, its oldest university, al-Azhar, and its leading modern teachers’ college, D r al- ul m, then spent most of his career teaching Arabic at the School of Oriental Studies in Berlin and Cambridge University. In Arabic-language writings intended for Egyptian teachers’ colleges, like his pedagogical guide published in 1892, he conveyed to Egyptian audiences what was standard knowledge among European educators. “The intention of drawing education in primary schools,” he wrote, “is not to make [children into artists.”11 Almost without exception, modern educators everywhere repeated that drawing in primary schools was primarily useful for improving industrial design, although it could also be useful for fostering other professions. The rst Japanese curriculum referred to drawing education as keiga, which taught drawing methods for survey mapping.12 The Japanese educator Ima’izumi Gen’ichir enumerated some of the other uses of drawing when he wrote that it was bene cial for “farmers, merchants, doctors of Western medicine, and natural scientists.”13 And the French painter and writer André Albrespy added that drawing was helpful for prosecuting war, since it helped citizen soldiers improve their aim.14 Engineers also

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needed drawing, like the late nineteenth-century Egyptian railroad employees who, before going abroad for further training, spent three hours of a fourteen-hour examination on drawing.15 In a world structured by capitalism and imperial competition, both colonizers and colonized taught drawing not as an art but as a functional technique that prepared children and young adults for modern professions. Although from the mid-nineteenth century through the 1870s and 1880s the South Kensington School taught drawing as a support for these various modern professions, by the turn of the century it was under siege. British opponents of industrialism like John Ruskin had long opposed its focus on teaching drawing as a preparation for industrial design. Ruskin’s pupil Ebenezer Cooke was transitioning the South Kensington School itself toward a method of drawing education that encouraged children to express themselves more freely.16 Although the South Kensington method did not completely disappear from British schools until the 1930s, by that time the global revolt against geometric drawing education was already well underway.17 At the London exhibition of 1908, representatives from twenty-two countries assembled at the museum of the South Kensington School, which was partaking in the critique of its own nineteenth-century pedagogic practice. The most in uential exhibit was by the school of the iennese educator Franz Cizek, whose pedagogic method consisted of giving children complete artistic freedom. The striking images that his pupils drew made a deep impression on many of the participants, who for the rst time discovered an intrinsic value to children’s art. Freehand drawing education, as this new school of drawing education was known, was adopted by the French national curriculum of 1909, became the dominant method of drawing education in Japan from about 1918, and became the norm in Egypt a few decades later. Instead of textbooks that began with straight lines and geometrical shapes, freehand drawing education asked children to express themselves creatively, subjectively, and beautifully.18 Freehand drawing education, however, is the topic of the next chapter. This chapter is about a largely overlooked trend that preceded it by several years. More than a decade before freehand drawing education became popular in Europe, in an age when Cizek was still largely unknown and the geometric drawing education of the South Kensington School was still dominant, Japanese and Egyptian educators began teaching children

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genres of drawing that did not exist in European schools. These should not be confused with freehand drawing education. Not only did they come earlier, starting in 1888 in Japan and 1894 in Egypt, but their styles were di erent from the freehand drawing that came later. They did not oppose the copying of models or use colors, nor did they seek personal expression and creativity. Instead, they taught brush drawing in Japan and “Arab art” in Egypt, two styles of drawing that were absent from European schools. The introduction of national art in drawing education did not seek to end representational mimesis. Children still copied from the textbook or from the outside world. What the introduction of national forms of art did was to mark the end of the global mimesis that had made drawing curricula in modern schools across the world so indistinguishable from one another.

From Western Technique to National Art Looking at educational sources from primary schools, it is possible to identify the moment when drawing education in Japan and Egypt began to di er from drawing education in modern schools in other parts of the world. In Japan, that moment can be dated to 1888, when the rst Japanese drawing textbook that used the brush instead of the pencil was published.19 In the world of Japanese drawing education, this was a momentous event. Since the beginning of modern schools in 1872, the pencil had reigned supreme. It was one of the instruments of writing and drawing in the West and, like other instruments of Western civilization, was adopted as the new standard of modern Japan. Yet even in 1873, as Japanese artisans were learning to make their rst pencils, a Japanese delegation attending the ienna International Exhibition discovered, to its great surprise, that Japan’s brush paintings and calligraphies elicited considerable interest from Western audiences. At the very moment when the pencil was being introduced into Japan’s rst modern primary schools, its relationship to the brush was already being refashioned. The pencil was becoming an emblem of the modern West, an instrument of the power and wealth to which Japan aspired. The brush was being recast from the standard instrument of writing and painting of early modern East Asia to an instrument that came to represent Japanese aesthetics and consequently Japan itself. In this way the relationship between the pencil and the brush came to

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mediate the relationship between the West and Japan. The West provided the instruments for an e cient and functional modernity, while Japan’s past provided its aesthetic essence.20 This was the context in 1888, when the rst textbook for brush drawing, the Primary School Brush Drawing Book (Sh gaku m hitsu gaj ), was published. It marked the beginning of a debate that would rage for the next fteen years, pitting advocates of the brush (m hitsu) against advocates of the pencil or, more precisely, the “hard tip” (k hitsu), which usually referred to the pencil but sometimes also to the pen. During this period the brush was as popular as, if not more popular than, the pencil. One study of 244 textbooks estimated that from 1893 to 1903 the brush was the primary instrument of drawing education for 62 percent of drawing textbooks.21 Although they were concerned with beauty, textbooks advocating the brush did not forgo the functional objective of drawing education. They still sought to prepare children for careers like engineering and architecture. In fact, textbooks that advocated brush drawings and pencil drawings did not show any signi cant di erence in the object of the drawings.22 It was still dominated by geometric shapes in the early years and linear drawings thereafter ( gs. 5.1–5.2). In this sense, the in uence of the South Kensington School of drawing education remained. Advocates of the brush believed that, in addition to teaching children functional skills, schools should also educate their artistic faculties. The brush was almost always seen as o ering more aesthetic possibilities than the pencil. Where the pencil was practical, the brush was beautiful. A teaching manual published by the primary school attached to the Takada Teachers’ College of Niigata Prefecture, for example, noted in 1903: “The pencil coincides with the practical progress of architecture or of machines. [It is often useful for the development of geometric, or in other words mechanical, drawing methods . . . [but according to national custom [the brush is more adept at eliciting a sense of beauty in drawings.”23 Such a division of labor between the mechanical and practical properties of the pencil, on the one hand, and the national and artistic nature of the brush, on the other, was widespread. It can be seen in a primary school teaching manual from around the same time, authored by two highranking educators in Tochigi Prefecture, Suzuki K ai, the principal of the Tochigi Prefecture Teachers’ College, and Sugita Katsutar , the principal of the primary school a liated with that college. For teaching children a

FIGURES 5.1– 5.2 Both images are from primary school textbooks published in 1888. The image in gure 5.1, Sh gaku zuga kaitei (Primary school drawing guide), uses the pencil while the one in gure 5.2, Sh gaku m hitsu gaj (Primary school brush drawing book), is the rst textbook to use the brush. Although textbooks for both the pencil and the brush taught children to draw similar objects, the pencil was assigned a di erent role from the brush. The pencil’s even and precise line was associated with the practical world of Western techniques, while the brush’s varied thickness and deeper blacks was understood as a speci cally Japanese form of artistic expression. Ichihashi Sutegor , Sh gaku zuga kaitei (Fukui: Hirasawa Junsuke, 1888), 4:20; and Kose, Sh gaku m hitsu gaj , 2:5. Both volumes are from the collections of the National Diet Library of Japan.

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beautiful calligraphy in language class, they argued, the advantages of the brush were many, “but for making precise scienti c drawings the pencil has its bene ts.” In the overwhelming majority of teaching manuals from this period, the brush had a monopoly on artistic representation.24 There is no doubt that the parameters of this discussion are speci c to the world of education. In the world of art, Japanese practitioners of Western-style painting sometimes used the pencil as an instrument for making art works and were well aware of its artistic potential. This was not the case in literature on primary school drawing education. Teachers at the top of Japan’s educational apparatus like Murata Uichir , a teacher at Japan’s most elite teachers’ training college, the Higher Teachers’ College, explicitly recognized the artistic role of the pencil in Western-style painting. Like others, however, Murata concluded that the dichotomy between the brush and the pencil remained anchored, if not in his own mind then in popular discourse. Even though pencils had both functional and artistic purposes, “in the eyes of Japanese people,” he wrote, “pencil drawings occupy a scienti c function, while brush drawings have an artistic function.”25 Advocates of the pencil and advocates the brush shared this division of labor between the functionality of the pencil and the aesthetics of the brush. Where they disagreed was about whether functionality or beauty should be privileged in primary school drawing classes. The pencil was modern in its functionality. The brush was most suited for fostering “national customs” but less precise and useful for functional drawings. The question was whether the brush’s Japanese aesthetics justi ed its replacement of the more functional pencil. Choosing the brush over the pencil not only foregrounded aesthetic concerns, but also went against the functional objectives of the South Kensington School, which had until then been the model for drawing education in Japan.26 Egypt experienced a similar departure from the industrial concerns of the South Kensington School. If in Japan the brush was draped in the mantel of Japanese “national customs,” in Egypt it was a style of geometric ornaments that became the symbol of the Egyptian nation. As in Japan, primary school drawing curricula in late nineteenth-century Egyptian schools largely consisted of lines, geometric shapes, and linear drawings. This type of drawing largely reproduced methods that were common in

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French schools and which the British South Kensington School had made globally popular. Yet in the case of Egypt, geometric drawing had two historical precedents. One was the South Kensington School, but the other, older, tradition dated back to before the modern era. At the inception of Egyptian modern school curricula in the 1870s, the South Kensington School was clearly the model. The geometric drawings had nothing Arab, Egyptian, or in any way di erent from what was being taught in Europe. Two decades later geometry became one aspect of the Arab and Islamic arts that were being introduced into the curriculum. In the Arab and Islamic worlds, geometry had a long history that predated the nineteenthcentury adoption of European drawing education curricula. It was at the center of Islamic art and of its fountains, mosques, and illuminated manuscripts. Orientalist scholarship even named some geometric motifs after the Arab world, referring to them as “arabesque.”27 In an early twentiethcentury teaching manual, for example, the director of education of Egypt’s Ba riya governorate, Al Umar, encouraged geometry by citing not contemporary European scholarship but a passage from the famed fourteenthcentury Arab scholar Ibn Khald n: Geometry enlightens the intellect and sets one’s mind right . . . It is hardly possible for errors to enter into geometrical reasoning, because it is well arranged and orderly. Thus, the mind that constantly applies itself to geometry is not likely to fall into error. In this convenient way, the person who knows geometry acquires intelligence. It has been assumed that the following statement was written upon Plato’s door: “No one who is not a geometrician may enter our house.” Our teachers used to say that one’s application to geometry does to the mind what soap does to a garment. It washes o stains and cleanses it of grease and dirt.28

Geometric drawing was not only a European method for preparing children for modern professions that required linear drawing. By the 1890s it was also an idiom with deep roots in the Arab-Islamic sciences and arts. Since geometric drawings were both a modern European method of drawing education and an indigenous practice that predated the in uence of modern European methods of drawing education, however, it is not possible to trace the rise of an indigenous form of drawing in Egypt like in

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Japan, where the appearance of the brush stood out against that of the pencil. The rise of a concern for an indigenous artistic tradition can, however, be seen in a discursive shift that occurs in the drawing section of o cial Egyptian government curricula starting in 1894. That year, the word “art” rst appears in these curricula. It does not appear alone, though, but is preceded by an ethno-regional quali er. The French language curriculum speaks of the need to inculcate in pupils an adequate notion of the “art of their country” (l’art de leur pays). This link between art and the nation was not incidental. The 1898 curriculum, also in French, spoke of the need for teachers to teach “motifs of Arab art” (motifs d’art arabe). The 1901 curriculum, this time in an Arabic version, instructed students to draw “Arab forms” (ashk l arabiyya), while the 1907 curriculum spoke of “Arab patterns” (nuq sh arabiyya) in the Arabic version and “Arabesque designs” in the English version. The word “art” can here be seen entering drawing curricula at the same time as the ethno-regional concept of Arabism, which was used to signify Egypt’s indigenous culture. While in Japan the brush represented an artistic expression of the Japanese nation, Arab art represented an expression of the Egyptian nation. In both cases, the nation needed art in order to become manifest, both on an international stage and for its own population.29 References to both Arab art in Egypt and the brush in Japan did not fundamentally alter drawing education. Arab art remained a small part of the Egyptian drawing curriculum until the 1940s, when it was supplemented by another indigenous form of art, Pharaonic art (see chapter 6). Brush drawing in Japan, on the other hand, saw its fortunes decline. Starting in 1904 a new philosophy of education known as “educational drawing” (ky ikuteki zuga) worked to foster graphic design skills such as silhouette drawing, ornamentation, color theory, compositional technique, perspective drawing, and projection drawing. These were embodied in a new textbook, the New Drawing Manual, which appeared in 1910 and became so widespread that it was synonymous with drawing education in primary schools. This manual did not specify whether the brush, the pencil, or any other instruments ought to be used, nor did most of its illustrations clearly show which instrument was used in creating them. The aesthetic and symbolic aspects of drawing instruments became secondary to the technical skills used to make the vividly illustrated magazines, posters, and advertisements that

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were becoming common in the early twentieth century. With the New Drawing Manual of 1910, the age of the brush de nitively came to a close.30 The Japanese brush and Arab art were the rst signs of di erence between drawing education in Japan, Egypt, and every other modern drawing education curriculum in the world. In other words, they serve as testimony that non-Western bureaucrats and educators found in aesthetics a means of building a cultural core that helped them ground a national identity. In the face of a universal material civilization that was adopted from the West, they used drawing to construct a particular spiritual culture. The rise of these symbols of national di erence is particularly visible in drawing education, a curricular subject whose double nature as both a functional skill and an aesthetic art makes it possible to trace the use of aesthetics in establishing the non-Western nation as an independent subject of history.

Art and the Construction of National Subjects The construction of an indigenous national essence is inherent to modern nationalisms, whether in Japan, Egypt, Europe, or elsewhere. As such, it is not surprising that the concepts of the Japanese brush and of Arab design were both developed in dialogue with Western typologies of art. Before the nineteenth century, artistic styles in the Arab world and East Asia were usually classi ed according to the dynasty under which they developed, the region from which they originated, or the religious narrative that they recollected. Yet with the adoption of European categories of knowledge, art began to be categorized according to ethno-regional criteria. A good example is a set of pedagogical drawing cards printed by two of the era’s leading Egyptian artists, Y suf K mil and R ghib Ayy d, both of whom began their careers as drawing teachers. Produced sometime between 1911 and 1925, these cards were divided into four categories: natural design (nam dhaj ab ), Egyptian design (nam dhaj mi r ), Arab design (nam dhaj arab ), and Western design (nam dhaj ifranj ) ( gs. 5.3–5.6).31 Their categories mirror the categories of world art in works by well-known European experts of ornament such as the British architect and designer Owen Jones, whose The Grammar of Ornament (1856) was the rst systematic attempt to generate a language of ornament that could serve the

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modern industrial project.32 To this end, it divided ornaments into nineteen styles that included “[ancient Egyptian ornament,” “Arabian ornament,” and “leaves and owers from nature.” Although Jones’s Grammar of Ornament was, like the drawing education of the South Kensington School, intended to improve the quality of British designs, the cards by K mil and Ayy d were less a survey of world art than an exhibit of the art of the Egyptian nation.33 Missing from Jones’s Grammar of Ornament was Japan. It was left out of Jones’s encyclopedic work along with other forgotten regions like Africa, whose ornaments were largely unknown in British art schools and museums. It was only with the 1862 International Exposition in London that British designers discovered Japanese objects. One of them was Christopher Dresser, a student of Owen Jones, whose Principles of Decorative Design (1873) came to include the Japanese arts. Just like Jones’s work from two decades earlier, Dresser’s objective was to create a global typology of ornaments that could help to educate “those who seek a knowledge of ornament as applied to our [English industrial manufactures.”34 Within a few years of the publication of Dresser’s work, a wave of interest in the Japanese arts known as Japonisme swept Europe and North America, and soon enough, Dresser was on board a ship to Japan. The product of his visit was a work speci cally on Japanese ornament entitled Japan: Its Architecture, Art, and Art Manufactures (1882).35 Like other Orientalist works, Dresser’s volume contributed to giving Japan an artistic presence in Europe. From that point onward, Japan would rarely be excluded from Western surveys of world ornament or world art, where it found a place within the pantheon of autonomous national cultures.

FIGURES 5.3– 5.6 Sample from a set of some twenty- ve educational drawing cards from the 1910s or early 1920s by the Egyptian artists Y suf K mil and R ghib Ayy d. The cards are classi ed into four categories: gure 5.3, natural design (nam dhaj ab ); gure 5.4, Egyptian design (nam dhaj mi r ); gure 5.5, Arab design (nam dhaj arab ); and gure 5.6, Western design (nam dhaj ifranj ). This ethno-regional classi catory scheme is typical of British works like Owen Jones’s The Grammar of Ornament. Unlike Jones’s work, however, these cards did not attempt to survey the world’s artistic heritage in order to improve industrial designs but sought to articulate an Egyptian national art in relation to Western categories of art. K mil and Ayy d, “Nam dhij al-rasm al-na ar ,” cards 3, 5, 13, 23.

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Art did not just help people living outside of the West to gain subjectivity in the eyes of Western societies. It also helped construct the nation as an independent and attractive subject of history in the eyes of its own domestic audiences. In this respect, the late 1880s in Japan and the 1890s in Egypt were important to the construction of a national subject. In Japan, this period saw a new generation awaken from two decades of restless importation of Western instruments, practices, and institutions to nd itself beset by the agonies of cultural alienation. This was a time when what Kenneth Pyle called “the new generation in Meiji Japan” sought to restore Japan’s cultural autonomy.36 Julia Thomas writes that by the 1890s “Japanese culture could begin to love nature without having to look outside itself.”37 This concern for a national culture could also be seen in the visual arts. In 1887 Okakura Kakuz , one of this era’s leading art critics, began his career by embracing the ideas of Dresser and, more famously, the American art historian Ernest Fenollosa. He established the Tokyo School of Fine Arts, which at its inception was focused on Japanese-style painting, by which he meant a style of painting that traced its genealogy back to forms of artistic practice in Edo period Japan and earlier. Scholars have debated whether the introduction of brush painting in primary schools was directly attributable to Okakura, but whether this was the case or not, the dichotomy between Japanese-style painting and Western-style painting is generally recognized as the precursor to the dichotomy between the brush and the pencil in primary school education.38 Both participated in the aesthetic construction of a more independent Japanese national subject that gained traction in the late 1880s.39 In Egypt, the construction of a national subject came later and was slower than in Japan. In the 1890s Egyptians were just beginning to imagine Egypt as an independent subject of history. This entailed shedding their attachment to Ottoman culture and to the Ottoman Turkish language in favor of the Arab world and the Arabic language. As Yoav Di-Capua notes in his study of Egyptian historiography, this was the moment when Egyptian elites began “to mold this object called Egypt,’ ” at least in its modern conception.40 They did this not only through the introduction of the discipline of history but through anthropology and other social sciences. Omnia El Shakry describes how Egyptian social scientists worked to replace the Orientalist assumption of a radical di erence between Europe and its

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colonial others with a collective national subject that was analogous to the European one but still possessed a unique essence.41 This subject found a visual expression in the references to Arab art in primary school curricula from the 1890s and was illustrated in the drawing cards by K mil and Ayy d. It imagined Egypt as a unique national culture in a world of cultural nations. The foundations of this modern national culture stood on several pillars. They included history, language, and art. Together, these and other elds made a collective claim to the uniqueness of each national polity. The way in which language contributed to the imagination of the nation is central to Benedict Anderson’s study of nationalism, while the role of historical narratives in creating the nation as the new sovereign subject is the topic of Prasenjit Duara’s Rescuing History from the Nation.42 Like national languages and national histories, national forms of art are particular in a global manner. They serve to construct the nation as a unique subject, yet like national anthems and national cuisines they can exist only in the company of other, parallel constructions of the nation. What is often unique about art is that it is concerned with attraction. What art education brought to the nationalist table, so to speak, was a focus on aesthetic pleasures that could enchant children and make them partake in the imagined community of the nation. Non-Western societies seeking to establish their rights as autonomous subjects may well have harnessed this aesthetic power before Western societies, whose immediate concerns in the late nineteenth century had more to do with improving their industrial designs than with justifying their national existence.

Aesthetics and the Birth of National Difference The previous chapter began by describing the foundation of the South Kensington School of drawing education and the global adoption of its methods. This structure may have seemed to replicate what Dipesh Chakrabarty critiqued as a “ rst in Europe, then elsewhere” narrative of world history, wherein concepts and practices originating in Europe are then adopted elsewhere.43 Scholars of Japan, Egypt, and non-Western societies in general have put great e ort in tracing links between the early modern and modern periods in order to counter earlier beliefs that their

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modernity was mimetic of the West’s. In so doing they have uncovered early modern traces to everything from modern nationalism to modern economic growth. When we focus on a longer time span and on more than one society, however, the concept of mimesis has its utility. If this study was limited to the period from the early 1870s to the late 1880s, and even if it avoided historicist assumptions, it would still be di cult to ignore a Japanese and Egyptian literature on drawing education that was largely modeled on the British South Kensington School. During this time, after all, the rst drawing manual for modern Japanese schools was entitled “Guide to Western Drawing,” while Egyptian curricula recommended that primary school teachers learn to teach drawing by reading French and English drawing manuals in the original. If we expand the temporal span to include what came before the 1870s, however, we notice that the Japanese and Egyptian mimesis of European drawing manuals, and of many other aspects of Western societies, was a rare moment. It followed centuries if not millennia that saw the inhabitants of what became Japan and Egypt cultivate a variety of methods for educating children and for practicing the visual arts with only occasional and ancillary engagement with European methods. Expanding the span beyond 1888 shows that Japanese and Egyptian educators transformed European methods by infusing them with alternative practices, which were initially cast as national forms of art. As far as drawing education in primary schools was concerned, its global mimetic moment had lasted less than two decades. It is tempting to see the Japanese and Egyptian transformation of the South Kensington method of drawing education in the late 1880s and 1890s as an example of non-Western subjects subverting European practices. Yet as some scholarship, starting with Lydia Liu and Harry Harootunian, has suggested, the history of non-Western societies cannot be reduced to one of resistance.44 Japanese and Egyptian educators were not concerned with resistance but with creation. In this book, their creation consists of using primary school drawing education to help construct an autonomous national culture. The very concept of a national culture, of course, participated in the late nineteenth-century global order, which was grounded in a culturally autonomous national subject modeled on the West. Yet as the interlude about national anthems made clear, the construction of a national subject

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cannot be reduced to an act of mimesis. Educators used art to create both a national subject that was analogous to other national subjects and a subject that was su ciently charismatic to become an object of allegiance and attraction. This double nature of the nation, as both subject and object, is essential to understanding the end of the mimetic moment. As a subject of history, the nation’s raison d’ tre was de ned in intersubjective terms. The Japanese and Egyptian nations had to de ne themselves as national subjects within a world made of national subjects whose existence justi ed their existence. The justi cation for the nation as a subject was external. It could exist only within an international system made of national subjects. As an object, however, the nation had to be made into a magnetic nucleus of attraction for its population. For the nation to become a core of attraction that could bring together a national community, it had to enchant schoolchildren, much like the Piper enchanted the children of Hamlin. If it did not, at least to some extent, become an object of enchantment, then the nation could lose its ability to harness the allegiance of its community, leaving its members vulnerable to seduction by other objects of attraction. These could be other nations, but they could also be religions, revolutionary ideologies, regional cultures, or any other movement that could challenge the nation-state. For newly minted modern nations like Japan and Egypt to survive, they too had to enchant, attract, and elicit dreams and desires.

6 The End of Representational Mimesis The Rise of the Individual Subject

The heart receives laws only from itself. By wanting to enchain it, one releases it; one enchains it by leaving it free. —Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 1762 Freedom is something you have to be very careful about. Whatever you do you nd yourself in chains. . . . They tell you that you have to give children freedom. In reality they make them do children’s drawings. . . . On the pretext of giving them complete freedom and above all not tying them down, they shut them up in their own special style, with all their chains. —Pablo Picasso, ca. 1963–1964

he previous chapter traced the rst appearance of a di erence between Japanese, Egyptian, and European curricula. With the introduction of brush drawings in Japan in 1888 and Arab designs in Egypt in 1894, modern Japanese and Egyptian curricula, which had until then resembled each other because they both imitated British and French curricula, became less mimetic of these curricula and, as a consequence, less similar to each other. Even though the appropriation of Western texts, ideas, and practices continued, this was the rst time that a clear di erence came to separate drawing curricula in Japan and Egypt from drawing

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curricula in Great Britain and in France. This di erence marked the beginning of the end of global mimesis. By the twentieth century the ow of texts, practices, and ideas grew to such an extent that it becomes di cult to trace their movement from one place to another. There were multiple points of contact and multiple travelers between texts, ideas, and practices that crisscrossed the world. We can no longer trace the translation of a British textbook in Japan or the adoption of a French textbook in Egypt like we could for the 1870s and 1880s. Instead, we must speak of a perpetual engagement and exchange of ideas where the di erences separating various actors within Japan or within Egypt are often more important than any di erence separating Japan or Egypt from Great Britain or France. This is one aspect of a larger transition that sees the passage from a globally mimetic moment and its demise to a new era in which global intercourse can no longer be described as mimetic. This is one way in which drawing education moves beyond global mimesis. The mimetic moment, however, is made up of two parts. While the rst is the global mimesis that was the topic of the previous chapter, the second is the representational mimesis that is described in this one. Even when Japanese children were taught to draw with the brush and Egyptian children were taught to draw Arab designs, they were still imitating the textbook in front of them. It is true that the method of verisimilar drawing had children imitate not the textbook but the outside world of things, yet this was still imitation. It was only with the rise of a series of global movements, which can collectively be referred to as free drawing education movements, that children were asked neither to imitate the textbook nor to imitate the outside world but to focus on expressing their own internal self. This marked the end of the representational mimesis of the objective world.1 Educators often spoke of this movement from drawing as imitation to drawing as self-expression as a freeing of children’s inner selves. Such freedoms, they argued, resulted in an explosion of creative energies. Indeed, once children were asked to express themselves, educators as well parents and the general public were struck by the beauty of the resulting images, which spawned exhibitions of children’s art that continue to this day. Historians of art education have usually accepted the claim that freehand drawing education liberated children’s powers of expression. In France, for example, a recent work on the history of drawing education entitles

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the section about the curricular reform that transformed drawing education into art education “Drawing Emancipates Itself ” (Le dessin s’émancipe).2 In Egypt, the historian of drawing education Jam l Ab al-Khayr begins an analogous section by stating that “the freedom of expression was unleashed” (a laqat al- urriyya li’l-ta b r).3 And in Japan, the Freehand Drawing Education movement (jiy ga ky iku und ), which could also be translated as the Free Drawing Education movement, refers both to the freehand technique of drawing that children were taught and to the free expression of their inner self. In these three cases and in many others, the passage from a drawing education whose objective was the mimesis of the outside world to one that was concerned with subjective beauty and creativity is believed to have bequeathed children a new ability to express themselves freely. Taking a hint from the two epigraphs above, this chapter casts doubt on these newly acquired freedoms. For Rousseau, by encouraging children to express themselves, educators were gaining the ability to instruct an inner realm that had previously escaped them. For Picasso, such freedom was a form of enchainment. Free drawing was nothing other than a more subtly invasive method for making children believe that they were adopting social norms like the nation, the family, or the army out of their own will when, in fact, all that they were doing was reproducing social norms. This is not the rst time we come across such attempts to use art education to control children’s inner self. We are familiar with the use of self-expression, beauty, and enchantment from the discussion of music education and, in wartime Japan, of calligraphy education. Educators waded into the economy of desires that governed children’s aesthetic tastes because they believed that this would be a way to shape these tastes and desires. In this sense, it is only in this chapter that drawing education joins music and calligraphy education as an aesthetic practice that sought to instruct children’s inner self. There is an important di erence, however, between drawing education, music education, and calligraphy education. Music education was an aesthetic practice from the moment it was introduced in school curricula. Writing education was not primarily concerned with aesthetics other than for a short period in wartime Japan. Drawing education, on the other hand, shows a clear transition. It begins its career in primary schools not as an art but as a mechanical technique (chapter 4), introduces aesthetics in the form of national art in Japan and Egypt (chapter 5), and only with the rise

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of free drawing education does it become an aesthetic practice that is considered an art and concerned with beauty, creativity, and expression. This narrative arc makes it possible to trace how drawing education gradually traded its instrumental role in primary school curricula, one that prepared children for modern professions like mapmaking, for a normative role in training their inner self. Drawing education’s metamorphosis from a mimetic mechanical technique to an expressive aesthetic art was clear and irrevocable. It occurred in all modern school systems, and once it occurred, it never returned to what it was before. Today, drawing in primary schools everywhere is an art concerned with self-expression, creativity, and beauty. This chapter traces the nal leg of this transformation and, once drawing becomes a form of art education, asks how some observers could believe that it was shackling children with the chains of freedom.

Freehand Drawing Education in Prewar Japan One of the earlier school systems to adopt freehand drawing was France, where leftist politicians, educators, artists, architects, and editors imagined that a modern secular art could make the school into a space that was free, creative, and enjoyable for children. These calls for reform found their way into national curricula in 1909, when Gaston Quénioux, professor at the École nationale des arts décoratifs and later inspector general of drawing education, was tasked with creating a new drawing curriculum according to the “intuitive method.” This method consisted of giving children freedom, seeking to educate their creative faculties instead of their design skills and asking them to draw based on their observation of nature rather than on arti cial models.4 In 1912, only a few years after French schools had adopted this reform of drawing education, a Japanese artist by the name of Yamamoto Kanae arrived in Paris, which in Japan was considered the world’s artistic capital ( g. 6.1).5 On his way back to Japan in 1916, Yamamoto stopped for half a year in Moscow where, during a visit to Kustar peasant art museums, he saw drawings of pastoral scenes by Russian children. Biographies of Yamamoto relate how, struck by the beauty of these drawings, which di ered dramatically from the drawing exercises that he had seen in Japanese

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FIGURE 6.1 Yamamoto Kanae (1882–1946) spearheaded the Free Drawing Education movement, which transformed drawing education in Japanese schools starting in the late 1910s. His movement was part of both a global movement to introduce beauty, creativity, and self-expression in schools and the Japanese Free Education movement, which sought to create an educational experience that deemphasized competition and encouraged beauty, culture, and leisure. Courtesy of the Ueda City Museum of Art.

schools, he returned to Japan to found a peasant’s art movement and the Freehand Drawing Education movement.6 The Freehand Drawing Education movement quickly grew to become Japan’s most in uential school of drawing education. Its ideology can be summarized with a few references to Yamamoto’s ideas. More than a mere technique, for Yamamoto drawing education was a means to educate a new kind of child: “Scientists should solicit broad knowledge. Soldiers should aspire for strong bodies and righteous courage. In addition to that,” he argued, “I want [educators to dispatch creative, passionate, humane middle school students who [draw according to their own interests and sense of nature” ( g. 6.2).7 Implicit in this quote is a clear divorce between the demands of the scientist, those of the soldier, and those of the educator. In a discussion with other educators, Yamamoto is quoted as critiquing the teaching of linear drawing and industrial design that was so important for the South Kensington School: “I believe that drawing education is art education. . . . Children do not need mechanical drawing to draw a rice bowl. . . . it is su cient to make mechanical drawing or the like a supplement to science [class .”8 With his impassioned and often militant appeals, Yamamoto worked to relegate the linear drawings and graphic design skills

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FIGURE 6.2 This drawing by Yamamoto Kanae shows the type of environment that he wanted for primary school children. The child is drawing nature while sitting in the midst of nature, and his drawings are to be free, expressive, and creative. Yamamoto Kanae, Sekai k gei bijutsu monogatari [A story of the arts and crafts of the world (Tokyo: Arusu, 1930).

of the government-approved drawing manual to science class and to carve in the school curriculum a space for drawing as an expressive art ( gs. 6.3–6.5).9 Most Japanese literature has placed Yamamoto Kanae in a Japanese national context, where he is part of a movement known as the Free Education movement (jiy ky iku und ). From this perspective, Yamamoto helped to rethink not only drawing education but the goal of children’s education in general.10 Primarily based in private primary schools and experimental primary schools attached to teachers’ colleges, the Free Education movement imagined an education replete with culture, beauty, and leisure. Mark Jones describes how its alliance of social elites and humanist educators advanced the idea of the childlike child (kodomorashii kodomo) as a substitute for another more competitive vision of childhood, that of the superior student (y t sei).11 It was in the context of this humanist child-centered education that the Freehand Drawing Education movement gained prominence, along with other arts and humanities, such as children’s fables (d wa), children’s theater (jid geki), children’s songs (d y ), and children’s free poetry (jiy shi).

FIGURES 6.3– 6.5 Three children’s drawings from Yamamoto Kanae’s book Freehand Drawing Education ( Jiy ga ky iku) (1921): “Teapot,” by Tokura, a rst grader ( g. 6.3); “A Portrait of Ms. Hayashi Mitsuko,” by Okajima Fumiko ( g. 6.4), whose grade is not speci ed; and “Inside the University Campus,” by Niimura Etsuo, a sixth grader ( g. 6.5). These drawings illustrate the ideals of Yamamoto Kanae’s Freehand Drawing Education movement. Yamamoto Kanae, “N min bijutsu to watashi,” n.p.

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These art forms were taught in schools like the Free Academy (Jiy Gakuen), a higher girls’ school founded by the education reformer Hani Motoko. More than most other schools, the Free Academy emphasized the girls’ agency, independence, and dynamism, and it has remained a symbol of the prewar women’s movement. When the Free Academy opened in April 1921, its drawing teacher was Yamamoto Kanae.12 Although most of the abundant Japanese literature on Yamamoto Kanae and the Freehand Drawing Education movement contextualizes them within the Free Education movement, the global context a ords a di erent perspective. Instead of accepting Yamamoto and his movement as liberal humanists, Mark Jones has suggested that they are better described as “antimodern dissenters.”13 Like other members of the Free Education Movement, writes Jones, Yamamoto was “disenchanted with the modern world, the pursuit of progress, the glori cation of science, and the exaltation of rationality.”14 Jones’s critique is all the more plausible when read in conjunction with the literature on John Ruskin and the Arts and Crafts movement, which was rooted in a deep skepticism of modern industrial capitalism, of its alienation of the laborer from the product of his labor, and in the call for a return to artisanal practices that would dissolve the division between the craftsperson and the artist.15 It is not surprising to recognize Ruskin’s antimodern impulse in the advocates of Japan’s Freehand Drawing Education movement.16 Their entire critique was based on a rejection of a functionalist instrumentalization of drawing class to the needs of modern science and manufacturing. The Freehand Drawing Education movement was the polar opposite of the South Kensington School method, and contemporaries recognized this. A manual published in 1928 by a middle school attached to the Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College, Japan’s top teacher-training college, noted: “In order to adapt to the times, it has become necessary to pursue the exact opposite of what was previously the principal objective. Namely, drawing skills have become secondary, and the fostering of taste, which was previously secondary, has become the central element.”17 Whereas the South Kensington School and the style of drawing education that succeeded it emphasized drawing techniques that sought to prepare children for modern professions, Freehand Drawing Education sought to create a humanist child who could use art to express her inner subjective self. The expression of the child’s inner self was not, however, a one-way process. As the child created the work of art, the child himself was being

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created. In this sense, drawing education had become a form of moral education, just like music education. Yamamoto himself noted this in a 1920 article in Ch k ron, Japan’s leading general interest magazine, where he suggested that “the spirit of freehand drawing is a pure morality.”18 Other educators followed his lead. In 1925, for example, a teacher and artist of Western-style painting, Kishida Ry sei, took stock of the transformation brought by the Freehand Drawing Education movement in these terms: “In the past drawing education was part of the education in knowledge, but at the time that I am writing this it has become the only form of moral education.”19 Freehand Drawing Education was as much about the expression of the child’s inner self as about an attempt to instruct this inner self. Freehand Drawing Education in Japan participated in several global strands of thought. It was part of a global interest in children’s drawings that had been pioneered by the Austrian educator Franz Cicek at the beginning of the century. It also inherited a global interest in folk arts that was critical of modern industrial society and was re ected in the British Arts and Crafts movement started by John Ruskin as well as in Japanese collectors of Korean folk art.20 Finally, it took part in a recent interest in children’s art, among the general public but also among artists like Wassily Kandinsky and Paul Klee, who likened children’s art to na ve art and modern art itself. In addition to this international pedigree, this chapter also places the Freehand Drawing Education movement within a global movement to use aesthetics to attract children to the school and shape their attractions and desires. The use of aesthetics for the purpose of enchantment may have been born during Japan’s liberal era, but it proved equally valuable during the era of war and nationalism that succeeded it.

Freehand Drawing Education in Wartime Japan In the historiography of modern Japan, the Taisho era (1912–1926) is usually characterized as an era of democracy and freedom for the inhabitants of the archipelago, if not for those of its imperial possessions.21 At the helm of the state, party cabinets replaced Meiji era oligarchs, universal male su rage replaced tax quali cations for voting, and, although women were not able to secure the right to vote, some took on new professions like telephone operator or café waitress.22 The Free Education movement

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described in the previous section was part of this trend toward greater popular representation and freedom, teaching children to express themselves through songs, poems, plays, and drawings. As one facet of the Free Education movement, Freehand Drawing Education participated in these newfound freedoms. It developed in private schools like Hani Motoko’s Free Academy and was led by the liberal humanist educator and artist Yamamoto Kanae. As a result, historians have come to consider 1918–1926 as the heyday of the Freehand Drawing Education movement.23 They have assumed that starting in the late 1920s the budding progressive forces represented by the Free Education movement were suppressed by emperor-centered fascism, which dominated political discourse until the end of the war in 1945. A closer look at drawing textbooks in interwar Japan, however, suggests a di erent chronology that con rms arguments made about the wartime appropriation of methods developed during the more progressive 1920s. In a recent work on childhood and war, Sabine Frühstück notes that “the militarism of the rst half of the twentieth century was productive in appropriating for its own purposes the very innocence and vulnerability that the moderns had ascribed to children” during the more progressive 1920s.24 The history of the Freehand Drawing Education movement is one case of such a wartime appropriation of progressive methods. One way to chart its in uence is through the sale of textbooks. Since Freehand Drawing Education was opposed to the methods taught in the Ministry of Education’s New Drawing Manual (1910), one of its consequences was a precipitous decline in sales of this textbook, which decreased from a maximum of 3.5 million copies in 1923 to fewer than one million copies in 1931.25 These numbers suggest that the in uence of the Freehand Drawing Education movement extended beyond 1926, to at least 1931. In 1932 the government introduced a new textbook, the Regular Primary School Drawing Manual (Jinj sh gaku zuga). Far from o ering an alternative to the Freehand Drawing Education movement, this new textbook incorporated many of its principles.26 This included the use of crayons and colored pencils, drawings from memory, and the attractive representation of scenes from daily life, all of which were borrowed from the Freehand Drawing Education movement. Having brought the demise of the o cial government textbook of 1910, the movement now contributed to de ning the government textbook of 1932. From an insurgent movement that had

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revolutionized drawing education in the 1910s and 1920s, Freehand Drawing Education had become the new orthodoxy. The revolution begun by the Freehand Drawing Education movement continued to grow after 1932, reaching its apogee in wartime Japan, which saw even more importance placed on aesthetics in education. In the drawing curriculum of 1941, the arts were integrated into a single art section (gein ka), which included calligraphy, drawing, the manual arts, music, and, for girls, sewing. Even if some of these subjects, such as the manual arts and sewing, had clearly functional objectives, their recasting as arts was part of the wartime state’s concern with aestheticizing the content of school education. Together the subjects of the art section occupied almost 19 percent of the curriculum for the rst six years of primary school, about double of their weight in the 1926 curriculum.27 The only other part of the curriculum to see such a dramatic increase was physical education, which, as Yoshimi Shunya has argued, made children into competitive but docile members of the group, whether this group consisted of the team, the school, or the nation.28 Like physical education, music education, calligraphy education, drawing education, and other school subjects, drawing education became a means of inscribing morality into children’s bodies and in their senses.29 It did so in its own way, relying on the ability of beautiful drawings to attract and enchant children. Attraction and enchantment, however, were only a means of instructing children’s inner selves. This is not to say that there was no di erence between drawing education in the interwar and wartime eras. The di erence, however, was not so much in the content of the education as in its stated purpose. Whereas Yamamoto and the members of the Freehand Drawing Education movement emphasized the child’s freedom, their successors stressed what they commonly referred to as “the perfection of character” (jinkaku kansei) or human cultivation (ningen t ya).30 A research group at the primary school attached to the Mie Prefecture Teachers’ College for Girls explained: “Until now drawing education taught pictures for the sake of pictures and forgot about human cultivation as a fundamental mission. Recently, however, by means of creativity and [aesthetic appreciation, attention has turned toward the puri cation of the child’s spiritual interior and the deepening of each child’s experience of pictorial beauty.”31 The language about drawing joined the language in the sections about music and writing education from the same period. From the late 1920s to

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the loss of the war in 1945, it was common for teaching manuals to speak of the beauty and purity of Japan’s soul, its nature, its gods, and its emperor.32 This was worlds away from the Freehand Drawing Education movement’s openly foreign sources of inspiration, universal human values, and emphasis on individual freedom and creative license. Yet even in this nationalist period, and throughout a wartime era when the literature on education was replete with references to sacri ce in the name of nation and emperor, concepts such as creativity and taste were more important than ever. The ministry’s edict in 1941 speci ed that “drawing in the art section fosters the ability to perceive shapes, to express them, and to appreciate works of art; to re ne the national taste; and to cultivate the creative abilities.”33 Not only did the educators from this era refer to drawing as an artistic practice that would develop children’s “taste” and “creative abilities,” they saw drawing as a form of expression. A research group from the national primary school attached to the Nagano Prefecture Teachers’ College explained how: Drawing instruction is the instruction of expression. The instruction of expression, however, is not simply an instruction in the technique of drawing. It must teach an artistic process that consists of a deep form of expression that draws out [the individual’s inner aesthetic taste concretely and objectively while at the same time allowing external concrete and objective phenomena to inform that aesthetic taste.34

In these wartime curricula and teaching manuals, drawing is a wellspring of internal artistic creativity, albeit one that is informed by the outside world. Just like their humanist predecessors, wartime educators embraced drawing not just as a technique but as an expressive art. A look inside the 1941 and 1943 primary and secondary school textbooks con rms these trends. There is no doubt that the object of the drawings was in uenced by the war. Among the owers, farm houses, and scenes from daily life, there are more battleships, tanks, planes, and soldiers than in the previous textbooks. The portraits of children or adults are also more stern, focused, and austere. National symbols abound, from shrines to sumo wrestlers to the rising sun ag.35 In view of this transformation in the objects of representation, advocates of Yamamoto Kanae’s Freehand Drawing Education claim that their movement was subverted by the militarist state and that its founding principles were lost. Yet the 1932,

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1941, and 1943 primary and secondary school textbooks also reveal images that are no less expressive, emotionally charged, or aesthetically attractive than those in the works of Yamamoto and other advocates of Freehand Drawing Education in the 1910s and 1920s. The wartime state may have been critical of liberal humanism, but it never ceased to emphasize beauty and creativity. Recent studies of twentieth-century Japan have frequently seen signi cant continuities between the prewar, wartime, and postwar eras. Sheldon Garon has described how Hani Motoko, the previously mentioned protestant educator and founder of the Free Academy, led a campaign to promote thrift, hygiene, and the scienti c management of the home that was as attractive to progressive social reformers during the interwar era as to ministry bureaucrats during the succeeding era of fascism, militarism, and war.36 Turning to education, Jordan Sand has shown how the wartime crackdown on teachers who promoted seikatsu tsuzurikata (writing from life) was driven less by fear of giving children a means of expression than by a suspicion of the motives of their teachers.37 Finally, in art, Annika Culver has sketched the attraction of Manchuria’s modernity to Japanese avant-garde artists, who, despite their leftist political convictions, were co-opted into the propaganda machine of Japan’s militarist regime.38 From these perspectives, it may not be surprising that Yamamoto Kanae, who was hired to teach drawing in Hani’s girls’ school in 1921, began a drawing education movement that continued to ourish in the wartime era. The aesthetics of drawing could serve the fascist project at least as well as they served the liberal project. Aesthetics is, in fact, more commonly associated with fascism than with liberalism. Writers from Walter Benjamin to Claudia Koonz and Alan Tansman have argued that aesthetics was particularly important for the fascist project. For Benjamin, fascism hid its expropriation of the population under a veil of sensory pleasures.39 This chapter argues that aesthetic pleasures may be more politically agnostic than that. Art served the liberal humanist vision of Yamamoto just as it served the vision of wartime fascism. In fact, if we focus not on the subjects of the drawings but on the techniques with which they were drawn, the techniques popularized by Yamamoto were seamlessly enrolled in support of the fascist project. The aesthetic fabric of humanism and fascism may have di ered, but both were woven on the same loom.

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Freehand Drawing Education in Postcolonial Egypt The rise of freehand drawing education was global. In Great Britain, France, and Japan it was initially a liberal project. Yet as the previous section showed, drawing methods that sought to foster children’s taste, creativity, and subjective expression did not heed political boundaries. These methods were just as important in wartime Japan as in prewar Japan. So too were they useful in postcolonial Egypt, where art education helped to make the Egyptian nation attractive. This section describes how the charisma generated by subjective drawing was e ective not only in various historical moments but also in di erent global spaces. Much as music education in Egypt was introduced a few decades after it came to Great Britain, France, and Japan, subjective drawing education in Egypt also developed a few decades after the other cases studied here. Until the late 1930s, Egyptian textbooks and teaching manuals make no mention of it. Drawing remains very much of a skill that is more akin to geometry than to art. The rst departures from geometric and verisimilar drawings can be seen in the late 1930s. In a 1937 article in a prominent educational journal published by the American University of Cairo and edited by one of its faculty members, Amir Boktor, a graduate of Columbia University’s Teachers’ College, the educator A mad Shaf q hir engaged in a critique of objectivity in drawing education: Current drawing education programs focus on the visible aspects [of nature and the imitation of things, and this is what makes them a target of criticism. . . . We must preserve the enthusiastic exaggerations and nascent misconstructions that come from children’s strength of expression for the whole period of their artistic education. We must adopt a position that considers direct representation a mere tool that serves to stimulate observation and acquire perception.40

hir may well have been critiquing his own work, a textbook that he had coauthored with another inspector of drawing, ab b Jurj , for the Ministry of Public Instruction a couple of years earlier. That textbook featured a typical fare that was much closer to the South Kensington School method, including linear drawings of simple shapes and ornaments, along with shading, perspective, and elements of color theory.41 By 1937, however,

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hir approached children’s drawings in terms of childhood psychology and argued that exaggerations and misconstructions were not mistakes but forms of expression that ought to be cherished and preserved ( gs. 6.6–6.7). hir was not alone. One year later, in 1938, a teaching manual by Mu ammad Al Mu taf , a teacher at Egypt’s most prestigious teachers’ college, D r al- ul m, illustrated hir’s approach. Instead of the straight lines and geometric drawings that were standard in previous manuals, his teaching manual featured scribbles. For Mu af , young children should be allowed to scribble, at least in their early years. By the age of seven, however,

FIGURES 6.6– 6.7 Two Egyptian drawing manuals. The 1929 manual in gure 6.6 is typical of other manuals from this era in that it subdivides the human face in order to teach the proper placement of its features. The 1956 manual in gure 6.7 is typical of manuals from the 1940s onward that see drawing education as an education in art and emphasize the child’s subjective expression. Mu ammad Y suf Hamm m and Fu d Abd al- Az z Mu ammad, al-Rasm al-taw [Illustrative drawing (Cairo: D r al-Kutub al-Mi riyya, 1929), 19; and Sa d al-Kh dim, al-Fann wa al-tarbiya al-ijtim iyya [Art and social education (Egypt: D r al-Ma rif, 1956), cover. The 1929 manual is courtesy of Jam l abu al-Khayr.

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children should begin to learn the laws of nature: “[At age seven there is a greater interest in inquiring into the nature of things and the outcome of this is evident in that the child is limited by the boundaries of the real, the possible, and the rational. He no longer draws feet with seven toes, like he did previously.”42 Although limited to the rst few years of childhood, children’s subjective drawings were now encouraged. If a few decades earlier drawing educators had critiqued children’s slavish imitation of the textbook, demanding that they be allowed to draw real objects instead, it was the imitation of real objects that now became an object of critique.43 In many ways, Egyptian educators were participating in the same movement that transformed drawing education into art education in Great Britain, France, Japan, and elsewhere. The global turn toward freehand drawing education, modernism’s interest in na ve drawings, and the Arts and Crafts movement with its concern with handicrafts and creativity were some of its key in uences. At the same time, however, Egypt was a colonial society that had a di erent relationship with European powers than did Japan. Egypt had recently been colonized by the British, and, despite gaining formal independence in 1922, it remained highly susceptible to British in uence in the 1930s and 1940s. It also did not enjoy Japan’s wealth and rate of economic growth. In this context, the creative arts made it possible for Egyptians to escape their political and economic predicament and embrace a narrative of Egyptian exceptionalism. Art made it possible to try to reshu e the global hierarchy of nations established by Western colonial powers. Egyptians could not claim that they were more economically developed or more powerful than Europe, but they could attempt to claim that they had a more beautiful and creative culture. The geometric and verisimilar drawing education described in chapter 4 did not allow such a move. erisimilar drawing education served to hone children’s skills for empirical observation, but it did not o er drawing educators the appropriate tools for an anticolonial maneuver, to borrow the terminology of Partha Chatterjee.44 The expressions of Arab art described in chapter 5 did provide such an opportunity, but they had to be ampli ed far beyond the few references to Arab designs that dotted primary school curricula. Yet when Egypt’s drawing curriculum became an education in art, the educators and Ministry of Education inspectors who wrote its contents, its teaching manuals, and its textbooks decided not to

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pursue Arab art but to draw on another of Egypt’s indigenous traditions, Pharaonic antiquity, discussed in chapter 2. In the literature on education, including music and drawing education, it was not until the 1930s that common references to Pharaonicism begin to appear. Three years after writing the 1935 manual that taught verisimilar representation and one year after one of its authors refuted it, hir and Jurj wrote another work, a history of art, in association with a third author, Mu ammad Abd al-H d , the principal of the Ibr h miyya secondary school. In this work the three authors sketched a completely new agenda for drawing education. The work began with a reassessment of the value of artistic production: It was thought that [art was a form of amusement that did not merit more attention than other hobbies and forms of amusement. Now our eyes have been opened and we have come to realize, as the West did before us, and as our forefathers from antiquity did before the West, that art is the basis of civilization and that it is the true measure with which to judge the advancement of peoples and the attainments of their civilization.45

With these words, the authors rewrote the history of art with the goal of overthrowing an epistemological system that imagined Egypt as less developed than the West. In the face of a modernity based on wealth and power, they suggested an alternative hierarchy based on art. The echoes of this hierarchy can be heard throughout art education in Egypt. Fifteen years later, for example, Ma m d al-Basy n , who held a Ph.D. degree from Ohio State University and taught at the Higher Center for Art Education (later the College for Art Education at Helwan University), wrote: “In reality all of civilization is founded upon the development of taste. Every time a person develops their good taste, they climb rungs of the ladder of civilization.”46 According to this artistic measure of civilization, it was not the West but Egyptian antiquity that reigned as the origin and pinnacle of civilization. The di culty was that, although the art of ancient Egypt was celebrated in Egypt as well as Europe and elsewhere, that of modern Egypt was not. The quote above recognizes that even in a hierarchy of civilizations based on art, ancient Egypt was rst but the modern West was second, and

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modern Egypt only came after that. The key to raising modern Egypt’s position within this new civilizational hierarchy based on art was to link it to ancient Egypt. Children provided the missing link between the two. It was common for Western thinkers and Egyptians alike to equate the primitive drawings of children, who were young humans at the beginning of their existence, with the primitive drawings of humanity at the beginning of its history.47 Over the next few decades, the primary function of Egyptian drawing education became the education of primary school children who could channel the artistic abilities of their Pharaonic ancestors and, in so doing, blaze a new future for Egypt. The leading representative of this movement, and the foremost representative of art education in the 1940s and 1950s, was ab b Jurj , who coauthored both the 1935 textbook with hir and the 1940 history of art mentioned above. An accomplished artist in his own right, whose name is sometimes mentioned after those of Ma m d Mukht r, R ghib Ayy d, and Y suf K mil, Jurj rose to become the chief inspector of art in Egypt’s Ministry of Education.48 His rhetoric ts well within the discourse of postcolonial Egypt. In a 1949 English language UNESCO publication, he explained to a foreign audience how Egyptian children were to recover the glories of ancient Egypt by establishing a mystical bond with their distant past: The art work of Egyptian children has its counterpart in the paintings and sculptures of both the Old and Middle Kingdoms. When children are stimulated by stories of age-old superstitions and customs, or by the processions and festivals that are an outstanding feature of Egyptian life, their drawings and models reveal a freedom and spontaneity that suggest how much a part of them this cultural heritage really is.49

By teaching art to Egyptian children, Jurj was seeking to connect modern Egypt with ancient Egypt in an e ort to forge a single, uni ed Egyptian national essence. This project was taking place across Egypt. In education, postwar Egyptian governments were nally providing the funds to bring large numbers of Egyptian children into modern schools. The Egyptian art scene was also undergoing a process of uni cation around institutions like the journal Voice of the Artist ( awt al-fann n).50 At the intersection of these

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two movements, Jurj used art education to undertake his own uni cation project that mobilized young children in an e ort to resuscitate the glories of the ancient pharaohs ( g. 6.8). If seen through the lens of the global movement to introduce art in schools, which has been referred to as the freehand drawing education movement, ab b Jurj was the Egyptian counterpart of Yamamoto Kanae in Japan. Although both were central gures in introducing subjective drawing to Egyptian and Japanese schools, their di erences are nevertheless stark. Whereas Yamamoto was a humanist and an internationalist, Jurj was a nationalist, both in terms of positing a uni ed Egyptian essence and in opposing this essence to that of other societies.51 The di erences between them are, to a certain extent, the outcome of two very di erent social contexts. Yamamoto was active in 1920s Japan, during an era known for its new freedoms and popular rights. Jurj was in uential in 1940s and 1950s Egypt, during an era characterized by attempts to give a postcolonial Egyptian state a national core. Beyond these di erences, however, Yamamoto and Jurj shared one key similarity. As artists, both were aware of art’s seductive potential.

FIGURE 6.8 Clay gurine modeled by a ten-year-old girl, taken from an article by ab b Jurj . The leading Egyptian writer on art education of his generation, Jurj encouraged Egyptian children to use clay, the same medium as their Pharaonic ancestors. Gorgi, “Creative Art in Egyptian Schools,” pl. 3.

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They knew that beautiful, creative, and subjective paintings could contain the spark that would give Yamamoto’s humanism and Jurj ’s nationalism a magnetic attraction. When they replaced the techniques that had previously been taught by the South Kensington method with subjective drawings, they were working to introduce this spark into children’s education. Their approach brought a new vocabulary to drawing education, one that involved discussions of beauty, creativity, and expression. This new discourse pointed to a shift in concern in drawing education that, like music education before it, became concerned with attraction.

The Gilded Cage of Freedom In 1907 a few politicians of the French Third Republic, including Maurice Couyba, Léon Riotor, and Ferdinand Buisson, joined in uential educators like Roger Marx and Gaston Quénioux to create the National Society for Art in Schools. In a manifesto entitled Art in the School, they described the goal of their society. It would be to create “a happy cage that makes the bird happy,” where the happy cage was the school and the happy bird was the child.52 If the school was a gilded cage, they postulated, then instead of wanting to skip school, the child would want to attend it. Far from being unique, their goals and methods were echoed by educational systems across the world, with educators seeing the introduction of art education as an opportunity to bring pleasure into the schoolhouse. Pleasure, however, is never pure. As Pierre Bourdieu and others have reminded us, it remains the vehicle for the hopes, plans, and desires of its bearers or, in other words, a political act.53 If the children’s cage was gilded, it was the bureaucrats and educators who chose its gilding. In France this gilding project was spearheaded by the French left, which intended to make the school into an enchanted secular space where the child could be free. In interwar Japan, it was the progressive Freehand Drawing Education movement that similarly sought to make the school into an incubator where children would discover universal humanist values. In wartime Japan romantic drawings of soldiers and tanks were intended to co-opt children into romanticizing war, sacri ce, and sel essness. In Egypt, it was Pharaonic images and statuettes that were intended to bring to modern Egypt some of the cultural capital enjoyed by ancient Egypt. Although the

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political projects di ered, the importance of aesthetics as a vehicle for the molding the child’s subjectivity did not. The gilding on the child’s cage was di erent, but the very idea of using drawing education as a gilded cage was universal. Here, the gilded cage metaphor borrowed from the French advocates of art education may have reached the limits of its hermeneutic value. Although this metaphor helps to understand the role that aesthetics came to play in modern schools, it also implies that the child was a caged bird locked up in a world of pleasures created by adults. Things were, in fact, much more complex. Although the child, like all modern children, is captive in a system that makes schooling mandatory, once drawing education became a form of art education, the discourse about drawing education began to emphasize the freedoms that drawing brought. During all the times and in all the places examined in this chapter, drawing education was celebrated not as a gilded cage but as a creative and expressive act of subjective self-expression. Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s epigraph at the beginning of this chapter provides the rst hints that such freedom was a ruse. “One enchains [the heart ,” wrote Rousseau, “by leaving it free.”54 Enchanting children was much more complicated than indoctrinating or disciplining them. For the school to even have a chance at enchanting its schoolchildren, it had to nd a way to elicit pleasure, namely, to elicit an attraction toward the sounds and sights that it o ered, and this pleasure or attraction had to come from within the children themselves. More than a century after Rousseau, in 1909, French schools made drawing education into art education. That year two French educators, F. Michard and J. Aza s, noted the same thing as Rousseau in Emile: freehand drawing was a means for educators to in uence children’s inner selves. “The teacher nds in freehand drawing education a precious tool,” they wrote. “It allows him to better know and better penetrate his students. Indeed, these [students entrust themselves to the paper; they [use it to naively translate their impressions and emotions.”55 In making drawing education into a form of art education, the educator was giving the child a means of expression for the purpose of instructing his inner self. Expression opened the child to impression. Every time that interwar Japanese educators asked the child to draw nature expressively, or that wartime educators encouraged children to represent Japan’s war e ort beautifully,

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or that postcolonial Egyptian educators encouraged children to nd inspiration in their Pharaonic ancestors, children were pulled into this simultaneous process of expression and impression. It is this process that made it possible to shackle children with chains of freedom. Before drawing education became a form of art education, when it was still taught as a type of geometric drawing and verisimilar representation of the outside world, drawing did not have such powers. Children’s drawings were not the object of books and exhibitions. Parents, teachers, the public at large, and children themselves did not nd much pleasure in them. It was only when they became an art that children’s drawings acquired a charismatic quality, like ritual masks or religious icons. In the words of Alexander Nehamas, it was only then that drawings, like novels, became “the focus of a community to which I want to belong.”56 By acquiring an aesthetic quality, drawings became magnets that could elicit pleasure, desire, and enchantment. Children’s drawings became charismatic objects because they contained both a piece of the world and a piece of the human subject that was representing that world. Compared to verisimilar drawings, artistic drawings not only shift the emphasis from the object of the drawing to the subject who draws it, they also transform the relationship between subject and object. Instead of being a commitment to the objective natural world, to its scienti c nature or to industrial design, artistic drawings are a commitment to the subject, to the human eye that observes the outside world, or in other words to humans and their social world. In this sense, subjective drawings are a quintessentially humanist experience, placing people at the center of a universe of living things. What matters is not whether the image of the tree that the child is drawing helps her understand biology or geography, but how this image reverberates within her social world, whether this world consists of other children, of teachers, of parents, or of the public at large. Here, the objective world of things is sacri ced in order to allow the birth of an art world woven out of the threads of children’s perceptions. In this enchanted world of art, children both express themselves aesthetically and have their aesthetic expression impressed by the human community that surrounds them.

Conclusion

lthough educators sometimes referred to art education as an education in morality, the goal of art education was not so much to teach what was right, namely morality, as to help determine what was attractive, which has here been approached in terms of aesthetics. Such an ability to de ne what is attractive does not exist in pure form, of course, but let us imagine for a moment that it does, writes the literary theorist Terry Eagleton in his seminal work on aesthetics. Let us imagine a world in which the state was able to convince its population to abide by its laws without ever having to enact them.

A

What is at stake here is nothing less than the production of an entirely new kind of human subject—one which, like the work of art itself, discovers the law in the depths of its own free identity, rather than in some oppressive external power. The liberated subject is the one who has appropriated the law as the very principle of its own autonomy, broken the forbidding tablets of stone on which that law was originally inscribed in order to rewrite it on the heart of esh. To consent to the law is thus to consent to one’s own inward being.1

A state that controlled aesthetic desires would not need to have laws. Its subjects could be both absolutely free, because everyone followed only

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their inner desires, and completely shackled, because their desires would be those of the state. In the previous chapter Jean-Jacques Rousseau referred to a similar idea when he wrote that “one enchains it [the heart by leaving it free.”2 Pablo Picasso’s take was darker. “On the pretext of giving them [children complete freedom,” he wrote, “[educators shut them up in their own special style, with all their chains.”3 Such a complete shackling in the chains of freedom is, of course, entirely hypothetical. Agency is never completely forfeited. But Eagleton’s hypothetical example shows the power of aesthetics taken to its logical extreme. It was this aesthetic power that educators wanted to use in instructing children’s inner selves, so that to consent to the school’s ideology would become the equivalent to consenting to one’s own inner desire. More than a means of manufacturing consent, aesthetics was a means to manufacture desire. Introducing aesthetics into our understanding of how schools, and society in general, function requires us to rethink social actors as operating not only in an ideological eld but also in an aesthetic eld.4 Aesthetics is a eld of desires and attractions in which multiple actors, from the state to individual educators to commercial record companies, attempt to in uence children by enchanting them. Enchantment is no longer the sole purview of older institutions like the church, with its stained-glass windows and pipe organs, but becomes a self-conscious instrument of the modern school. If music or drawing classes could make the school desirable, then there would be no need for rules that penalized those who skipped school. If these same classes were able to romanticize the nation, it would become easier for state actors to demand loyalty and sacri ce in its name. In these cases and in many others, the focus is not on laws that penalize, nor is it on logical arguments that convince or on morals that de ne the virtuous. The focus is on attractions toward objects that the subject, which in this case is the child, nds pleasurable and therefore desirable. We do not know how much power music, calligraphy, and drawing classes possessed. All we know is that late nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury educators tried to harness that power. In modern schools in Japan, Egypt, Europe, and elsewhere, educators often referred to this power of enchantment as an education of the heart. For the educators surveyed here, it was high time that the school turn its attention to children’s hearts: “Just

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as we are concerned with the mind, so too should we be concerned with the heart.”5 Most of the educators discussed in this book, irrespective of the time in which they wrote and the place where they wrote, could have written this line. We can take a hint from these educators and think about the role that aesthetic practices like music, calligraphy, and drawing education play in eliciting attractions in the modern world. Ideas can be attractive, but they do not exist in the abstract. Ideas become attractive because of multiple and repeated embodied experiences that make some ideas attractive and others repulsive. “Ideas acquire materiality through the history of bodily practices,” writes Dipesh Chakrabarty. “They work not simply because they persuade through their logic; they are also capable, through a long and heterogeneous history of the cultural training of the senses, of making connections with our glands and muscles and neuronal networks.”6 Chakrabarty is here calling for a history that takes experience, in all of its embodied and sensory aspects, into account. The history of this experience is a history of aesthetics, namely, of the way in which our physical senses mediate our experiences of the world. It is through such mediations that our attractions and desires are born. Working from within the walls of the modern school, the educators in this volume tried to shape these sensory experiences to manufacture children’s desires.

The Modern Pied Piper This book began with the medieval tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. In many ways, the educators in this book are like modern pipers. They believed in art’s ability to galvanize schoolchildren with a spark of pleasure, and, with the help of art, they sought to have a say over what children found attractive. Functioning in an economy of aesthetic pleasures, these were the pipers of the modern world. As in the original legend of the Piper, music was the rst curricular subject to be tasked with enchanting the hearts of schoolchildren. Soon enough there was also a consensus that it was not just the sense of hearing but the sense of sight that had to be enchanted. Drawing too proved itself valuable for enchanting children and inculcating them with normative goals. It was so useful that educators were willing to sacri ce some its

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instrumental functions, such as its role in training future engineers, mapmakers, and manufacturers by teaching them mimetic precision. Instead, drawing education became about beauty, creativity, and subjective selfexpression. Judging from the number of books and exhibitions about children’s drawings, modern publics found drawing to be quite a magical source of enchantment. Writing education, on the other hand, was considered too important for the e ciency of village administration, for the wealth of its commerce, and for its success in competing against other villages to become an art. To be e ective, after all, writing had to be clear and rapid. The one exception was wartime Japan, where enchantment was so important that the state bifurcated writing education, teaching clear, rapid, and e cient writing in language class and slow but beautiful handwriting that sought to become a path for spiritual training in art class. A list of modern pipers would therefore have to start with music teachers, continue with drawing teachers, and in wartime Japan include calligraphy teachers. Yet it would also have to extend beyond the territory covered by this book, to other subjects in the school curriculum, like literature and physical education, and to other sites of enchantment beyond the school, like festivals, museums, and department stores. Another way to imagine teachers is not as the Piper but as villagers who, knowing that the Piper would try to lead their children away, used art to try to enchant their own children. To counter the dangers of the Piper’s magic ute, they introduced art education into the schoolhouse by teaching children to play a magic ute and to draw with a magic brush. By teaching children to play the magic ute, they hoped to make them prefer the songs of the village to those of the mountain. When the Piper came to play his ute, the children’s ears and hearts would already be so full with the familiar songs of the village that they would not nd the sounds of the Piper’s ute a source of much enchantment. In this sense, art education classes in modern schools were the village’s attempt to counter the enchantment of popular music, revolutionary songs, commercial record companies, radio, and other forces beyond their control. The school would counter these other forms of enchantment by becoming a source of enchantment in its own right. The villagers, however, were not simply trying to nullify the danger of the Piper’s ute. They had their own agenda, and this agenda changed

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over time. At certain times, like in interwar Japan, the villagers were peaceful liberal humanists interested in bringing their children in communion with nature and protecting them from the corrosion of modern industrial civilization. At other times, the ute was accompanied by the drums of war. illage children were mobilized and fastened into a single national body, a fascio, that was t for colonizing neighboring villages and battling distant foes. Still at other times, villagers sought to connect with the artistic glories of their putative ancestors, like in 1930s and 1940s Egypt, in an e ort to muster enough con dence in their own right to exist in the face of other colonizing villages. We cannot assume that, just because the Piper did not lead the village’s children into the mountains, they were safe in their village. Aesthetics does not belong to any particular ideology. It can just as well be appropriated by liberal humanism, fascism, or the last Piper to play his magic ute on the town’s main street. By now it is clear that this is a world teaming with countless pipers. Unlike the Pied Piper of Hamelin, however, most of these pipers were not talented enough to attract the village’s children simply by playing their ute. They had to rely on more sophisticated schemes. To educate children’s hearts, souls, or however else they might refer to children’s inner selves, the modern pipers believed that children had to express themselves in school. If children expressed themselves at home, at the village festival, during a religious ceremony, or in the streets, then the intimate feelings that came from this act of expression would remain outside of the purview of the school. If the school was going to ensure that songs, drawings, and calligraphy were not performed in support of potentially riotous insurrections, seditious religions, immoral popular songs, greedy commercial companies, and other subversive in uences, then it would have to bring artistic expression in-house. Schools themselves would have to take on the task of aesthetic education. It is easier to understand how singing, drawing, and writing could a ect children’s sensory perception of the world if we consider that the practice of art and the appreciation of art are two sides of the same coin. Cli ord Geertz noted this when he wrote that “art and the equipment to grasp it are made in the same shop.”7 Creative expression is a subjective process of expression, but it is also the process by which subjectivity is constructed. Art is a two-way street. As many critics of art as an autonomous act of creation have noted, it is both individual and social.8 It is “intensely personal,”

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writes the developmental psychologist Howard Gardner, yet it is “inherently social [in that it is directed to others in one’s culture.”9 Whereas the myth of independent artistic creation has been dominant among artists in the modern period, for many educators art is an inherently social process. Indeed, many of the prominent gures in this book, from humanist liberals to wartime nationalists, compared the production of art to moral education. It was the two-way aspect of aesthetic education, as both a medium for expressing the child’s inner self and a means of impressing that inner self, that made aesthetic education such a valuable avenue for providing access to children’s inner selves.10 In an example taken from drawing education, we can imagine this twoway process of expression and impression working as follows. The drawing that a child makes is submitted to the aesthetic judgment of teachers, classmates, and perhaps parents. It is a ected by nonhuman actors like instruments for drawing and music, from crayons to utes, and by other aspects of the material environment like the classroom and the view outside of the window. It is also in uenced by the outside world of popular painters and singers as well as by billboards, radio advertisements, and the like. In other words, the drawing of every child is not a simple process of individual expression but rather a participation in an aesthetic economy. The child’s drawing encounters praise or sanction, acquires or loses value, and in this way a ects the next iteration. The introduction of art education into modern schools was one way to pull children into this human community and, in so doing, expose them to the in uence of the school. As children made their drawings, their likes and dislikes, sense of what was beautiful, sources of attraction, and objects of desire were being remade. The trouble with this aesthetic economy was that, unlike in the medieval tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, modern pipers were not always successful. Children often preferred popular, commercial, and purportedly vulgar songs to those taught by the school, and educators realized that national anthems that did not set the heart ablaze were ine ectual. Their greatest fear was not that children would oppose or subvert the songs that were taught in school but that they would forget them. Indi erence was dangerous because, in some way or other, the human world is always already enchanted, teaming with pipers who seek to use passions and desires to lead children toward their chosen place. The question is not whether a piper will enchant the child, but which pipers will be most

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enchanting. At stake is whether teachers, record companies, religious institutions, or simply the organizers of the village festival will have the greatest say in shaping the child’s aesthetic desires. The one thing that modern pipers cannot do is what the citizens of Hamelin did after the Piper took their children away. They cannot forbid music on the town’s main street, for the simple reason that the modern world resonates with innumerable pipers. This was always true, but it may be especially true in an age of mass politics and mass consumption, when both proximate and distant actors vie to become sources of desire. Media, from the phonograph to radio, magazines, newspapers, billboards, books, and lm, have made the world smaller by allowing the sounds and sights of distant pipers to enchant children’s eyes and ears. In an age when countless pipers tug at the heart strings of every person, educators found the education of the heart all of the more indispensable.

The Pied Piper Between Colonization and Civilization On the bow of the ship of many a conquering army there stands a piper. If the military might of the conqueror contends that it is futile to resist, the beauty of the piper’s song beckons the people to join the conqueror. To reformulate Eagleton’s discussion of the relationship between law and aesthetics, the ultimate act of colonization would make the colonized beg to be colonized. No, the ultimate act of colonization would be to erase the very di erence between colonizer and colonized, making colonization into an act of civilization. Speaking English instead of Japanese or Arabic would be conceived not as forms of colonization but as markers of civilization. Songs or drawings in Japan and Egypt would be the same as those in England. If both the imperial power and those on the receiving end of empire shared exactly the same pleasures, attractions, and desires, then there would be no such thing as colonization, only a single larger civilizational project. If we think of Francophile Algerians, Japanophile Koreans, or Anglophile Indians in the age of empire, then the aesthetic transubstantiation of colonialism into a civilizational project does not seem nearly as unlikely as Eagleton’s hypothetical state, in which aesthetic communion makes laws unnecessary. The civilizational project begins when the children of the village follow the Piper into the mountains of English, French or, in the case

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of Japan’s empire, Japanese high culture. Of course, anticolonial advocates will maintain that the enchantment of the Piper’s ute will wane. Eventually, the village children will come to their sense and remember the beauty of the songs of their ancestors. They will try to escape from the mountains and return to the village. For the anticolonial movement, however, the danger is that during their time in the mountains the children will come to prefer the Piper’s music to anything that the village has to o er. If the village’s children come to share the Piper’s tastes, attractions, and desires, then the village will have truly lost its children. To prevent the Piper from enchanting their children, villagers will need to do what every anticolonial movement does. They will need to play their own ute. This is the Japanese brush and the Arab designs that were introduced into Japanese and Egyptian schools in the late 1880s and early 1890s. It is also the enchantment that is channeled through school songs, national anthems, or particular styles, instruments, or objects of drawing. At the core of every imagined community, there has to be a spark that can enchant, seduce, and elicit the desire to belong to that community. This is all the more important for anticolonial movements in societies on the receiving end of Western expansion because they cannot promise wealth or power. All that they can o er is what Alexander Nehamas has referred to as “a promise of happiness.”11 They can promise a community that is grounded in the sensory experience of a place, a language, and a culture, but for this community to have a chance to win its children back it must be made attractive or, in other words, beautiful. In this sense, and from the perspective of societies on the receiving end of Western expansion, beauty is one half of the history of empire. If the rst half of the history is the wealth and power that accompanied Western expansion, the second half is attraction. It has often been noted that in the initial decades after contact with the modern West, intellectuals in Japan, Egypt, India, and elsewhere suggested adopting the languages, scripts, songs, dances, arts, and foods of the imperial power. The monuments of these decades are state projects like the Cairo Opera House, inaugurated in Egypt in 1869, and the Rokumeikan, completed in 1883 in Japan. Both were built by Western architects, and both were meant as venues for musical performances that mimetically replicated those that were practiced in Europe. This book uses drawing education to delineate the beginning and end of such a mimetic moment.

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The possibility that the power and wealth of the imperial powers came from their language, religion, culture, or art was ever present. Indeed, there is no doubt that over the course of the past two centuries, European languages, scripts, music, dances, arts, and foods have found a global audience like never before. During the mimetic moment, drawing education in Japan and Egypt was content with being a perfect replica of drawing education in Europe. It was not in the business of creating di erence. Even within the circumscribed realm of the modern school, however, the mimetic moment was short-lived. Soon enough, drawing education in Japan introduced particularities that were cast as uniquely Japanese, at about the same moment as drawing education in Egypt introduced elements that it considered uniquely Egyptian. With this maneuver, both art and the nation simultaneously entered the drawing curriculum. The nation needed art to create a space between itself and the colonial empires that anticolonial nationalists were in the process of casting as foreign usurpers. This space, this di erence, was necessarily aesthetic. Aesthetic di erence is important for all nationalisms, but it is especially so for non-Western nations like Japan and Egypt, which cannot claim to be wealthier or more powerful than Western empires, only more beautiful. Aesthetics is central to the history of empire because what one nds beautiful is desirable, and only what is desirable can be worth ghting for. With time, the end of the mimetic moment would bring with it the end of empire itself.

Notes

Introduction 1. Paraphrase of the Pied Piper of Hamelin based on Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, “The Children of Hamelin,” trans. D. S. Ashliman, last modi ed in 2013, http: www.pitt .edu dash hameln.html grimm245. 2. Ongaku Torishirabesho, Ongaku torishirabe seiseki shinp sho [Report on the results of an inquiry into music (Tokyo: Monbusho, 1884), 150–51. 3. L. A. Bourgault-Ducoudray, “Rapport de M. Bourgault-Ducoudray” [Report of Mr. Bourgault-Ducoudray , in Minist re de l’instruction publique, Rapports sur l’enseignement du chant dans les écoles primaires (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1881), 9. 4. A mad Fahm al- Amr s , “al-M s q f al-tarbiya” [Music in education , Majalla altarbiya al- ad tha 7, no. 1 (October 1933): 9. 5. Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the “Spirit” of Capitalism and Other Writings, ed. Peter Baehr and Gordon C. Wells (New York: Penguin Books, 2002). 6. Some works, such as Mona Ozouf ’s classic study of French revolutionary festivals, have described cases where the very concept of rationality needs to be enchanted in order to acquire its hold on people. Mona Ozouf, Festivals of the French Revolution (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991), 10. 7. Other curricular subjects, such as recitation, crafts, or “the study of things,” were also concerned with acoustic and visual perception and, although they are not a systematic focus of this study, will be discussed where relevant. 8. Friedrich Schiller, On the Aesthetic Education of Man and Other Philosophical Essays (Digireads.com, 2012). 9. Both Fukuzawa and al- ah w discussed the West as a source of both civilization and violence. See, for example, Fukuzawa Yukichi, An Outline of a Theory of Civilization, trans. David A. Dilworth and G. Cameron Hurst III (1875; New York: Columbia

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11.

12. 13.

14.

15. 16.

17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22.

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University Press, 2009); and Rifa a al-Tahtawi, An Imam in Paris: Al-Tahtawi’s Visit to France (1826–1831 , trans. Daniel Newman (1834; London: Saqi, 2004). Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” in Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry ohn (1936; New York: Schocken Books, 1969), 217–51. Other interwar Marxian thinkers who were skeptical of aesthetics include Ernst Bloch and Isaiah Berlin. See Ernst Bloch, Heritage of Our Times, trans. Neville and Stephen Plaice (1935; Oxford: Polity Press, 1991); Isaiah Berlin, The Crooked Timber of Humanity: Chapters in the History of Ideas (1947; London: John Murray, 1990). Works on aesthetics and fascism in interwar Europe form a considerable body of literature. Notable examples include David Carroll, French Literary Fascism: Nationalism, Anti-Semitism, and the Ideology of Culture (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1995); Claudia Koonz, The Nazi Conscience (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003); and Mark Antli , Avant-Garde Fascism: The Mobilization of Myth, Art, and Culture in France, 1909–1939 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007). Alan Tansman, The Aesthetics of Japanese Fascism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 45. Tansman, The Aesthetics of Japanese Fascism, 2. Also see Asato Ikeda, The Politics of Painting: Fascism and Japanese Art During the Second World War (Honolulu: University of Hawai i Press, 2018). Karatani K jin, “Japan as Art Museum: Okakura Tenshin and Fenollosa,” in A History of Modern Japanese Aesthetics, trans. and ed. Michael F. Marra (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001), 45. Franco Moretti, Atlas of the European Novel, 1800–1900 (London: erso, 1998), 17. Italics in original. Notable works on aesthetics in Egypt include Jessica Winegar, Creative Reckonings: The Politics of Art and Culture in Contemporary Egypt (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2006). Kristin Surak, Making Tea, Making Japan: Cultural Nationalism in Practice (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2012), 5. Surak, Making Tea, Making Japan, 183. There is no doubt that aesthetics can reside anywhere. Not only a literary work but also a historical narrative or even a mathematical equation can have aesthetic qualities. All these subjects have aspects that attract instead of convince, namely, that are concerned with a realm of aesthetics rather than with cognitive or moral suasion. The aesthetic aspects of these subjects, however, will remain veiled until an explicitly aesthetic approach unearths them. Bourgault-Ducoudray, “Rapport de M. Bourgault-Ducoudray,” 26. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (1979; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 49. Paul Oskar Kristeller, “The Modern System of the Arts: A Study in the History of Aesthetics (I),” Journal of the History of Ideas 12, no. 4 (October 1951): 496–527; Paul Oskar Kristeller, “The Modern System of the Arts: A Study in the History of

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24.

25. 26. 27.

28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

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Aesthetics (II),” Journal of the History of Ideas 13, no. 1 (January 1952): 17–46. More recently, see Larry Shiner, The Invention of Art: A Cultural History (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2001). Sat , D shin, Modern Japanese Art and the Meiji State: The Politics of Beauty, trans. Hiroshi Nara (1999; Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2011). Also see Kitazawa Noriaki, Ky kai no bijutsushi: Bijutsu’ keisei n to [A marginal history of art: Notes on the formation of art’ (2000; Tokyo: Buryukke, 2005). Koyama Sh tar , “Sho wa bijutsu narazu” [Writing is not a ne art , T y gakugei zasshi 8 (1882): 24–27; 9 (1882): 27–28; 10 (1882): 19–23; Okakura Kakuz , “Sho wa bijutsu narazu o yomu” [Comment on “Writing is not a ne art” , T y gakugei zasshi 11 (1882): 27–30; 12 (1882): 62–63; 15 (1882): 163–64. Sat D shin, Nihon bijutsu tanj : Kindai Nihon no kotoba to senryaku [The birth of “Japanese art”: Modern Japan’s “language” and strategy (Tokyo: K dansha, 1996), 19. Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgment, trans. J. H. Bernard (1892; Amherst, N.Y.: Prometheus Books, 2000). For an English-language reference to this debate, see Tomoe Nakamura, “The Scope of Aisthetics for Comparative Aesthetics: An Examination of Hoeigaku in Japan,” Aesthetics 23, no. 1 (June 2013): 135–54. Josef Früchtl, “Adorno and Mimesis,” in Encyclopedia of Aesthetics, ed. Michael Kelly (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 1:25; for other examples, see Jacques Ranci re, Dissensus: On Politics and Aesthetics, ed. and trans. Steven Corcoran (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2010); and The Aesthetic Turn in Political Thought, ed. Nikolas Kompridis (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2014). For some of the debates between philosophers of aesthetics and historians of art, see Art History Versus Aesthetics, ed. James Elkins (London: Routledge, 2006). Ongaku, Ongaku torishirabe seiseki shinp sho, 150; al- Amr s , “al-M s q f altarbiya,” 9. Alexander Nehamas, Only a Promise of Happiness: The Place of Beauty in a World of Art (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2007); Elaine Scarry, On Beauty and Being Just (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University, 1999). The parallel between art and sexuality has often been made, by Theodor Adorno among others. See his Aesthetic Theory (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 241. Although this study is indebted to Foucauldian understanding of power and desire, it also tests some of its boundaries. A good example is Foucault’s History of Sexuality. In many ways, art functions similarly to what Foucault refers to as scientia sexualis. Just like sex, in modern societies art “was not something one simply judged; it was a thing one administered.” In both cases, power functioned from the inside out, de ning the boundaries of the permissible and the forbidden. In contrast to the scientia sexualis, Foucault suggests that non-Western societies enjoyed an ars erotica whose organizing principle was pleasure, a pleasure that was “understood as practice and accumulated as experience.” Although William Spurlin and others have criticized this dichotomy as Orientalist, this is not my concern here. Instead, my argument is that the administration of sexuality, or of art, cannot be separated

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35.

36. 37.

38.

39.

40.

41.

42.

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from its pleasure. What makes art, like sexuality, so powerful is the very combination of administrability and pleasure. Both art and sex are potential sources of pleasure, yet both are subject to discipline and control. This double nature of aesthetics is central to this study. Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality (1976; New York: intage, 1990), 24, 57; William J. Spurlin, Imperialism Within the Margins: Queer Representations and the Politics of Culture in Southern Africa (New York: Palgrave Macmillian, 2006), 136–39. For more on scales of history, see Diego Olstein, Thinking History Globally (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015); and Patrick Manning, Navigating World History: Historians Create a Global Past (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003). Carol Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1985). In this sense they are very much like the “moral entrepreneurs described by Miriam Kingsberg in Moral Nation: Modern Japan and Narcotics in Global History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014). David Hamilton, Towards a Theory of Schooling (London: Falmer Press, 1989). The term “modernity” is so multivalent that some have referred to it as a “muddle.” See, for example, Dipesh Chakrabarty, “The Muddle of Modernity,” American Historical Review 116, no. 3 (June 2011): 663–75; and Randolph Starn, “The Early Modern Muddle, Journal of Early Modern History 6, no. 3:296–307. Fukuzawa, Yukichi, “Good-bye Asia” [Datsu-a ron , in Japan: A Documentary History, ed. and trans. David Lu (1885; New York: M. E. Sharpe, 1997), 2:351–53; “Discours de son altesse le Khédive M. Wilson, vice-président de la commission supérieure d’enqu te,” from the Moniteur Égyptien, August 24, 1878, in Afaires étrangères, documents diplomatiques: A aires d’Égypte (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1880), 115. Christopher Hill, “Conceptual Urbanization in the Transnational Nineteenth Century,” in Global Intellectual History, ed. Samuel Moyn and Andrew Sartori (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 134–58. For Japan, see Naoki Sakai, Translation and Subjectivity: On Japan and Cultural Nationalism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008); Harry Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000). Even the division of the world into colonizers and colonized, however, is problematic. It may seem that Europe and the United States belonged to the former and Japan, Egypt, India, and much of Asia and Africa belonged to the latter. Yet even as Egypt was colonized by Great Britain, it colonized the Sudan, and even as Japan was escaping from the Unequal Treaties with European powers and the United States, it was imposing its own Unequal Treaties on Korea and China and was on its way to creating a colonial empire in Asia. Fukuzawa Yukichi, Sekai kuni zukushi [All the countries of the world , in Fukuzawa Yukichi zensh , vol. 2 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1959); Christopher Hill, National History and the World of Nations: Capital, State, and the Rhetoric of History in Japan, France, and the United States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008), 2.

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43. Mus af K mil, Al-shams al-mushriqa, al-juz al-awwal [The rising sun, part 1 (Cairo: al-Liw , 1904), 8–9. 44. kuma Shigenobu, Saikin ejiputo [Modern Egypt (Tokyo: Dai-nippon bunmei ky kai, 1911): 12–13. Bradshow and Ndzesop show that kuma’s position was the outcome of a transformation in Japanese perceptions of Egypt from a fellow victim of Western colonial expansion to a model of how Japan should administer its own colonies. Although Egyptian writers also displayed a broad range of attitudes toward Japan, none of those in Roussillon’s study of Egyptian travelers to Japan expresses any solidarity with Koreans and Chinese resistance to Japanese expansion. “In a world governed by an imperial logic,” writes Roussillon, “the principle was that of the lesser evil: better Japan than Russia.” Alain Roussillon, Identité et modernité: Les voyageurs égyptiens au Japon (XIX–XX siècle [Identity and modernity: Egyptian travelers to Japan ( I – centuries) (Paris: Actes Sud, 2005), 139; For similar arguments, see Renée Worringer, Ottomans Imagining Japan: East, Middle East, and NonWestern Modernity at the Turn of the Twentieth Century (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014); Richard Bradshaw and Ibrahim Ndzesop, “ ictim of Colonialism or Model of Colonial Rule Changing Japanese Perceptions of Egypt, ca. 1860–1930,” Southeast Review of Asian Studies 31 (2009): 143–63; and Matsuda Toshihiko, Governance and Policing of Colonial Korea: 1904–1919 (Kyoto: Nichibunken International Research Center for Japanese Studies, 2011). For a di erent approach that emphasizes the idealistic aspect of non-Western intellectuals, see Cemil Aydin, The Politics of AntiWesternism in Asia: Visions of World Order in Pan-Islamic and Pan-Asian Thought (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007). 45. T. B. Macaulay, “Minute on Education,” in Sources of Indian Tradition, vol. 2, ed. Theodore de Bary (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), 49. 46. In “Of Mimicry and Man,” Homi Bhabha argues that colonial powers would not allow a complete absence of di erence between the bearers of English culture in England and the bearers of English culture in Asia. Colonial ambivalence always sought to maintain a distinction. This may well be true, but the hypothetical situation described above brackets, for a brief moment, di erences in race, power, and other social categories in order to explain the role that aesthetics plays, not from the perspective of the colonial power but from that of people on the receiving end of Western expansion. Homi K. Bhabha, “The Location of Culture,” in The Location of Culture (1994; London: Routledge, 2004), 121–31.

1. The Modern School as a Global Archive 1. The Department of Schools was the successor to the Consultative Council of Schools (Sh r al-mad ris) established in 1836. In the previous decades a small number of modern primary and preparatory schools had existed, mostly under the authority of the Department of War (D w n al-jih diyya).

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2. A mad Izza Abd al-Kar m, T r kh al-ta l m f asr Mu ammad Al [The history of education in the age of Mu ammad Al (Cairo: Matba at al-Nah a al-Mi riyya, 1938); A mad Izza Abd al-Kar m, T r kh al-ta l m f Misr: min nih yat ukm Mu ammad Ali il aw il ukm Tawf q, 1848–1882 [The history of education in Egypt: From the end of the reign of Mu ammad Ali to the beginning of the reign of Tawf q, 1848–1882 , vol. 2 (Cairo: Matba at al-Na r, 1945). 3. A mad Izza Abd al-Kar m, T r kh al-ta l m f Misr: Min nih yat ukm Mu ammad Ali il aw il ukm Tawf q, 1848–1882 [The history of education in Egypt: From the end of the reign of Mu ammad Ali to the beginning of the reign of Tawf q, 1848–1882 , vol. 3 (Cairo: Matba at al-Na r, 1945), 35. 4. Monbush was preceded in February 1869 by the short-lived Daigakk institution for administering education under the early Meiji government. It was renamed Daigaku in December of that same year and Monbush in 1871. 5. “Gakusei,” in Monbukagakusho (Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology), http: www.mext.go.jp b menu hakusho html others detail 1317943.htm. 6. For a detailed look at this process, see the aptly named work by Brian Platt, Burning and Building: Schooling and State Formation in Japan, 1750–1890 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2004). Although imposed by the central government, the entire system was to be funded by local taxes. 7. A waqf is a charitable trust endowed by an individual and considered unalienable under Islamic law. In this case the school is named bene ciary of the yields from the endowment, which it uses to meet salaries and other expenditures. 8. . Édouard Dor, L’instruction publique en Égypte [Public instruction in Egypt (Paris: A. Lacroix, erboechoven, 1872), 303. 9. The uni cation of the two systems began with the Primary Education Law of 1949, although its implementation fell to the Wafd government in 1951 and especially to the postrevolution government after 1952. See Misako Ikeda, “Toward the Democratization of Public Education,” in Re-Envisioning Egypt, 1919–1952, ed. Arthur Goldschmidt, Amy J. Johnson, and Barak A. Salmoni (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2005). 10. Dar al- Ulum initially attempted to train graduates of al-Azhar in the modern sciences, but its graduates were few and its methods were criticized, which led to its restructuring in 1880. 11. Lois Arminé Aroian, “Education, Language, and Culture in Modern Egypt: Dar alUlum and Its Graduates (1872–1923),” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Michigan, 1978; Iman Farag, “A Great ocation, A Modest Profession: Teachers’ Paths and Practices,” in Cultures of Arab Schooling: Critical Ethnographies from Egypt, ed. Linda Herrera and Carlos Alberto Torres (Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 2007), 112–13; Nicolas de Lavergne, “La modernisation du kuttâb en Égypte au tournant du e si cle” [The modernization of the kutt b in Egypt at the turn of the twentieth century , Cahiers de la Méditerranée 75 (December 2007): 74–89; Fritz Steppat, “National Education Projects in Egypt Before the British Occupation,” in

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The Beginnings of Modernization in the Middle East, ed. William R. Polk and Richard L. Chambers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 281–97; Donald M. Reid, “Educational and Career Choices of Egyptian Students, 1882–1922,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 8, no. 3 (July 1977): 349–78. 12. In 1874 some 2.1 percent of the total Egyptian population was enrolled in elite and nonelite primary schools included in the census, while only one year later 5.1 percent of the total Japanese population was enrolled in government primary schools. By 1914 the number was 3.5 percent in Egypt and 12.6 percent in Japan, and by 1951 it was 4.9 percent in Egypt and 13.5 percent in Japan. These numbers, of course, ignore the fact that only a small minority of Egyptian students attended the rst two tiers of modern schools. Until the 1950s an overwhelming majority of Egyptian pupils—95.9 percent in 1874 and 86.3 percent in 1914—were attending nonelite schools whose curricula included few modern subjects. These statistics are problematic in that they are taken from the total population rather than the school-age population and are fraught with uncertainties. Comparison can further magnify these problems. Despite their inaccuracies, however, they provide a rough estimate of the magnitude of the di erence between modern primary education in Japan and in Egypt. Statistics for education in Egypt in 1874 are from Minist re de L’instruction Publique, Statistique des écoles civiles [Statistics of public schools (Cairo: Typographie Parisienne L. Jablin, 1875). The statistics for education in Egypt after 1874 are from Wiz rat al-M liyya [Ministry of Finance , al-I al-sanaw al- mm li’l-qu r alma r li-sana 1917 [General statistical yearbooks of Egypt for the year 1917 (Cairo: Al- ab a al-Am riyya, 1917); and Wiz rat al-M liyya wa al-Iqti d [Ministry of Finance and Economy , al-I al-sanaw al- mm 1951–1952, 1952–1953, 1953–1954 [General statistical yearbooks 1951–1952, 1952–1953, 1953–1954 (Cairo: al- ab a alAm riyya, 1956). The population of Egypt for all years is from al-Jumh riyya alArabiyya al-Mutta ida Masla at al-I wa al-Ti d d [United Arab Republic Department of Statistics and Census , al-I al-sanaw al- mm 1960, 1961 [General statistical yearbooks 1960, 1961 (Cairo: al-Hay a al- mma li-Shu n al-Ma bi alAm riyya, 1962), 10–11. Statistics for education and population in Japan are from Monbush , ed., Monbush dai san nenp [Third annual report of the Ministry of Education , vol. 3 (1875; Tokyo: Senbund , 1964); Monbush , ed., Nippon Teikoku Monbush nenp [Annual report of the Imperial Japanese Ministry of Education 42:1 (1914; Tokyo: Senbund , 1970); and Monbush , ed., Monbush dai 79 nenp [Ministry of Education 79th annual report 79 (1951; Tokyo: Monbusho, 1979). The population of Japan for all years is from S rifu T kei Kyoku, ed., Nihon t kei nenkan [Japan: Statistical yearbook 4 (1952; Tokyo: S rifu T kei Kyoku, 1953), 9–10. Several studies have questioned the transparency and accuracy of Japanese and Egyptian statistics of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. For a discussion of statistics in Meiji, Japan see Richard Rubinger, Popular Literacy in Early Modern Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2007), chap. 5; Hijikata Sonoko, T ky no kindai sh gakk : Kokumin’ ky iku seido no seiritsu katei [Tokyo’s modern primary schools: The formation of a “national” educational system (Tokyo: T ky Daigaku Shuppankai, 2002),

196

13. 14.

15.

16. 17.

18.

19.

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11–23; and Platt, Burning and Building, 247–53. For a discussion of statistics in modern Egypt, see Nicolas de Lavergne, “L’état et le kutt b: une analyse de la statistique scolaire égyptienne naissante (1867–1915)” [The state and the kutt b: An analysis of the birth of Egyptian statistics (1867–1915) , Annales Islamologiques 38 (2004): 371–404. Roger Owen, Lord Cromer: Victorian Imperialist, Edwardian Proconsul (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 314. Unlike Marxist stages of development or modernization theory’s stages of economic growth, this book does not judge the success of the education system in each society. We do not know if children in third- and fourth-tier Egyptian schools had a better or worse educational experience than those in rst- and second-tier schools, or than students in Japan for that matter. What is of interest here is not the success or failure of modern schooling in Japan or Egypt but the introduction of aesthetic education in both societies. For education in the Egyptian kutt b, see Mu ammad Abd al-Jaww r, F kutt b al-qarya [In the mosque school (Egypt: Maktabat al-Ma rif, 1939); and Dor, L’instruction publique en Égypte, 45–115. For education in Japanese terakoya, see Rubinger, Popular Literacy in Early Modern Japan; Richard Rubinger, “Education: From One Room to One System,” in Japan in Transition: From Tokugawa to Meiji, ed. Marius B. Jansen and Gilbert Rozman (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1986), 195–230; and R. P. Dore, Education in Tokugawa Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1965), 271–90. Dore, Education in Tokugawa Japan, 124–52. David Ayalon, “L’esclavage du Mamelouk,” in The Maml k Military Society (London: ariorum Reprints, 1979), 13–14. Abd al-Kar m notes that Mamluk education was on an extremely small scale compared to religious education in the kutt b, or even to the modern schools that succeeded it. Abd al-Kar m, T r kh al-ta l m f asr Mu ammad Al , 18–20. Although curricula containing a list of modern subjects can be found in Egypt before 1874, they do not specify the number of hours of instruction for each subject. Am n S m con rms that the 1874 curricula were the rst intended for all government primary and secondary schools. Am n S m , Taqw m al-n l [Survey of the Nile alley (Cairo: Ma ba at D r al-Kutub al-Mi riyya, 1936), book 3, part 3, 1129–35; Am n S m , al-Ta l m f Mi r [Education in Egypt (Cairo: Ma ba at al-Ma rif, 1917), al-qism al-th lith min al-mul aq t: ta awwur khu a daraj t al-ta l m [Section three of the annex: The development of curricula of the levels of education , 3, 10. Also see Abd al-Kar m, T r kh al-ta l m f Misr, 2:211–22, 422–27. For the text of Egypt’s Law of 10th Rajab 1284, see A mad Izza Abd al-Kar m, Asr Ism l wa al-sanaw t al-mutta ila bihi min ukm Tawf q, 1863–1882 [The age of Ism l and those years in Tawf q’s reign related to it (Egypt: Ma ba at al-Na r, 1945), 3:34–60. For the text of Japan’s Fundamental Code of 1872, see “Meiji gonen Daj kan fukoku 214 g ” [1872 Cabinet Decree no. 214 , in H rei zensho, Meiji go nen [Complete collection of laws and regulations, 1872 (Tokyo: Naikaku Kanp Kyoku, 1912), 146–75.

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20. Japanese schools taught ethics (sh shin ky ju), while Egyptian schools taught Quranic recitation (Qur n kar m or Qur n shar f). 21. Primary school curricula are more useful than secondary school curricula, however, because primary schools feature a single curriculum that can be used to trace and compare the development of drawing education. Secondary schools, on the other hand, are sometimes separated into several tracks or divided by gender. 22. This comparison is possible only if we limit the comparison to modern schools, which in Egypt were elite primary schools. Most Egyptian children attended nonelite kutt b schools, whose instruction continued to consist mostly of teaching reading and writing skills by means of Quranic recitation, sometimes with the addition of arithmetic. A decree by the Ministry of Education in 1913, for example, required kutt b to teach Quranic recitation, writing, dictation, reading, and mathematics, with two hours a week reserved for the principles of Islam and another hour for health education. It was only in 1916 that the ministry renamed the kutt b schools “primary schools” (mad ris al-awwaliyya) and expanded the curriculum by adding drawing, geography, and “the study of things.” In this book these schools are referred to as “nonelite primary schools.” Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya [Ministry of Public Instruction , Q n n ni m al-mak tib allat tad ruh Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya [Law for the system of kutt b schools under the guidance of the Ministry of Public Instruction (Cairo: al- ab a al-Am r yya, 1915). I could not nd the original 1874 curriculum for Egypt, but the number of hours allocated to each subject is available in Am n S m , Taqw m al-n l, book 3, part 3, 1135. 23. Nicolas de Lavergne, “Les écoles coraniques en Égypte, histoire et sociologie du kutt b du début du I e si cle nos jours” [Quranic schools in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Egypt: History and sociology of the kutt b from the beginning of the 19th century to today , unpublished manuscript; Sat Hideo, Ky iku no rekishi [The history of education (Chiba: H s Daigaku, 2000), 44–45; Dore, Education in Tokugawa Japan, 115. Although there were institutions known as “women’s terakoya” in Japan, these were usually limited to providing training in such practical skills as sewing. 24. Minist re de l’Instruction Publique, Statistique des écoles civiles; Wiz rat al-M liyya wa al-Iqti d, al-I al-sanaw al- mm 1951–1952 Monbush , Monbush dai san nenp ; Monbush , Monbush dai 79 nenp . The lower proportion of girls studying in Egyptian government primary schools was to a certain degree compensated for by foreign schools. From the 1920s until after 1950, these contained a much higher proportion of Egyptian girls than Egyptian boys. It was not uncommon for families to send their sons to government schools and their daughters to foreign schools. Wiz rat al-M liyya [Ministry of Finance , al-I al-sanaw al- mm li’l-qu r al-ma r li-sana 1921–1922 [General statistical yearbooks of Egypt for the year 1921–1922 (Cairo: al- ab a al-Am riyya, 1923); Wiz rat al-M liyya, Al- i al-sanawiyya al- ma 1927–1928, 1941–1942 [General statistical yearbooks 1927–1928, 1941–1942 (Cairo: alab a al-Am riyya, 1929, 1942); and Ministry of Finance, Statistical Department, Census of Schools in Egypt (Cairo: Government Press, 1906–1948). Private schooling for girls

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25.

26.

27.

28.

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was also popular in early twentieth-century Japan, although it was especially prominent in higher girls’ schools, which came after basic primary education. Ky ikushi Hensankai, ed., Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi [History of the development of the educational system during and after the Meiji era (1886; Tokyo: Ry ginsha, 1938–1939), 2:256–57, 5:38–42. Ni rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Qar r wiz r raqm 1753 bi-sha n khi at al-dir sa li’l al-mad ris al-ibtid iyya li al-ban t [Departmental Edict Number 1753 regarding the plan of study in primary schools for girls (N.p., 1913), 1. The Egyptian primary school curriculum for boys was four years and fed into secondary schools, while the primary curriculum for girls was six years and led to a terminal degree. The curricula themselves sometimes had optional subjects. This is especially noticeable in postwar Japan, where a conscious e ort to decentralize the educational curriculum gave individual localities and individual schools considerable leeway in amending the curriculum. Pierre Bourdieu, Propos sur le champ politique [Discussion of the political eld (Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 2002), 35. Also see Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature, ed. Randal Johnson (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993). Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (1993; New York: intage, 1994), 51.

Interlude. How Culture Travels: A Global History of the Piano 1. Max Weber, The Rational and Social Foundations of Music, trans. and ed. Don Martindale, Johannes Riedel, and Gertrude Neuwirth (Cabondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1958), 123. 2. Robert Solé, Les savants de Bonaparte [The scholars of Bonaparte (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1998), 149–50, 229. 3. Some of those tunes have been published in Joseph K ner and Philipp Franz von Siebold, Japanische Weisen [Japanese tunes (Leiden, 1836). 4. miya Makoto, Piano no rekishi: Gakki no hensen to ongaku no hanashi [History of the piano: The transformation of the instrument and the story of the musicians (Tokyo: Ongaku no Tomo Sha, 1994), 211–14; Takei Shigemi, “1820 nendai no dejima ni okeru ongaku j ky : Operetta j en to sh boruto no piano wo ch shin ni” [The state of music in 1820s Dejima: Operetta performances and Siebold’s piano , University of Miyazaki, 2007, http: hdl.handle.net 10458 2012. For the piano in China, see Richard Curt Kraus, Pianos and Politics in China: Middle-Class Ambitions and the Struggle Over Western Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989). 5. A mad Izza Abd al-Kar m, T r kh al-ta l m f asr Mu ammad Al [The history of education in the age of Mu ammad Al (Cairo: Matba at al-Nah a al-Mi riyya, 1938), 420–21; J. Heyworth-Dunne, An Introduction to the History of Education in Modern Egypt (London: Luzac 1938, 134–36. 6. Military music had already been introduced to Japan as one aspect of the military sciences that were studied by students of Dutch studies (rangaku) in 1839. Uri

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7.

8. 9.

10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

16.

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Epstein, The Beginnings of Western Music in Meiji Era Japan (Lewiston, N.Y.: Edwin Mellen, 1994), 10–11. Kate van Orden, Music, Discipline, and Arms in Early Modern France (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), chap. 5. For the introduction of military music in Japan, see Epstein, Beginnings of Western Music, 10–19. Okunaka Yasuto, Kokka to ongaku: Izawa Sh ji ga mezashita Nihon kindai [State and music: Japanese modernity as sought by Izawa Sh ji (Tokyo: Shunjusha, 2008), chap. 1. A mad Fahm al- Amr s , “al-M s q f al-tarbiya,” [Music in education , Majalla al-tarbiya al- ad tha 7, no. 1 (October 1933): 10; also see A mad Fahm al- Amr s , F al-tarbiya wa al-ta l m [On Education and schooling (Cairo: al-Ma rifa, 1933), 200. Baron Dairoku Kikuchi, Japanese Education: Lectures Delivered in the University of London (London: John Murray, 1909), 188. Koyama Sh tar , Zuga ky juh k gi [Lecture on methods for teaching drawing (Niigata: Niigataken Ky ikukai, 1909), 8–9. For more on the Japanese treatment of Russian prisoners during the Russo-Japanese War, see Rotem Kowner, “Becoming an Honorary Civilized Nation: Remaking Japan’s Military Image During the RussoJapanese War, 1904–1905,” Historian 64 (2001): 19–38. ab b ak , Ashi at al-fun n [The radiance of art (Cairo: al-Kit b al- Arab , 1947), 21. Kraus, Pianos and Politics in China; Andrew F. Jones, Yellow Music: Media Culture and Colonial Modernity in the Chinese Jazz Age (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2001). Kraus, Pianos and Politics in China, ix. In this sense, the term “Western music” is misleadingly reductionist. Although classical music and opera were dominant, other musical forms such as jazz were often in uential. See, for example, Jones’s discussion of jazz and race in China in Yellow Music; and, on jazz in Japan, see Taylor Atkins, Blue Nippon: Authenticating Jazz in Japan (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2001), and Morasuk Maiku, Sengo Nihon no jazu bunka: Eiga, bungaku, angora [Postwar Japan’s jazz culture: Movies, literature, underground (Tokyo: Seidosha, 2005). Sylvia Spitta, Between Two Waters: Narratives of Transculturation in Latin America (Houston: Rice University Press, 1995), 24. Also see Karen Thornber, Empire of Texts in Motion: Chinese, Korean, and Taiwanese Transculturations of Japanese Literature (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard-Yenching Institute, 2009). Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (1979; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984).

2. Music Education and the Uses of Aesthetics 1. Sat enjir , Sh gakk ky juh [Primary school teaching manual (Tokyo: D bunkan, 1907), 193. 2. A mad Fahm al- Amr s , “al-M s q f al-tarbiya,” [Music in education , Majalla al-tarbiya al- ad tha 7, no. 1 (October 1933): 198–99. 3. Charles T. Smith, The Music of Life: Education for Leisure and Culture: With Curricula Evolved by Experiment in an Elementary School (London: P. S. King, 1918), 13.

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4. Ikuo Jun, Watashi no sh ka ky ju [My teaching manual for singing (Tokyo: T y Tosho, 1924), 12. 5. Ikuo, Watashi no sh ka ky ju; Thomas R. Mayne, Music in the Modern School: A Manual for All Interested in the Teaching of School Music (London: J. M. Dent, 1935), 1–2; Sasaki Sh ichi, Ky iku no h h ni tsuite [On methods of learning (Tokyo: Meguro Shoten, 1925), 195; Kinoshita Takeshi, Gakush kakuron [Explanation of each subject (Tokyo: Meguro Shoten, 1926–1929), 3:370; “Al-Agh n ” [Songs , in al-Majalla al-sanawiyya li-madrasa al-am ra fawziyya al-th nawiyya li’l-ban t 1 (1933): 31–32. 6. A mad s , Kit b al-Ghin li’l-a f l [The book of singing for children (Cairo: Ma ba at al- Am riyya, 1936), preface, dh. 7. Konishi Shigenao and Asada Arata, Shinsei junkyo t g kakuka ky juh [New standard uni ed teaching manual for every subject (Kyoto: Nagasawa Kink d , 1937), 219–20. 8. William C.Woodbridge, “Lecture I on ocal Music as a Branch of Common Education,” in Introductory Discourse and Lectures Delivered in Boston Before the Convention of Teachers and Other Friends of Education Assembled to Form the American Institute of Instruction August 1830 (Boston: Hilliard, Gray, Little and Wilkins, 1831), 248; Estelle R. Jorgensen, “William Channing Woodbridge’s Lecture, On ocal Music as a Branch of Common Education,’ Revisited,” Studies in Music (University of Western Australia), no. 18 (1984): 1–32. 9. Marc Legrand, L’âme enfantine: 50 Chasons pour les Écoles [The child’s soul: 50 songs for schools (Paris: Armand Colin, 1897), 4. For more on music in France during the Third Republic, see Jan Pasler, Composing the Citizen: Music as Public Utility in Third Republic France (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009). 10. Ibr h m R j , Kit b al-Irsh d t [The book of guidance (Cairo: al-Muqa am, 1910), 47. 11. Yamamoto Hisashi, Sh gakk ni okeru sh ka ky ju no riron oyobi jissai [The theory and practice of singing education in primary school (Tokyo: Meguro Shoten, 1918), 5. On Yamamoto Hisashi, see Mimura Mayumi, “Yamamoto Hisashi no ongaku kansh ky ikukan” [Yamamoto Hisashi’s educational vision for music appreciation , Hiroshima Daigaku Daigakuin Ky ikugaku Kenky ka ongaku bunka ky ikugaku kenky kiy 19 (2007). 12. s , Kit b al-Ghin li’l-a f l, preface, [1 ; also see al- Amr s , “al-M s q f altarbiya,” 204; Moroi Sabur , ed., Ongaku ky iku k za [Course in music education (Tokyo: Kawade Shob , 1952), 127. 13. Mona Russell, “Competing, Overlapping, and Contradictory Agendas: Egyptian Education Under British Occupation, 1882–1922,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 21, no. 1–2 (2001): 50–60; and Barak Aharon Salmoni, “Pedagogies of Patriotism: Teaching Socio-Political Community in TwentiethCentury Turkish and Egyptian Education,” Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 2002. 14. This literally means “Eastern music” but is commonly translated as “Arab music.” 15. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Kit b Mu tamar al-m s q al- arabiyya [Proceedings of the Congress of Arab Music (Cairo: al-Ma ba a al-Am riyya, 1933). For more

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16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

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on the congress, see Ali Jihad Racy, “Historical Worldviews of Early Musicologists: An East-West Encounter in Cairo, 1932,” in Ethnomusicology and Modern Music History, ed. Stephen Blum and Daniel M. Neuman (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1993), 68–91. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Kit b Mu tamar al-m s q al- arabiyya, 347. Mu ammad A iyya al-Ibr sh , A dath al- uruq f al-tarbiya li-tadr s al-lugha alarabiyya [Newest methods for the instruction of the Arabic language (Cairo: Nah at Mi r, 1948), 52. itaken Joshi Shihan Gakk , Taiken shugi ni yoru ky do ky iku [Indigenous education according to the theory of experience (Tokyo: K bunsha, 1932), 430. Sakurai Hir , Geijutsuteki kakuka ky juh [Artistic teaching manual by subject (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1926), 320. Beyond music, this critique sometimes extended to tastes and smells. Nationalists referred to Japanese and Westerners in terms of soy and butter. Since Westerners ate butter, they were said to exude a buttery odor, while Japanese who ate soy were understood to exude the less greasy and more familiar odor of soy. Sakurai thus wrote that “because we make children sing just Western songs that stink of butter, children are unsettled vagrants. Not Westerners, not Japanese, they are uncommitted.” The smell of butter was also found in a 1931 teaching manual by the Primary School attached to the Wakayama Prefecture Teachers’ College: “We have been educated with the piano and organ and no longer feel the pleasure of Japanese instruments. After the d y movement [for children’s songs , the lyrics were changed but not the melodies. Ignoring Japanese melodies, rhythms, and accents, songs stinking of butter have been adopted. They do not unite with the feelings of the children.” This dichotomy between butter and soy served to convince Japanese who had grown up playing instruments like the piano that they were inauthentic. Sakurai, Geijutsuteki kakuka ky juh , 322; Wakayamaken Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Sh gakk , ed., Shin ky do ky iku no jissai [The practice of new local education (Tokyo: Meiji Tosho, 1931), 250. The musicologist Hosokawa Sh hei writes that “how the Japanese imperial family could come to be represented by an imported music was a question nobody then dared to ask; few dare to mention it today.” He then gives the example of one prewar Japanese musicologist, Tanabe Hisao, who dared to ask this question but did so in a way that supported Japan’s empire in Asia. Hosokawa translates Tanabe as follows: “China destroys the cultural expressions of the previous dynasty in each revolution but Japan, on the contrary, preserves such things thanks to the imperial family which has reigned uninterrupted for 2600 years. So I am not begging you [to accept gagaku’s return . I will only exert my in uence to have it placed back in your hands when you sincerely express gratitude to the Japanese imperial family.” Shuhei Hosokawa, “In Search of the Sound of Empire: Tanabe Hisao and the Foundation of Japanese Ethnomusicology,” Japanese Studies 18, no. 1 (1998): 7, 9–10. The original is from Tanabe Hisao, “T y ongaku no insh ” [Impressions of Asiatic music (Kyoto: Jinbun Shoin, 1941).

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22. See Eve Troutt Powell, A Di erent Shade of Colonialism: Egypt, Great Britain, and the Mastery of the Sudan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003); and Stefan Tanaka, Japan’s Orient: Rendering Pasts Into History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). 23. H. G. Farmer, “ abl-Kh na,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2d ed., ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, and W. P. Heinrichs (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 10:34. 24. See, for example, D. Crecelius, Ahmad D. Damurdashi, and Abd Al-Wahhab Bakr, Al-Damurdashi’s Chronicle of Egypt 1688–1755: Al-Durra Al-Musana Fi Akhbar Al-Kinana (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 31–32, 53. 25. In seventh-century Arabia there appeared a class of professional male singers who a ected the habits of women and were known as mukhannath n (sing. Mukhannath). See Henry George Farmer, A History of Arabian Music to the XIIIth Century (London: Luzac, 1929), 44–45; Kristina Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qur an (1985; Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2001), 34. 26. R j , Kit b al-Irsh d t, 46. 27. Troutt Powell, A Di erent Shade of Colonialism. 28. Mu ammad Y suf Hamm m and Fu d abd al- Az z Mu ammad, al-Rasm al-taw [Representational drawing (Cairo: D r al-Kutub al-Mi riyya, 1929), 7. 29. Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Egypt, Islam, and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1900–1930 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986). 30. This chronology of Egyptian history is illustrated in the address to the Congress of Arab Music by its secretary general, Ma m d A mad al- ifn . Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Kit b Mu tamar al-m s q al- arabiyya, 1–20; also see Donald Malcolm Reid, “Nationalizing the Pharaonic Past,” in Rethinking Nationalism in the Arab Middle East, ed. James P. Jankowski and Israel Gershoni (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 145. 31. Ma m d A mad al- ifn , M s q qudam al-mi riyy n [The music of ancient Egyptians (Cairo: D r al-Ma b t al-R qiya, 1936). 32. al- Amr s , “al-M s q f al-tarbiya,” 200. 33. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Minhaj al-ta l m al-th naw li’l-ban t [Curriculum of secondary education for girls (Cairo: al-Am riyya, 1935), 206. 34. al- ifn , M s q qudam al-mi riyy n, 7. 35. Koyama Samonji, Shinpen ky juh [New teaching method (Tokyo: Matsumura Mimatsud , 1907), 193. 36. Kitamura Yoshitar , Ky iku ni kan suru ronbun [Treatise on education (Hanamakimachi, Iwate Prefecture: Kitamura Yoshitar , 1901), 5. 37. Kakuzo Okakura, Ideals of the East: The Spirit of Japanese Art (1904; Mineola, N.Y.: Dover, 2005). See Noriko Aso, Public Properties: Museums in Imperial Japan (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014). 38. Tanabe Hisao, T y ongakushi [History of Oriental music (Tokyo: Y zankaku, 1935), 60. For more on Tanabe Hisao see Hosokawa, “In Search of the Sound of Empire.” 39. Kim Brandt, Kingdom of Beauty: Mingei and the Politics of Folk Art in Imperial Japan (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007), 32–35; Yuko Kikuchi, Japanese Modernisation

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40.

41.

42. 43. 44.

45.

46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51.

52. 53.

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and Mingei Theory: Cultural Nationals and Oriental Orientalism (London: Routledge, 2004), 32–36. Nippon H s Ky kai, ed., Shinsei ch t gakk ky ju y moku toriatsukai kaisetsu [Instructional commentary on the syllabus of the new middle schools (Tokyo: Nippon H s Shuppan Ky kai, 1944), 70. Although there are more or less melodic ways of reciting the Quran, the phrase “Quranic cantillation” is used instead of “Quranic recitation” to emphasize the melodic aspect of reading the Quran. Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qur an, xv, 186–87; Lois Ibsen al Faruqi, “The Cantillation of the Qur an,” Asian Music 19, no. 1 (Autumn–Winter 1987). Hilary Kilpatrick, Making the Great Book of Songs: Compilation and the Author’s Craft in Ab l-Faraj al-I bah n ’s Kit b al-Agh n (London: Routledge, 2003), 248. irginia Danielson, The Voice of Egypt: Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997); also see Doris Behrens-Abouseif, Beauty in Arabic Culture (Princeton, N.J.: Markus Wiener, 1999), 75–76. A mad Am n, Q m s al- d t wa al-taq l d wa al-ta b r al-mi riyya [Dictionary of Egyptian customs and expressions (1953; Cairo: al-Majlis al-A la li’l-Thaq fa, 1999), 449–50. Danielson, The Voice of Egypt, 160. Amonon Shiloah, Music in the World of Islam: A Socio-Cultural Study (London: Scolar Press, 1995), 31. Ab mid al-Ghaz l , I y ul m al-d n [Revival of the religious sciences , vol. 2 (Cairo: D r I y al-Kutub al- Arabiyya, 1957), 266–301. On the various attitudes to music and the sacred, see, for example, Michael Frishkopf, “Tarab in the Mystic Su Chant of Egypt,” in Colors of Enchantment: Visual and Performing Arts of the Middle East, ed. Sherifa uhur (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2001), 233–69; Scott L. Marcus, Music in Egypt (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 89–95; Lois Ibsen al Faruqi, “Music, Musicians and Muslim Law,” Asian Music 17, no. 1 (Autumn–Winter 1985): 3–36; Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qur an. Edward William Lane, Manner and Customs of the Modern Egyptians (1836; London: John Murray, 1860), 353. Hosokawa Sh hei, “Ongaku, Onky Music, Sound,” Working Words: New Approaches to Japanese Studies, Center for Japanese Studies, University of California Berkeley, April 20, 2012, https: escholarship.org uc item 9451p047, 2; also see William P. Malm, Traditional Japanese Music and Musical Instruments (1959; Tokyo: Kodansha International, 2000); and The Ashgate Research Companion to Japanese Music, ed. Alison McQueen Tokita and David W. Hughes (Hampshire, U.K.: Ashgate, 2008). Fukuzawa Yukichi, The Autobiography of Fukuzawa Yukichi, trans. Eiichi Kiyooka (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 4–5. Malm, Traditional Japanese Music, 193. In one of his short stories, the famed seventeenth-century ction writer Ihara Saikaku provides an interesting sketch of

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54. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66.

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the status of koto in the context of early modern Japanese recreational practices: “ When it comes to hobbies, the koto, go, calligraphy and painting of course make a good impression,’ his father sensibly admonished, as well as things like the tea ceremony, kemari (a hacky-sack-like kickball game associated with the imperial aristocracy), short-bow archery and Noh chanting. But it just isn’t proper for you to strip o your clothes and battle it out, risking life and limb. You must give this up at once, start associating with the right sort of companions and learn to read the four Chinese classics.’ ” Ihara Saikaku, “An Untoward Pride in His Own Strength,” in “Twenty Cases of Filial Impiety in Japan, trans. and annot. David Gundry, unpublished manuscript, 2. Eiko Ikegami, Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 156–57. Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa, The Autobiography of Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa, ed. his sons (Tokyo, 1917), 30–31. T ky shi Atago K t Sh gakk , ed, K t sh gaku gakush shid keitai no kenky [Research on the structure of the course of study for higher primary schools (Tokyo: Nank sha, 1936), 318. Ongaku Torishirabesho, Ongaku torishirabe seiseki shinp sho [Report on the results of an inquiry into music (Tokyo: Monbusho, 1884), 153. Mark A. Jones, Children as Treasures: Childhood and the Middle Class in Early Twentieth Century Japan (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), 251. Woodbridge, “Lecture I ,” 240–41. Woodbridge, “Lecture I ,” 238. Mu ammad Y suf Hamm m, “al-Dhawq al-sal m (t bi ) [The good taste (continued) , Majalla al-tarbiya al- ad tha 5, no. 4 (April 1932): 295. Nakamura Y kichi, Kakuka jissai no ky do ky iku [Practical regional education by subject (Tokyo: K seikaku Shoten, 1931), 298, 292. Elaine Scarry, On Beauty and Being Just (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1999), 95, 114. Alexander Nehamas, “The Place of Beauty and the Role of alue in the World of Art,” Critical Quarterly 42, no. 3 (2003): 11. For a comparison of the approaches of Scarry and Nehamas, see Ivan Gaskell, “Beauty,” in Critical Terms for Art History, ed. Robert S. Nelson and Richard Shi , 2d ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 267–80. It should be said that many contemporary philosophers of aesthetics, far from agreeing with Scarry, also disagree with Nehamas in that they do not even recognize the concept of beauty as relevant or useful. E. W. Howson, “The Teaching of Music in Public Schools,” in Thirteen Essays on Education by Members of the XIII (London: Percival, 1891), 30. This observation comes from Louis-Albert Bourgault-Ducoudray’s report to the French Minister of Education: L. A. Bourgault-Ducoudray, “Rapport de M. BourgaultDucoudray” [Report of Mr. Bourgault-Ducoudray , in Minist re de l’instruction publique. Rapports sur l’enseignement du chant dans les écoles primaires (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1881), 24–25.

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67. Sasaki Seinoj , Sh gakk ky juh enkakushi [History of the development of primary school teaching methods (Tokyo: K seikaku Shoten, 1930), 222. 68. Yves Déloye, École et citoyenneté: L’individualisme républicain de Jules Ferry à Vichy: Controverses (Paris: Presses de la Fondation Nationale des Sciences Politiques, 1994). 69. See, for example, Danton’s alleged quip that “if Figaro killed o the nobility, Charles I will kill of royalty.” Paul Friedland, Political Actors: Representative Bodies and Theatricality in the Age of the French Revolution (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2002), 263. 70. [Marie-Joseph Chénier, Gazette Nationale ou le Moniteur Universel, no. 316, sextidi 16 Thermidor, l’an 3 (August 3, 1795), in Réimpression de l’ancient moniteur, seule histoire authentique et inaltérée de la revolution Française Depuis la reunion des États-Généraux jusqu’au consulat, vol. 25: Convention Nationale (Paris: Henri Plon, 1862), 364; also see Bernarr Rainbow and Gordon Cox, Music in Educational Thought and Practice (1989; Su olk, U.K.: Boydell, 2006), 132. 71. For a discussion of the porous boundary between religion and secularism, see the seminal work by Talal Asad, Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2003). 72. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Man hij maw d al-dir sa li’l-mar ala al-ibtid iyya [Curricula of study for the primary level (Cairo: Ma ba at Wiz rat al-Ma rif alUm miyya, 1953), 6. 73. In Quranic recitation, children copied parts of the Quranic text and read it out loud. In the process they committed it to memory and absorbed its moral lessons. The oral rendition of the text was of foremost importance and in many ways was musical. Although Quranic recitation in schools, which used the less melodious murattal style of recitation, may not have been as musical as the more melodious mujawwad style that was common for adults, even in schools the quality and melody of the voice were important. In her eldwork in 1970s Cairo, Kristina Nelson noticed that schoolchildren cantillated in the murattal style, which was more suited to reading and memorization. Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qur an, 138. 74. Gregory Starrett, Putting Islam to Work: Education, Politics, and Religious Transformation in Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 71. 75. Starrett, Putting Islam to Work. 76. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Man hij maw d al-dir sa li’l-mar ala al-ibtid iyya, 6. 77. Matsumoto Nikichi, Ky iku Chokugo no sh ka [Song of the Imperial Rescript on Education (Osaka: Hanai Usuke, 1891), 4. 78. For more on the Imperial Rescript on Education, see Benjamin Duke, The History of Modern Japanese Education: Constructing the National School System, 1872–1890 (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2008), 348–70. 79. “Al-Agh n ,” 1:32. 80. Abd al- al m Al , al-Tarbiya al-m s qiyya, juz awwal, wa al- ulf j al-ghin , juz th ni [Music education, part one, and music theory for singing, part two (Cairo: Ma ba at K st t m s wa Shurak h, n.d.), 4, 23.

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81. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Man hij maw d al-dir sa li’l-mar ala al-ibtid iyya, 6. 82. Patricia Tsurumi, Factory Girls: Women in the Thread Mills of Meiji Japan (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1990), 92–102; Mariko Tamanoi, Under the Shadow of Nationalism: Politics and Poetics of Rural Japanese Women (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998), 55–84; Anne Clément, “Rethinking Peasant Consciousness’ in Colonial Egypt: An Exploration of the Performance of Folksongs by Upper Egyptian Agricultural Workers on the Archaeological Excavation Sites of Karnak and Dendera at the Turn of the Twentieth Century (1885–1914),” History and Anthropology 21, no. 2 (June 2010): 73–100; 83. James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992). 84. Tanimoto Tomeri, Jitsuy ky ikugaku oyobi ky juh [Applied pedagogy or teaching method (Tokyo: Rokumeikan, 1894), 318. 85. Al , al-Tarbiya al-m s qiyya, juz awwal, 4. 86. Wakayamaken Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Sh gakk , Shin ky do ky iku no jissai, 252. 87. Hiromu Nagahara, Tokyo Boogie-Woogie: Japan’s Pop Era and Its Discontents (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2017). 88. Caernarvonshire Education Committee, “Memorandum on the Teaching of Music in Secondary and Primary Schools” (N.p., 1931), 5. 89. Mich le Alten, “Un si cle d’enseignement musical l’école primaire,” Vingtième Siècle: Revue d’histoire 55 (July–September 1997): 9. 90. Jones, Children as Treasures, 73. 91. iad Fahmy, Ordinary Egyptians: Creating the Modern Nation Through Popular Culture (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2011). 92. For a description of the interaction between a more or less conservative cultural elite and the consumer record industry, see Ali Jihad Racy, “Musical Change and Commercial Records in Egypt 1904–1932,” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 1977; and Nagahara, Tokyo Boogie-Woogie. It is interesting that the di usion of popular music driven by transnational record companies dates from the rst decade of the twentieth century in Egypt but only from the late 1920s, about two and a half decades later, in Japan. While in the realm of education, where the state was the main actor, Japan is usually decades ahead of Egypt in introducing new subjects like music and new educational philosophies, in terms of the penetration of transnational capital into local markets and its in uence on popular culture, the reverse was true. 93. T ky shi Atago K t Sh gakk , K t sh gaku gakush shid keitai no kenky , 320. 94. Yoshida Kumaji, Ky iku ky ju no shomondai [ arious problems in education and teaching (Tokyo: Meguro Shoten, 1913), 421. 95. Sakurai, Geijutsuteki kakuka ky juh , 320. 96. Tochigiken Joshi Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Sh gakk Ky ka Kenky bu, Shid no jissai o kich to seru kakuka ky ju y k [Practical guidelines for teaching by curricular subject (Utsunomiya, Ibaraki: Sh eid Shoten, 1927), 183. 97. Sakurai, Geijutsuteki kakuka ky juh , 321.

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98. Koide K hei, Sh ka shinky juh [New teaching method for singing (Tokyo: Ky iku Kenky kai, 1927), 10. 99. It is unclear why Egyptian sources do not have misgivings about the success of school music education. One reason may simply be the late introduction of school music in Egypt, in 1931, and the time that it took to take root. Since I looked at sources up to the 1950s, educators may not have had the time to re ect on the failures of their music education projects. An interesting reference to the failure of music can be seen in Andrew Jones’s quote of a Chinese critic, who suggests that the Guomindang’s regulation of the cultural industry was failing: “But the [songs provided by the party better not be too dull or too proper, because nowadays most people in shops and homes see the wireless as a form of entertainment, so it wouldn’t hurt if the songs are a little soft, even a little fragrant and eshy. As long as they add a few inspiring patriotic slogans to these soft, fragrant and eshy tunes, we’ll soon have what we might call entertainment that doesn’t neglect national salvation ’ ” Chang Ping, “Shu Guanyu yin yue’ hou” [After writing “On lewd music” , Kaiming 8 (1929): 416, quoted in Jones, Yellow Music, 119. 100. Theodor W. Adorno, “Kritik des Musikanten” in Gesammelte Schriften 14: Dissonanzen. Einleitung in die Musiksoziologie (1932; Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp erlag, 1973), 67–107. 101. Theodor W. Adorno, The Culture Industry, trans. Jay M. Bernstein (London: Routledge, 2001), 150. 102. Among countless publications on music and the Third Reich, notable works speci cally on music education include Ulrich Günther, ”Musikerziehung im Dritten Reich,” in Handbuch der Musikpädagogik, vol. 1, ed. Hans-Christian Schmidt (Kassel: B renreiter, 1986); and Alexandra Kertz-Welzel, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin: Adorno on Music Education,” Research Studies in Music Education, no. 25 (2005): 1–12. 103. Theodor W. Adorno, “ ur Musikp dagogik” in Gesammelte Schriften 14: Dissonanzen. Einleitung in die Musiksoziologie (1957; Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp erlag, 1973), 108–26; Kertz-Welzel, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” 5–6. 104. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Werke [Works , Hamburger ed., vol. 3: Dramatische Dichtungen I, Faust II, 11 (Munich: DT , 1981), 292.

3. Writing Education and the Location of Aesthetics 1. Koyama Sh tar , “Sho wa bijutsu narazu [Writing is not a ne art , T y gakugei zasshi 8 (1882): 24–27; 9 (1882): 27–28; 10 (1882): 19–23; Okakura Kakuz , “Sho wa bijutsu narazu o yomu,” [Comment on “Writing is not a ne art” , T y gakugei zasshi 11 (1882): 27–30; 12 (1882): 62–63; 15 (1882): 163–64. 2. Outside of the school, however, national exhibitions continued to include calligraphy among the ne arts, and children often had the option of attending afterschool calligraphy classes.

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3. Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi [History of the development of the educational system during and after the Meiji era , Ky ikushi Hensankai (1877; Tokyo: Ry ginsha, 1938–1939), 3:40, 4:115. 4. Charles Northend, The Teachers’ Assistant or Hints and Methods in School Discipline and Instruction Being a Series of Familiar Letters to One Entering Upon the Teachers’ Work (1859; Chicago: Sherwood, 1865), 179. This manual attributed the quote to J. W. Payson, Payson, Dunton Scribner’s Combined System of Rapid Writing: no. 1–10 (Boston: Crosby, Nichols, 1855–1857). The translation appeared as Ch ruzu Noruzento, Ky shi hitsudoku [Required reading for teachers , trans. Fan Kasut ru, ed. Kobayashi Hei (n.p.: Monbush , 1876). 5. Tomizawa Naonori, Ochi Tadashi, Sh gaku ky juh [Primary school teaching manual (Tokyo: Fuky sha, 1893), 148. 6. Ha an Tawf q [al- Adl , Kit b al-B d g jiy f al-ta l m wa al-tarbiya al- amaliyy n [Pedagogical guide for the teaching and education of teachers (Cairo: al-Ma ba a alKubr al-Am riyya bi-B l q, 1892), 2:65. 7. Mizutani Kamesabur , Kokutei kakikata ky ju shishin [Government-designated guidebook for writing classes (Osaka: Sh bid , 1907), 1–2. 8. Mizutani, Kokutei kakikata ky ju shishin, preface, 2. 9. Abd al- Az z J w sh was also director of the journal al- lam al- n. Abd al- Az z J w sh, Ghuniyat al-mu addib n f al- uruq al- ad tha li’l-tarbiya wa al-ta l m [The treasure of tutors in the modern paths toward learning and education (1903; Cairo: Matba at al-Hid ya, 1910), 113. 10. Sait Gakusan, ed., Jikken: Kakikata ky juh [Experiment: Teaching method for writing (Tokyo: Nisshind , 1916), 100. 11. T ky K t Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Sh gakk Shot Ky iku Kenky kai, Sh gaku kakikata k hitsu m hitsu ky ju saimoku [Précis on writing education with the hard tip and the brush in primary schools (Tokyo: Baif kan, 1923), 2. 12. Nakayama Shi, “Taipurait ni yoru kamotsu ts chisho no sakusei” [Writing shipping notices on a typewriter , Manejimento, July 1928, 107–10. 13. Am n Murs Qand l, Us l al-tarbiya wa fann al-tadr s [The basis of education and the art of instruction (1914; Egypt: al-Ma ba a al- Arabiyya bi-Mi r, ca. 1924), 169. 14. For Japan, see Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi, vol. 1, ed. Ky ikushi Hensankai (1877; Tokyo: Ry ginsha, 1938–1939), 397–417; for Egypt, see elite or nonelite primary school curricula from 1885 to 1949. 15. Founded in 1873, the Meirokusha Society consisted of some of Japan’s leading enlightenment thinkers. 16. Nishimura Shigeki, “Dai ni daigakku junshi k tei” [Report on the inspection of the Second University District , in Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi, vol. 1, ed. Ky ikushi Hensankai (1877; Tokyo: Ry ginsha, 1938–1939), 466, 462–71. 17. Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi, 2:254. 18. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Qar r wiz r raqm 1951 sh mil khi at al-dir sa almu aqqata bi al-mad ris al-awwaliyya li’l-ban n (mak tib al-ban n [Ministerial Edict

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19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

30.

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Number 1951 for temporary study in elementary schools for boys (Cairo: alAm riyya, 1916), 14. Mitobe Toramatsu, Kakikata ky ju no jissaiteki shinshuch [Practical new arguments for the teaching of writing (Tokyo: Dai Nihon Gakujutsu Ky kai, 1921), 37. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Mad ris al-mu allim n al-awwaliya [Teachers’ colleges for primary school teachers (n.p.: c.a. 1925), 34. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Man hij al-dir sa li-mad ris al-mar ala al- wl li’lban n wa al-ban t [Curricula of study for schools of the rst stage for boys and girls (Cairo: al-Am riyya, 1947), 63. Morioka Tsunez , Sh gaku ky juh [Primary school teaching method (Tokyo: Kink d Shoseki, 1899), 279–80. See, for example, Okuyama Kind , Bunken sh jika no soshikiteki kenky [Systematic research of the writing section of the examination for the secondary school teacher’s license (Tokyo: Keibunsha Shuppan, 1931); Kagami Torao, Shod ky iku [Calligraphy education (Tokyo: T y Tosho, 1938); Matsuda Tomokichi, Kokumin gakk shogakunen ky jushitsu no keiei [Management of the classroom in the lower grades of national schools (Tokyo: Keibunsha Shuppan, 1941); Tanaka Kaian, Shod ky iku no genri to jissai [The theory and practice of calligraphy education (Tokyo: Fuzanb , 1938). Herbert Spencer, Education: Intellectual, Moral and Physical (1888; N.p.: Elibrog Classics, 2006). This work was translated into Japanese in 1880 and Arabic in 1890. Harubaruto Supenseru, Ky ikuron [Theory of education , trans. Seki Shinpachi (Tokyo: Monbush , 1880); Sbansa [Herbert Spencer , al-Tarbiya [Education , trans. Mu ammad al-Sib (Cairo: Ma ba at al-Jar da, 1308 [1890 CE ). Kagami, Shod ky iku, 50. Tanaka, Shod ky iku no genri to jissai, 43. Sunami Genichi, “Kokumin gakk gein ka sh ji” [National elementary school Art Section Calligraphy , in Sho no tomo 7, no. 4 (1941), reprinted in Kat Tassei, ed., Shosha shod ky ikushi shiry [Documents on the history of writing and calligraphy education , vol. 3 (Tokyo: T ky H rei Shuppan, 1984), 157. Kindai Nihon Ky iku Seido Shiry Hensankai, ed., Kindai Nihon ky iku seido shiry [Documents on modern Japan’s system of education (Tokyo: Dai Nihon Y benkai K dansha, 1956–1959), 229–57. Kindai Nihon Ky iku Seido Shiry Hensankai, Kindai Nihon ky iku seido shiry , 556– 59. Although this decision was mandated for the 1943 curriculum, it was decided by the Ministry of Education in 1936. In addition to secondary schools (middle schools in the prewar educational system), a similar change was mandated for higher teachers’ colleges and art schools. Kagami, Shod ky iku, 29–30. The martial arts, bud , were also included in the 1941 primary school curriculum. In this curriculum, however, calligraphy class in the art section was referred to not as shod , “the way of writing,” as in the middle school curriculum, but by the more common appellation sh ji, “the learning of letters.” Kindai Nihon Ky iku Seido Shiry Hensenkai, Kindai Nihon ky iku seido shiry , 229–57.

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31. In his article on the invention of the martial arts in late nineteenth-century Japan, Inoue Shun notes that the use of the character d in bud referred to martial skills not as a training for combat but as ends unto themselves. In the modern age the goal of the martial arts became self-perfection. Similarly, in modern schools the goal of calligraphy in the art section or as an independent subject in Shod class was not to teach children to write but to train their inner self. Inoue Shun, “The Invention of the Martial Arts: Kan Jigor and K d kan Judo,” in Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan, ed. Stephen lastos (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 163–73. 32. Kevin Michael Doak, Dreams of Di erence: The Japanese Romantic School and the Crisis of Modernity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). 33. Ishibashi Keij r , “Gein ka sh ji no ky iku” [Calligraphy education in the art section , in Kokumin gakk kenky s sho, vol. 10: Gein ka kenky , ed. Konishi Shigenao, Onohara Kura, and Obara Kuniyoshi (Tokyo: Tamagawa Gakuen, 1940), 147. 34. Kagami, Shod ky iku, 60. 35. Kagami, Shod ky iku, 57–58. 36. Tanaka, Shod ky iku no genri to jissai, 44. 37. Ishikawa Mokugyo, Kakikata ky iku no shinkenky [New research in writing education (Tokyo: Keibunsha, 1937), 119. 38. See Shinsei hipp ron [Treatise on the correctness of heart and brush , 6 vols. (n.p.: Tanimura Bunk , n.d.). For more on writing in the Edo period, see Peter Kornicki, The Book in Japan: A Cultural History from the Beginning to the Nineteenth Century (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001). A similar belief in the connection between the heart and the brush can be found in many early societies. For China, for example, see references to the early modern era in Richard Curt Kraus, Brushes with Power: Modern Politics and the Chinese Art of Calligraphy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). 39. Kaibara Ekiken, Y j kun, wazoku d jikun [Teachings on health and teachings for Japanese children , ed. Ishikawa Ken (1710; Tokyo: Ekken ensh Kank bu, 1910– 1911), 205. 40. Q d A mad, Calligraphers and Painters: A Treatise by Q d A mad, Son of M r-Munsh (circa A.H. 1015 A.D. 1606 , trans. from Persian by T. Minorsky (Washington, D.C.: Freer Gallery of Art, 1959), 121–22. 41. Mu ammad Kha b Ha an and Abd al-Ra m n Mu ammad Ibr h m, Kit b alad th f uruq al-tadr s li mud rris al-ta l m al-ilz m [New book on methods of learning for teachers’ colleges and compulsory schools teachers (Alexandria: al ald n, 1934), 124. 42. Al Umar, Hid yat al-mudarris li’l-ni m al-madras wa uruq al-tadr s [A teacher’s guide to the school system and to the ways of teaching , 4th ed. (Cairo: Madrasat Damanh r al- in iyya, 1916), 188; Mu ammad Al Mu af and Man r Sulaym n, al-Tadr s u luhu wa ar iquhu [Study: Its foundations and its methods , 2nd ed. (Egypt: al-Ra m niyya, 1933), 133; Mu ammad Al Mu af et al., Kit b Mab di altarbiya, al-juz al-th n [The book of the principles of education, part 2 (Cairo: s al-B b al- alab , 1938), 19.

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43. For references to the objectives of calligraphy, also see Tawf q, Kit b al-B d g jiy f al-ta l m wa al-tarbiya al- amaliyy n, 65; Qand l, Us l al-tarbiya wa fann al-tadr s, 167; Mu ammad Ab Shanab, Mudhakir t li’l- alaba f kay yyat tadr s al- ul m [Notes for students on the method of studying the sciences (Beni Seuf: Ma ba at Madrasat Ban Suwayf al- in iyya, 1928), 60; Mu ammad abd al- Az z al-Najj r, Al-tawjih t al- ilmiyya li-mu allim al-mak tib al- ma wa al-mad ris al-awwaliya [Practical guidance for teachers of public mak tib and primary schools (Cairo: Maktabat al- ab , ca. 1936), 86. 44. T ky -fu Aoyama Shihan Gakk , Sh gakk kakuka ky juh [Primary school teaching manual by subject (Tokyo: Meiji Tosho, 1938), 59. 45. Kagami, Shod ky iku, 60–61, 62. 46. tsuka Jiroku and Kasai Yoshio, S sakuteki kakikata ky ju no shinch to jissai [New wave and practice of creative writing education (Tokyo: Hakata Seish d , 1926), 63–64. 47. Harry Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000). 48. Raja Adal, “Japan’s Bifurcated Modernity: Writing and Calligraphy in Japanese Public Schools, 1872–1943,” Theory, Culture and Society 26, no. 2–3 (2009): 233–47. 49. Ishibashi Keij r , “Sh ji ky iku no mezasu mono” [The goal of writing education , Ky iku s z 9, no. 3 (March 20, 1956): 1. 50. Kindai Nihon Ky iku Seido Shiry Hensankai, Kindai Nihon ky iku seido shiry , 23:117. 51. Ishibashi, “Sh ji ky iku no mezasu mono,” 3. 52. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Man hij al-dir sa li-mad ris al-mar ala al- wl , 62. 53. Salama Musa, “Arabic Language Problems,” Middle Eastern A airs 6 (1955): 43. Musa makes similar arguments in earlier works: Sal ma M s , Mi r al- add ra [The Egypt of civilization (1935; Cairo: al-Ma ba a al- A riyya, 1950); and Sal ma M s , alBal gha al- a riyya wa al-lugha al- arabiyya [Contemporary rhetoric and the arabic language (1945; Cairo: Sal ma M s , 1964), 141–66. Also see Yasir Suleiman, The Arabic Language and National Identity: A Study in Ideology (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003), 188–90. The other prominent advocate of Romanization in Egypt was Abd al- Az z Fahm , a leading gure of the Wafd Party and a government minister. 54. Geo rey Lewis, “Chapter 3: The New Alphabet,” in The Turkish Language Reform: A Catastrophic Success (1999; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 27–39; Louis Bazin, “La réforme linguistique en Turquie,” in Language Reform: History and Future, vol. 1, ed. Istvan Fodor and Claude Hag ge (Hamburg: Buske erlag Hamburg, 1983), 156–77; Ivan Parker Hall, Mori Arinori (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973), 189–95. 55. One important di erence between the Japanese and Arabic scripts ought to support the argument that Romanizing Japanese, or any language using Chinese characters, is much more bene cial than Romanizing the Arabic script. In Japan Romanization would save Japanese children from having to learn the thousands of

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57.

58. 59. 60. 61.

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characters that are central to language acquisition in both primary and secondary school. In Egypt, on the other hand, Romanization may have presented some advantages, like removing the need for several forms of each letter or making vowels an integral part of each word, but it would not have had nearly as extensive an impact on the amount of time it takes to learn the written language. This di erence makes it all the more interesting that the Romanization movement in Japan was not visibly more prominent than in Egypt. It may also suggest that the success or failure of Romanization movements was due to social as much as to linguistic factors. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, ed., ur f al-t j wa al m t al-tarq m wa maw i isti m lih [Crown Letters and the rules of punctuation and the occasions when it is used (Cairo: al-Am riyya, 1931), 2–3. In an article on punctuation, Dana Awad describes how Latin and other punctuation marks had already been used by writers, most notably A mad ak in the introduction to his book Life in Paris in 1900 and in his subsequent treatise on punctuation, Punctuation and Its Markings in the Arabic Language. By introducing them in schools, however, the Egyptian Ministry of Education made them part of public education. A mad ak , al-Duny f b r s [Life in Paris (Cairo: al-Ma ba a alAm riyya, Cairo, 1900); A mad ak , al-Tarq m wa- al m tuh f al-lugha al- arabiyya [Punctuation and its markings in the Arabic language (1912; Aleppo: Maktab alMa b t al-Isl miyya, 1995). See Dana Awad, “The Evolution of Arabic Writing Due to European In uence: The Case of Punctuation,” Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies 15 (2015): 117–36. Shlomit Shraybom Shivtiel, “Language and Political Change in Modern Egypt,” International Journal of the Sociology of Language 137 (1999): 131–40. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, ur f al-t j wa al m t al-tarq m wa maw i isti m lih , 3. Ha z A Pasha, “Crown Letters: Capitals and Punctuation Signs in Arabic,” Great Britain and the East 40 (1931): 3. Japan had its own language reform in the late nineteenth century. Known as the genbun icchi movement, it sought to unify the spoken and the written word. Like most modern language reforms, it was also modeled on Western languages. For more about the movement, see, among others, Hiraku Shimoda, “Tongues-Tied: The Making of a National Language’ and the Discovery of Dialects in Meiji Japan,” American Historical Review 115, no. 3 (June 2010): 714–31. A , “Crown Letters,” 304.

Interlude. Mimesis and Seduction in National Anthems 1. Arjun Appadurai, “How to Make a National Cuisine: Cookbooks in Contemporary India,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 30, no. 1 (1988). 2. Hans-Alexander Kneider, “Franz Eckert: ersuch einer koreanischen Nationalhymne,” in Franz Eckert, Li Mirok, Yun Isang: Botschafter fremder Kulturen, ed. Martin H.

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Schmidt (Norderstedt, Germany: Books on Demand, 2008), 44–45; Michael E. Geisler, “Introduction: What Are National Symbols—and What Do They Do to Us,” in National Symbols, Fractured Identities: Contesting the National Narrative, ed. Michael E. Geisler (Lebanon, N.H.: Middlebury College Press, 2005), xxv. “Kokka ni kanshi yama gensui kakka no danwa” [O -the-cu remarks by His Excellency General yama about the national anthem , in Wada Shinjir , Kimi ga yo to banzai (Tokyo: K f kan Shoten, 1932), 54. Odagiri Nobuo, Kokka Kimi ga yo no kenky [Research on the national anthem “The Reign of Our Lord” (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1965), 1–32; Nait Takatoshi, Mitsu no “Kimi ga yo”: Nihonjin no oto to kokoro no shins [Three versions of “The Reign of Our Lord”: The sound of the Japanese and the depths of the heart (Tokyo: Ch K ron Shinsha, 1990), 23–41. This was far from unique. In the late nineteenth century the United States and most other Western countries had several popular national songs, one of which eventually emerged as the uno cial national anthem. Odagiri, Kokka Kimi ga yo no kenky , 1–32; Hermann Gottschewski, “Hoiku Sh ka and the Melody of the Japanese National Anthem Kimi Ga Yo,” T y ongaku kenky 68 (2002): 1–17. Noriko Manabe disagrees with Gottschewski’s argument. She does not see any similarity between Fenton’s “The Reign of Our Lord” from 1869 and the version written by gagaku court musicians in 1880. Most studies, including Manabe’s, however, concur that the 1880 version of “The Reign of Our Lord” was harmonized by Eckart, allowing it to be orchestrated in Western style, although it did retain a certain feel associated with gagaku. Noriko Manabe, “Western Music in Japan: The Evolution of Styles in Children’s Songs, Hip-Hop, and Other Genres,” Ph.D. dissertation, City University of New York, 2009, nn. 144, 145. Monbusho Ongaku Torishirabe Gakari, ed., Sh kash [Compilation of songs (1881; Tokyo: Nihon Jid Bungakukan, 1971); Luther Whiting Mason, Second Music Reader: A Course of Exercises in the Elements of Vocal Music and Sight-Singing, with Rote Songs for the Use of Schools and Families (Boston: Ginn Brothers, 1873). The melody for “Glorious Apollo” can be found in American textbooks such as Charles Aiken et al., The Young Singer’s Manual (Cincinnati: Wilson, Hinkle, [1866 ), 130–31; and Julius Eichberg, The High School Music Reader for the Use of Mixed and Boys’ High Schools (1875; Boston, Ginn, Heath, 1885), 77–80. Also see Genten ni yoru kindai sh kash sei: Tanj , hensen, denpa [Compilation of modern school songs according to original sources: Birth, transformation, transmission , vol. 7, ed. Yasuda Hiroshi (Tokyo: Bikut Entateinmento, 2000), 51; Masafumi Ogawa, “Early Twentieth Century American In uences on the Beginning of Japanese Public Music Education: An Analysis and Comparison of Selected Music Textbooks Published in Japan and the United States,” Doctor of Music Education dissertation, Indiana University, 2000. For a musical analysis of these songs, see Manabe “Western Music in Japan,” 109–37. Fukuzawa Toyokichi, ed., Ch t sh kash [Collection of songs for middle schools (Tokyo: T ky Ongaku Gakk , 1989), no. 1. Kuroda Teiji and Kinoshita Kunimasa, eds., Ky jujutsu [Teaching techniques (Tokyo: Bungakusha, 1891), 130.

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9. Two other educators, Ishihara Wasabur and Tominaga Iwatar , echoed the idea that music was a weapon of war. The two were teachers at the primary school attached to the Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College, the highest educational authority in Japan next to the Ministry of Education. They wrote in 1899 that “sad music has the power to make warriors who overcome mountains cry, while courageous music has the power to move cowards.” Ishihara was particularly well-known for his role in composing genbun itchi sh ka, which were sanitized versions of popular songs rewritten in modern Japanese. Ishihara Wasabur and Tominaga Iwatar , Jikken ky juh [Experimental teaching method (Tokyo: D bunkan, 1899), 275. 10. Kuroda and Kinoshita, Ky jujutsu, 130. 11. “L’origine de l’hymne national Égyptien” [The origin of the Egyptian national anthem , in Cahiers d’histoire Égyptienne 5, no. 1 (March 1953): 92–93; Giuseppe Pugioli, A Sua Altezza Ismail Pascia Khedive D’Egytto: Terza Raccolta di Cinque Canzoni Arabe con il Saluto Vicereale L’Afendina (Transcritte per Pianoforte [To His Highness the Pasha Ism l of Egypt: Third collection of ve Arabic songs including the greeting to the viceroy “l’A endina” (transcribed for pianoforte) (Milan: Edizioni Ricordi, n.d.). 12. “Khedival Hymn,” in Sixty Patriotic Songs of All Nations, ed. Granville Bantock (Boston: Oliver Ditson, 1913), 116; “Khedival Hymn,” in The Most Popular Songs of Patriotism (New York: Hinds, Hayden, and Eldredge, 1916), 147; “Egypt: National Hymn,” in National Songs of the Allies and Other Lands: With English Words (Melbourne: Allan, 1943), 18. In Arabic sources, the song is usually referred to as “Salutation to Our Lord” (Sal m afand na) and “Salutation to the King” (al-Sal m al-malak ). It is likely that it was known as “Salutation to Our Lord” in Arabic from its composition in the 1870s to 1922, when the Egyptian ruler took the title of king. Thereafter it was rebranded “Salutation to the King” in Arabic and “National Hymn” in English. 13. The Most Popular Songs of Patriotism, 1916. This collection had a sixty- rst song belonging to the South African Republic, but it was included as an appendix rather than in the main collection of songs because by the time of the volume’s publication in 1916 the South African Republic had ceased to exist. 14. See, for example, Sixty Patriotic Songs of All Nations and National Songs of the Allies and Other Lands. 15. Mu ammad A mad al- ifn , “al-An sh d: al-nash d al-qawm ” [Songs: The national song , al-M s q 1, no. 4 (July 1, 1935): 32. 16. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Kit b Mu tamar al-m s q al- arabiyya [Proceedings of the Congress of Arab Music (Cairo: al-Ma ba a al-Am riyya, 1933), 171. 17. Rat ba al- ifn , Ab wa ust dh : Ma m d al- ifn [My father and my teacher: Ma m d al- ifn (N.p., ca. 1975), 22–29. 18. Al- ifn , “al- An sh d: al-nash d al-qawm ,” 32. 19. Al- ifni’s recommendations are mirrored by the only extant prerevolution music education textbook that I found in a search of more than half a dozen libraries in Egypt. The textbook al-M s q wa al- an sh d al-madrasiyya [School music and songs was published around 1945 by an inspector of music at the Ministry of Education and features nine categories of songs, the rst two of which were concerned with

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the state. The rst category was for National Songs (al-nash d al-wa an ) and consisted of one song, “Our Egypt Above Everything” (Mi run fawq al-jam ), by the little-known poet al-S w Al Sha l n. The second category was for Royal Songs ( an sh d malakiyya) and contained four songs in praise of the king. Mu ammad al al-D n, al-M s q wa al- an sh d al-madrasiyya [School music and songs , part 1 (N.p.: ca. 1945). 20. The translation of “Wa All h zam n y sil ” is taken from irginia L. Danielson, “Umm Kulth m,” in Encyclopedia Britannica Online, http: www.britannica.com biography Umm-Kulthum-Egyptian-musician. 21. Wiz rat al-thaq fa al-markaz al-thaq f al-qawm , d r al- bir al-mi riyya almaktaba al-m s qiyya, al-Sal m al-jumh r li-jumh riyyat mi r al- arabiyya [The national anthem of the Arab Republic of Egypt (Cairo Opera House Library of Music, n.d). See irginia Danielson, The Voice of Egypt: Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 164.

4. The Mimetic Moment: The Age of Global Mimesis and Representational Mimesis 1. Kusabe Sannosuke, Ky juh hyakumon hyakut [Teachers’ manual in a hundred questions and a hundred answers (Tokyo: Nagashima Bunsh d , 1893), 176–77. Kusabe was director of the Greater Japan Education Association. 2. Nagamatsu Otoichi, Sh gaku sh nen ky iku bidan [Commendable anecdotes for primary school youths (Osaka: Tosho Shuppan Kaisha, 1891), 47. 3. See Melinda Takeuchi, Taiga’s True Views: The Language of Landscape Painting in Eighteenth-Century Japan (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1992), 144–46. 4. Editor’s note to Egyptian drawing teacher [pseud. , “Ta l m al-rasm” [Drawing education , Majallat al-tarbiya al- ad tha 1, no. 4 (April 1928): 306. 5. For more on “truth-to-nature” as a paradigm of scienti c imaging, see Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, Objectivity (New York: one Books, 2007). 6. E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in Pictorial Representation (1960; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000), xxv. 7. See, for example, Dennis Dake, “Aesthetics,” in Handbook of Visual Communication: Theory, Methods, and Media, ed. Kenneth L. Smith, Sandra Moriarty, Gretchen Barbatsis, and Keith Kenney (New York: Routledge, 2005), 29–30. For detailed walkthrough of the ways in which maps naturalize reality, see Mary Elizabeth Berry, Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), chap. 2. 8. For the spread of British methods of design to other parts of the world, see Peter Smith, The History of American Art Education: Learning About Art in American Schools (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1996), 25–28; Graeme Chalmers, “Who Is to Do This Great Work for Canada South Kensington in Ontario,” in Histories of Art and

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10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

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Design Education: Collected Essays, ed. Mervyn Romans (Bristol, U.K.: Intellect Books, 2005), 211–27; Jenny Aland, “The In uence of the South Kensington School on the Teaching of Drawing in South Australian Schools from the 1880s into the 20th Century,” Australian Art Education 15, no. 1 (May 1991): 45–53; and Ana Mae Barbosa, “Walter Smith’s In uence in Brazil and the E orts by Brazilian Liberals to Overcome the Concept of Art as an Elitist Activity,” in Trends in Art Education from Diverse Cultures, ed. Heta Kauppinen and Read Diket (Reston, a.: National Art Education Association, 1995), 10–17. Deborah Cohen, Household Gods: The British and Their Possessions (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2009), 17. Also see Louise Purbrick, ed., The Great Exhibition of 1851: New Interdisciplinary Essays (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001); and Lara Kriegel, Grand Designs: Labor, Empire, and the Museum in Victorian Culture (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007). Robert Scott Burn, The Illustrated Drawing-Book (London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler, [1853 ); Kawakami Kan, Seiga shinan [Guide to Western drawing (Tokyo: Monbush , 1875). Kawakami Kan was also known under the name Kawakami T gai. See Kaneko’s comparison of drawing manuals in Japan and Great Britain in Kaneko Kazuo, Kindai Nihon bijutsu ky iku no kenky : Meiji-Taish jidai [Research on modern Japanese art education: Meiji and Taisho eras (Tokyo: Ch K ron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2000), 55–80. This is a good example of how a popular and somewhat peripheral work in England was retitled Guide to Western Drawing in Japan and repurposed to represent the drawing practices of an entire hemisphere. Miyamoto Sanpei, Sh gaku futs gagaku hon [General book for the primary school study of drawing (Tokyo: Monbush , 1878). Marius achon, Rapports M. Edmon Turquet, sous-secrétaire d’état sur les musées et les écoles d’art industriel et sur la situation des industries artistiques en Allemagne AutricheHongrie, Italie et Russie [Report to Mr. Edmon Turquet, undersecretary of state on museums and industrial art schools, on the situation of artistic industries in Germany, Austria-Hungary, Italy, and Russia (Paris: A. Quantin, 1885), 77. Also see Patricia Mainardi, The End of the Salon: Art and the State in the Early Third Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 62–69. Renaud d’Enfert, L’enseignement du dessin en France: Figure humaine et dessin géométrique [The teaching of drawing in France: Human gure and geometric drawing (1750–1850) (Paris: Belin, 2003); Renaud d’Enfert and Daniel Lagoutte, Un art pour tous: le dessin à l’école de 1800 à nos jours [An art for everyone: Drawing in schools from 1800 to today (Rouen: Institut National de Recherche Pédagogique, 2004), 17. J. Carot, La clef du dessin: petit manuel pour apprendre à dessiner sans maitre [The key to drawing: Small manual for learning to draw without a teacher (Paris: Monrocq Fr res, n.d.), 1. Minist re de l’Instruction Publique, Programmes de l’Enseignement pour les Lycées [Program for school instruction (Cairo: Imprimerie nationale, 1888), 113, 119. Another French writer that was commonly recommended in early Egyptian curricula was Claude Sauvageot. Like most other works from this period, his books also

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17. 18.

19. 20.

21. 22. 23.

24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30.

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began with straight lines and geometric shapes. Claude Sauvageot, Enseignement du dessin par les solides [Teaching drawing with shapes (Paris: Librarie Ch. Delagrave, 1882). Sauvageot’s drawing method was rst recommended in the 1886–1887 curriculum. Diw n al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Brogr m dur s al-mad ris al-ibtid iyya min al-daraja al- l [Program of study for primary schools of the rst level (Cairo: Madrasat al-Fun n wa al- an i , AH 1303 [1886–1887 ), 24. Got Yoshiyuki, Jikken sh gaku ky juh [Experimental primary school teaching manual (Osaka: Sh bunkan, 1902), 266. Although Egyptian teaching manuals from this period are rare, other records indicate the importance of drawing education. Egyptian railroad employees who were to be sent abroad for further training, for example, spent three hours of a fourteenhour examination on drawing. Na rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Brogr m al-mad ris al-ibtid iyya wa al-th nawiyya [Program of primary and secondary schools (Cairo: al-Am riyya, 1892), 53. See, for example, K no Yasue, “ Gakusei’ seiritsuki ni okeru keiga no imi: Keiga wa bijutsu ky iku no ky kamei ka ” [The meaning of Keiga in the period following the establishment of the Fundamental Code of Education: Is Keiga art education , Bijutsu ky ikugaku 20 (March 1999): 111–24. David Frisby, Cityscapes of Modernity: Critical Explorations (Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 2001), 123, 195–96. David Harvey, The Conditions of Postmodernity: An Inquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change (Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1990), 204. Suraiya Faroqhi, Subjects of the Sultan: Culture and Daily Life in the Ottoman Empire (London: I. B. Tauris, 2005), 254. Geometry was also valued by the modernizing founder of the Turkish republic, Kemal Atatürk, who took it upon himself to write a teaching manual for primary school teachers of geometry, coining many of the modern Turkish words for geometry in the process. [Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, Geometri [Geometry (Ankara: Türk Dil Kurumu, 2000). Khaled Fahmy, “Modernizing Cairo: A Revisionist Narrative,” in Making Cairo Medieval, ed. Nezar Alsayyad, Irene A. Bierman, and Nasser Rabbat (Oxford: Lexington Books, 2005), 185. D’Enfert and Lagoutte, Un art pour tous, 39. Brinkley Messick, The Calligraphic State: Textual Domination and History in a Muslim Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 248. For a discussion of lines, see Tim Ingold, Lines: A Brief History (London: Routledge, 2007). Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa, The Autobiography of Baron Ch kichi Kikkawa, ed. his sons (Tokyo, 1917), 27. For more on the transformation in concepts of time, see anessa Ogle, The Global Transformation of Time: 1870–1950 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2015). Le Corbusier and Jean Cassou, Urbanisme [Urbanism (Paris: incent Fréal, 1966). It can also refer to the dystopia of antimodernity, which posits the decline from a golden age to a bleak present to an even worse future

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31. Article 9 of the Fundamental Principles of Teaching Regulations for Primary Schools (Sh gakk ky soku taik ), 1886, is in Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi, 3:99; and article 8 of the Rules for the Execution of the Primary School Edict (Sh gakk rei shikk kisoku), 1890, is in Ky ikushi Hensankai, ed., Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi, vol. 4 (1900; Tokyo: Ry ginsha, 1938–1939), 64. 32. Homori Kingo, Ky ju y ron [Guide to teaching (Fukuoka: K zensha, 1887), 270–71; and Okano Daich , Shinsen sh gaku ky juh [New primary school teaching manual (Tokyo: no Shoten, 1904), 154. 33. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Qar r wiz r raqm 1951, 24. 34. asan Tawf q, Kit b al-b d g jiy f al-ta l m wa al-tarbiya al- amaliyy n [Pedagogical guide for the education and instruction of teachers (Cairo: Al-Ma ba a al-Kubra al-Am riyya bi B l q, 1892), 2:101. 35. Messick, The Calligraphic State; Frances A. Yates, The Art of Memory (1966; London: Pimlico, 1992). 36. Art Berman, Preface to Modernism (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994), 98. 37. This periodization of the critique of imitating a copy book is speci c to the education of small children. In the adult world of the natural sciences, the authority of a paradigmatic text was critiqued much earlier. Federico Marcon has identi ed the seventeenth century as the moment when respect for the textual tradition of Chinese Confucian works on fauna and ora began to be supplanted by rational speculation and empirical experimentation. Rather than trusting the authority of a classical text, these eighteenth-century predecessors to modern scientists relied on visual identi cation. They sought to assign names to plant species, which allowed them to discover, in an example given by Maki Fukuoka, that a plant known in Japan as hashiri dokoro was known as belladonna in Western literature. In many cases, writes Fukuoka, this was simply a way of identifying plants for medicinal purposes. Over time, however, this process replaced reliance on a classical paradigmatic work with a concern for identifying, naming, and representing the ecology of Japan’s natural environment. Such empirical experimentation is often described in reference to Western Europe, where Bruno Latour, for example, sees the rise of modern science in the passage from Robert Boyle’s method of mathematical demonstration to Thomas Hobbe’s empirical experimentation during the seventeenth century. Whether such empirical experimentation and rational speculation can be seen in early modern Egypt is an object of debate, but in Japan it is often mentioned, along with incipient capitalist proto-industrialization and the formation of civic networks, as one of the characteristics of Japan’s early modernity. A few works that engage with the question of early modernity in Japan are Berry, Japan in Print; David L. Howell, Capitalism from Within: Economy, Society, and the State in a Japanese Fishery (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); and Eiko Ikegami, Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). For di erent arguments in favor of an Egyptian early modernity, see Peter Gran, Islamic Roots of Capitalism: Egypt 1760–1840 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1979); George Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism in Classical

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38.

39.

40. 41.

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43. 44.

45.

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Islam and the Christian West: With Special Reference to Scholasticism (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1990); Federico Marcon, The Knowledge of Nature and the Nature of Knowledge in Early Modern Japan (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), 273–74; Maki Fukuoka, The Premise of Fidelity: Science, Visuality, and Representing the Real in Nineteenth-Century Japan (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2012), 26; and Bruno Latour, We Have Never Been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter (1991; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993). As an object of contention and critique, the word “imitation” (al-taql d) had a certain shock value. This appealed to the nationalist author A mad Lu f al-Sayyid, who chose it as the title of his article in 1913 on the adoption of European practices. A mad Lu f al-Sayyid, “al-Taql d” [Imitation , in A mad Lu f al-Sayyid, Ta mmul t f al-falsafa wa al-adab wa al-siy sa wa al-ijtim (Cairo: D r al-Ma rif, 1965), 80–83. “Mudhakkira il majlis al-nu r bi-sh n ba al-ta d l t al-mur d idkh luh al brogr m al-rasm bi’l-mad ris al-th nawiyya” [Memorandum to the Council of Ministers regarding some changes to be made to the drawing curriculum in secondary schools , June 19, 1907, Na rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya 19 B 0075-045333, Egyptian National Archives. David Symons, Object Drawing for Schools (London: Charles and Son, 1906), 27. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Minhaj al-dir sa al-ibtid iyya bi-mad ris al-ban n wa al-ban t [Curriculum of primary school study in schools for boys and girls (Cairo: al-Am riyya, 1932), 80. Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, al-Irsh d t al- amaliyya li mu allim al-mad ris al-awwaliyya wa mu allim tih wa al-q im n wa al-q im t bi’l-ta l m bi-mad ris almu allim n wa al-mu allim t al-awwaliyya wa alabatih wa lib tih [Practical guide for primary school teachers, for those employed in education at the teachers’ colleges for primary schools, and for their students (Cairo: al-Ma ba a al- Am riyya bi-B laq, 1938), 34. Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi, 3:99. For an autobiographical account of objects that were drawn in early twentiethcentury Japanese primary schools, see Wakayamaken Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Sh gakk , ed., Shin ky do ky iku no jissai [The practice of new local education (Tokyo: Meiji Tosho, 1931), 244. While the imitation of texts and ornamental designs was not uncommon in early modern Egypt, the realistic representation of nature was largely absent in medieval Islamic art. Instead of landscape painting, which relies on the mimetic representation of nature, writes D. Fairchild Ruggles, architecture in Islamic Spain from the mid-ninth century built palace windows opening onto gardens that represented the kingdom as a metonymy. An entire forest was symbolized by a single tree, a real planted tree, rather than by a drawn image of the forest. D. Fairchild Ruggles, “Making ision Manifest,” in Sites Unseen: Landscape and Vision, ed. Dianne Harris and D. Fairchild Ruggles (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007), 131–56.

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46. “Ta l m al-rasm,” 306. 47. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile: Or on Education, trans. and ed. Christopher Kelley and Allan Bloom (Lebanon, N.H.: Dartmouth College, 2010), 144, 4; “Ta l m alrasm,” 304. 48. See Alan Christy, A Discipline on Foot: Inventing Japanese Native Ethnography, 1910–1945 (Plymouth, U.K.: Rowman Little eld, 2012). Also see Miriam Kingsberg, Into the Field: Human Scientists of Transwar Japan (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2019). 49. Omnia El Shakry, The Great Social Laboratory: Subjects of Knowledge in Colonial and Postcolonial Egypt (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2007). 50. In this same period, orientalist scholarship on Egyptian peasants, like Father Ayrout’s Moeurs et coutumes des fellahs [Customs and morals of peasants , attempted “to picture the social and physical environment of the Egyptian peasantry.” Henry Habib Ayrout, The Egyptian Peasant, trans. John Alden Williams (1938; Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2005), 35. Also see Timothy Mitchell, “The Invention and Reinvention of the Egyptian Peasant,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 22, no. 2 (May 1990): 130. 51. Koyama Sh tar , Zuga ky juh k gi [Lecture on methods for teaching drawing (Niigata: Niigataken Ky ikukai, 1909), 5. 52. Al Umar, Hid yat al-mudarris li l-ni m al-madras wa uruq al-tadr s [A teacher’s guide to the school system and to methods of teaching , 4th ed. (Cairo: Madrasat Damanh r al- in iyya, 1916), 228. 53. See Gennifer Weisenfeld, Mavo: Japanese Artists and the Avant-Garde, 1905–1931 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002). 54. E. H. Gombrich, The Sense of Order: A Study in the Psychology of Decorative Art (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1979), 7. 55. Carl Woodring, Nature Into Art: Cultural Transformations in Nineteenth-Century Britain (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989), 122. 56. Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990), 29.

5. The End of Global Mimesis: The Rise of the National Subject 1. See, for example, P. H. Rathbone, The Place of Art in the Future Industrial Progress of the Nation (Liverpool: Lee and Nightingale, 1884), 8; and André Albrespy, De l’enseignement du dessin dans les écoles primaires de province [On the education of drawing in primary schools outside of the capital (Montauban, France: Imprimerie Coopérative, 1872), 9. 2. See, for example, Roger Owen, Lord Cromer: Victorian Imperialist, Edwardian Proconsul (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 3. See, for example, Daniel . Botsman, Punishment and Power in the Making of Modern Japan (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2004), 129–40.

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4. On how Western technological came to anchor an ideology of Western dominance, see Michael Adas, Machines as the Measure of Men: Science, Technology, and Ideologies of Western Dominance (1989; Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2014). 5. Eric R. Wolf, Europe and the People Without History (1982; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010). 6. Chelsea Foxwell, “Introduction,” in Modern Japanese Art and the Meiji State: The Politics of Beauty, ed. D shin Sat , trans. Hiroshi Nara (1999; Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2011), 5. 7. Although art was relatively more capable of escaping linear narratives of progress, this was far from always the case. Wassily Kandinsky and Paul Klee, for example, likened modern art to the naive art of “primitive” societies, while the early twentieth-century Japanese collectors described by Kim Brandt were attracted by what they saw as the primitive purity of Korean folk art. Stuart Macdonald, The History and Philosophy of Art Education (1970; Cambridge: Lutterworth Press, 2004), 320–54; Jessica Boissel, “Quand les enfants se mirent dessiner. 1880–1914: Un fragment de l’histoire des idées,” Cahiers du Musée national d’art moderne 31 (Spring 1990): 15–20; Kim Brandt, Kingdom of Beauty: Mingei and the Politics of Folk Art in Imperial Japan (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007). 8. In some cases they represented the national essence in the subject of their artwork, as in the famous statue by the sculptor Mahmud Mukhtar of an Egyptian peasant woman next to the sphinx, a symbol of ancient Egypt, or Raji arma’s paintings of scenes from Hindi mythology. In other cases, they represented the nation in the style of their artwork, as in the school of Japanese-style painting (nihonga) that was created in opposition to Western-style painting (y ga). 9. In this sense, drawing education is di erent from other arts like music or ower arrangement, but not from writing education, which also had a double nature as an art and a functional practice 10. Walter Smith, Technical Education and Industrial Drawing in Public Schools: Reports and Notes of Addresses Delivered at Montreal and Quebec (Montreal: Gazette, 1883), 28. 11. asan Tawf q, Kit b al-b d g jiy f al-ta l m wa al-tarbiya al- amaliyy n [Pedagogical guide for the education and instruction of teachers (Cairo: Al-Ma ba a al-Kubra al-Am riyya bi B l q, 1892), 2:99. 12. Yasue K no, “ Gakusei’ seiritsuki ni okeru keiga no imi: Keiga wa bijutsu ky iku no ky kamei ka ” [The meaning of keiga in the period following the establishment of the Fundamental Code of Education: Is keiga art education , Bijutsu ky ikugaku 20 (March 1999): 111–24. 13. Ima’izumi Gen’ichir , Jinj sh gaku ky jugaku ryakusetsu [Outline of a study on general primary school instruction (Tokyo: Iwamoto Yonetar , 1887), 244–45. 14. Albrespy, De l’enseignement du dessin, 14. 15. Na rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, ma la at sikkat ad d al- uk ma, Mashr l i a tata allaq bi-qub l tal m dh wa aniyy n ta t al-tamr n wa irs luhum kh rij al-qu r liistikhd mihim ind awdatihim f fur ma la at sikkat ad d al- uk ma [Draft plan regarding the admission of national students to a program for foreign study and

222

16.

17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25.

26.

27.

28.

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employment in the branches of the state railroad company upon their return (Cairo: al-Ma ba a al-Kubr al-Am riyya bi-B l q, 1899), 7. Arthur D. E and, A History of Art Education: Intellectual and Social Currents in Teaching the Visual Arts (New York: Teachers’ College, Columbia University, 1990), 139; Ray Haslam, “Looking, Drawing, and Learning with John Ruskin at the Workin Men’s College,” in Histories of Art and Design Education: Collected Essays, ed. Mervyn Romans (Bristol, U.K.: Intellect Books, 2005), 157. E and, History of Art Education, 136–43; Macdonald, History and Philosophy of Art Education, 169. Boissel, “Quand les enfants se mirent dessiner”; Emmanuel Pernoud, L’invention du desin d’enfant en France, à l’aube des avant-gardes [The invention of children’s drawing in France at the dawn of the avant-garde (Paris: Hazan, 2003), 42–47; Renaud d’Enfert and Daniel Lagoutte, Un art pour tous: le dessin à l’école de 1800 à nos jours [An art for everyone: Drawing in schools from 1800 to today (Rouen: Institut National de Recherche Pédagogique, 2004), 36–37, 67–71. Kose Sh seki, Sh gaku m hitsu gaj [Primary school book for brush drawing (Kyoto: Fukui Sh b d , 1888). Noriaki Kitazawa, Ky kai no bijutsushi: Bijutsu’ keisei n to [A marginal history of art: Notes on the formation of “art” (2000; Tokyo: Buryukke, 2005). Yamagata Yutaka, Nihon bijutsu ky ikushi [A history of Japanese art education (Nagoya: Reimei Shob , 1967), 89. Rin Manrei, Kindai Nihon zuga ky iku h h shi kenky [Historical research on the methodology of modern Japanese drawing education (Tokyo: T ky Daigaku Shuppankai, 1989), 64–65. Takada Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Sh gakk , Saikin sh gakk ky ju saimoku jinj ka [Current primary school teaching plan (Takada: Takahashi Shoten, 1903), 16–17. Sugita Katsutar and Suzuki K ai, Sh gaku ky juh [Primary school teaching manual (Tokyo: Kink d , 1902), 187. Murata Uichir , ed., Tokushimaken Shihan Gakk dai nikai sh gakk ch sh sh kai ni okeru kaku gakka ky juh k wa [Lecture on teaching methods for every subject at the Second Tokushima Prefecture Teachers’ College meeting of primary school principals (Tokushima: Awakoku ky ikukai, 1901), 109. For an analogous debate that pitted the soft tip of the brush against the hard tip of the pen or pencil in Japanese writing education, see Raja Adal, “Japan’s Bifurcated Modernity: Writing and Calligraphy in Japanese Public Schools, 1872–1943,” Theory, Culture and Society 26, no. 2–3 (2009): 233–47. Although drawing education in the mid-twentieth century would associate antique Pharaonic art with the modern nation of Egypt, in this earlier period it was Arab art that was more commonly characterized as Egyptian. Ibn Khald n, The Muqaddimah: An Introduction to History, trans. Franz Rosenthal, ed. N. J. Dawood (Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), 378–79; cited in Al Umar, Hid yat al-mudarris li l-ni m al-madras wa uruq al-tadr s [A teacher’s guide

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29.

30.

31.

32. 33.

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to the school system and to methods of teaching , 4th ed. (Cairo: Madrasat Damanh r al- in iyya, 1916), 224. Minist re de l’instruction publique, Programmes de l’enseignement primaire et de l’enseignement secondaire [Currriculum for primary and secondary education (Cairo: Imprimerie nationale, 1894), 70; Minist re de l’instruction publique, Programmes de l’enseignement primaire et de l’enseignement secondaire [Curriculum for primary and secondary education (Cairo: Imprimerie nationale, 1898), 174; Na rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Brogr m al-ta l m al-ibtid i wa brogr m al-ta l m al-th naw [Program of primary education and program of secondary education (Cairo: al-Ma ba a alKubr al-Am riyya, 1901), 57; Wiz rat al-Ma rif al- Um miyya, Brogr m al-ta l m al-ibtid i [Program of primary education (Cairo: al-Am riyya, 1907) 36; Ministry of Education, Syllabus of the Primary Course of Study (Cairo: National Printing Department, 1907), 66. The ubiquity of the New Drawing Manual was facilitated by a new system for approving primary school textbooks. In 1903 the Ministry of Education began to designate the textbooks to be used in government schools instead of approving textbooks submitted by publishers. This new system centralized the educational system and hastened the transition away from the brush. The creation of a department of art education in 1907 at the country’s leading educational institution, the Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College, further strengthened the ministry’s grasp on art education. Y suf K mil and R ghib Ayy d, “Nam dhij al-rasm al-na ar ” [Models of freehand drawing (N.p.: Ilh miyya Industrial School Press, n.d.), cards 1–5, 7, 10–13, 15, 16, 18–20, 22–26. (The set is incomplete as some of the cards have been lost.) The cards are not dated but were produced when Ayy d taught at the Higher Coptic College (Kulliyat al-aqb t al-kubr ), between 1911, when he graduated from the School of Fine Arts, and 1925, when he went to study art in Italy. It is not speci ed in what schools the cards were used, but they are of a clearly educational nature, featuring a large ornamental design in the center complemented by a smaller sketch entitled “technique of drawing” and showing the geometrical calculations involved. They may have been modeled on Bacon’s Excelsior cards, which were mandated in the 1907 elite primary school drawing curriculum that continued to be used until 1930. For Bacon’s Excelsior cards, see Steeley and Trotman, Bacon’s Excelsior New First Grade Drawing Cards: Soft Grey Line Series (London: G. W. Bacon, n.d.). For more on K mil, see Elizabeth Miller, “Nationalism and the Birth of Modern Art in Egypt,” Ph.D. dissertation, Oxford University, 2012. Stacy Sloboda, “The Grammar of Ornament: Cosmopolitanism and Reform in British Design,” Journal of Design History 21, no. 3 (2008): 223–36. Until the late nineteenth to early twentieth century, European scholarship referred to geometric ornamentation in the Middle East as Arab art rather than as Islamic art, as it does today. For a discussion of the categories of Orientalist scholarship, see Sheila S. Blair and Jonathan M. Bloom, “The Mirage of Islamic Art: Re ections on the Study of an Unwieldy Field,” Art Bulletin 85, no. 1 (March 2003): 152–84. Also

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34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

39.

40. 41. 42.

43. 44.

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see G lru Necipo lu, The Topkapi Scroll: Geometry and Ornament in Islamic Architecture (Santa Monica, Calif.: Getty Center for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1995), 63. Christopher Dresser, Principles of Decorative Design, 4th ed. (1973; London: Cassell, Petter, Galpin, 1976), v. Christopher Dresser, Japan: Its Architecture, Art, and Art Manufactures (London: Longmans, Green, 1882), 51. Kenneth Pyle, The New Generation in Meiji Japan: Problems of Cultural Identity, 1885–1895 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1969). Julia Adeney Thomas, Recon guring Modernity: Concepts of Nature in Japanese Political Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 168–76. The art historian Sat D shin, for example, writes that what at the level of advanced art was an opposition between Western-style painting and Japanesestyle painting was translated at the primary and middle school levels into an opposition between the pencil and the brush. Sat , Nihon bijutsu tanj : Kindai Nihon no kotoba to senryaku [The birth of “Japanese art”: Modern Japan’s “language” and strategy (Tokyo: K dansha, 1996), 184. Rin, Kindai Nihon zuga ky iku h h shi kenky , 65–71; and Kazuo Kaneko, Kindai Nihon bijutsu ky iku no kenky : Meiji-Taish jidai [Research on modern Japanese art education: Meiji and Taisho eras (Tokyo: Ch K ron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2000), 19–30. Yoav Di-Capua, Gatekeepers of the Arab Past: Historians and History Writing in TwentiethCentury Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 22. Omnia El Shakry, The Great Social Laboratory: Subjects of Knowledge in Colonial and Postcolonial Egypt (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2007), 18. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (1983; London: erso, 2006); Prasenjit Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995). Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Di erence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 6. Lydia H. Liu, Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity: China 1900–1937 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1995); Harry Harootunian, “Some Thoughts on Comparability and the Space-Time Problem,” Boundary 2 (Summer 2005): 22–52.

6. The End of Representational Mimesis: The Rise of the Individual Subject 1. Even though they are described in three distinct chapters, the mimetic moment, the end of global mimesis, and the end of representational mimesis consist of three stages that bleed into each other in a gradual transformation. With the end of representational mimesis, for example, national forms of art like brush drawings and Arab designs were not abandoned. They were only transformed so that children

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2.

3. 4.

5.

6.

7. 8.

9.

10.

11. 12.

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were no longer asked to copy from the textbook but were, instead, encouraged to express themselves in their own subjective visual language. Renaud d’Enfert and Daniel Lagoutte, Un art pour tous: le dessin à l’école de 1800 à nos jours [An art for everyone: Drawing in schools from 1800 to today (Rouen: Institut National de Recherche Pédagogique, 2004). Jam l ab al-Khayr, T r kh al-tarbiya al-fanniyya [The history of drawing education (Jeddah: al-Sharika al- A riyya al- Arabiyya, 2000), 223. Emmanuel Pernoud, L’invention du desin d’enfant en France, à l’aube des avant-gardes [The invention of children’s drawing in France at the dawn of the avant-garde (Paris: Hazan, 2003), 36–37, 67–71. Thomas Rimer, “Tokyo in Paris Paris in Tokyo,” in Paris in Japan: The Japanese Encounter with European Painting, ed. Sh ji Takashina, J. Thomas Rimer, and Gerald D. Bolas (Tokyo: Japan Foundation, 1987). These narratives usually trace Yamamoto’s inspiration to Moscow rather than Paris, where Yamamoto’s experiences are rarely if ever described. See, for example, Rin Manrei, Kindai Nihon zuga ky iku h h shi kenky [Historical research on the methodology of modern Japanese drawing education (Tokyo: T ky Daigaku Shuppankai, 1989). For more on Yamamoto’s concern with peasant art, see Yuko Kikuchi, Japanese Modernisation and Mingei Theory: Cultural Nationals and Oriental Orientalism (London: Routledge, 2004), 32–36. Yamamoto wrote about his involvement in the peasant art movement himself in a 1920 article in Ch k ron that was also published as Yamamoto Kanae, “N min bijutsu to watashi” [Peasant art and myself , in Bijutsuka no akubi [The yawn of the artist (Tokyo: Arusu, 1921), 132–65. Yamamoto, “N min bijutsu to watashi,” 7. Koga Tei, “Yamamoto Kanae no jiy ga ky iku ni tai suru bakuron o bakusu” [Refuting the refutation of Yamamoto Kanae’s freehand drawing education , Ky iku mondai kenky 6 (September 1920): 62–75; also see Kaneko Kazuo, Kindai Nihon bijutsu ky iku no kenky : Meiji-Taish jidai [Research on modern Japanese art education: Meiji and Taisho eras (Tokyo: Ch K ron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2000), 397. The Freehand Drawing Education movement arose as a revolt against the New Drawing Manual of 1910, which had itself marked the demise of the movement for brush drawing. See, for example, Kaneko, Kindai Nihon bijutsu ky iku no kenky ; Rin, Kindai Nihon zuga ky iku h h shi kenky ; Ueno Hiromichi, Nihon no bijutsu ky iku shis [Japan’s philosophy of art education (Tokyo: Kazama shob , 2007); Akio Okazaki, “European Modernist Art Into Japanese Schools: The Freehand Drawing Education Movement in the 1920s,” in Histories of Art and Design Education: Collected Essays, ed. Mervyn Romans (Bristol, U.K.: Intellect Books, 2005), 235. Mark A. Jones, Children as Treasures: Childhood and the Middle Class in Early Twentieth Century Japan (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2010). Barbara Sato, The New Japanese Woman: Modernity, Media and Women in Interwar Japan (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2003), 40–41; Rin, Kindai Nihon zuga ky iku h h shi kenky , 147–52.

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13. Jones, Children as Treasures, 291. The phrase is taken from T. J. Jackson Lears, No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981). 14. Jones, Children as Treasures, 293. 15. See, for example, Mary Ann Stankiewicz, “From the Aesthetic Movement to the Arts and Crafts Movement,” Studies in Art Education 33, no. 3 (1992): 165–73. 16. For the in uence of the Arts and Crafts movement in Japan, see Kikuchi, Japanese Modernisation and Mingei Theory; and Kim Brandt, Kingdom of Beauty: Mingei and the Politics of Folk Art in Imperial Japan (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007). 17. T ky K t Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Ch gakk , Zuga sh kaka ky ju saimoku [Teaching speci cations for drawing and singing classes (Tokyo: Meguro Shoten, 1928), 1. 18. Yamamoto Kanae, “Jiy ga ky iku no y ten” [The key points of freehand drawing education , Ch k ron 35, no. 8 (1920): 54. 19. Kishida Ry sei, Zuga ky ikuron: Wagako e no zuga ky iku [Theory of drawing education: Drawing education for our children (Tokyo: Kaiz sha, 1925), 15. 20. Stuart Macdonald, The History and Philosophy of Art Education (1970; Cambridge: Lutterworth Press, 2004), 320–54; Jessica Boissel, “Quand les enfants se mirent dessiner: Un fragment de l’histoire des idées” [When children began to draw 1880– 1914: A fragment of the history of ideas , Cahiers du Musée national d’art moderne 31 (Spring 1990): 15–20; Brandt, Kingdom of Beauty. 21. Increasing participation in public life, however, also went hand in hand with support for emperor and empire. See Andrew Gordon, Labor and Imperial Democracy in Prewar Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). 22. Sato, The New Japanese Woman; Miriam Silverberg, Erotic Grotesque Nonsense: The Mass Culture of Japanese Modern Times (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 23. See, for example, Kaneko, Kindai Nihon bijutsu ky iku no kenky : Meiji-Taish jidai, 341–42. 24. Sabine Frühstück, Playing War: Children and the Paradoxes of Modern Militarism in Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017), 6. 25. Kaneko Kazuo, Kindai Nihon bijutsu ky iku no kenky : Meiji jidai [Research on modern Japanese art education: The Meiji era (Tokyo: Ch K ron Bijutsu Shuppan, 1992), 397–98; Kaneko, Kindai Nihon bijutsu ky iku no kenky : Meiji-Taish jidai, 357. Kaneko’s calculations are based on a compilation of sales gures from the Ministry of Education Annual Report (Monbusho nenp ). The decline in the sale of textbooks was the result a loophole in a 1903 law, which, although it encouraged schools to adopt textbooks designated by the Ministry of Education, under certain circumstances also allowed school principals to not use any textbook at all or to use a privately published textbook. Although K ren Wigen notes that, in the case of geography textbooks, the central government sometimes punished schools that decided not to use the prescribed textbooks, Kaneko does not note any such reprimand for schools that stopped using the government-published New Drawing Manual. Kaneko Kazuo, Bijutsuka ky iku no h h ron to rekishi [The methodology and history of art education departments (Tokyo: Ch k ron bijutsu shuppan, 2003), 188; and

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26. 27.

28. 29.

30.

31.

32.

33. 34.

35. 36.

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K ren Wigen, “Geography at Work in the Prewar Nagano Classroom,” Journal of Asian Studies 59, no. 3 (August 2000): 560. Wigen’s observation is based on Tsukada Masamoto, Nagano ken no rekishi [History of Nagano Prefecture (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 1974), 262–66. Ueno, Nihon no bijutsu ky iku shis , 60–62. The 1932 textbook did, however, retain some elements from its 1910 predecessor, including design skills and color theory. Ky ikushi Hensankai, ed., Meiji ik ky iku seido hattatsushi [History of the development of the educational system during and after the Meiji era (1886; Tokyo: Ry ginsha, 1938–1939), 5:405–7, 7:66–68; Kindai Nihon Ky iku Shiry Hensankai, ed. Kindai Nihon ky iku seido shiry [Documents on modern Japan’s system of education (Tokyo: Dai Nihon Y benkai K dansha, 1956–1959), 2:218–20, 255–57. Yoshimi Shunya, Und kai to Nihon kindai [Field days and Japanese modernity (Tokyo: Seiky sha, 1990). Other subjects in the school curriculum besides morality class could teach children morality. These included religion, language, history, and even physical education and geography. Yoshimi Shunya, writing about Japan, and Wilson Chacko Jacob, writing about Egypt, have described ways in which physical education helped to transform children into national subjects by training their bodies. Similarly, K ren Wigen has described how the state in interwar Japan used geography education to ground patriotism in the attachment to the local communities (ky do). Yoshimi, Und kai to Nihon kindai; Wilson Chacko Jacob, Working Out in Egypt: E endi Masculinity and Subject Formation in Colonial Modernity, 1870–1940 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2011); and K ren Wigen, “Teaching About Home: Geography at Work in the Prewar Nagano Classroom,” Journal of Asian Studies 59, no. 3 (August 2000): 550–74. For uses of the term jinkaku kansei in calligraphy manuals, see Raja Adal, “Japan’s Bifurcated Modernity: Writing and Calligraphy in Japanese Public Schools, 1872– 1943,” Theory, Culture and Society 26, no. 2–3 (2009): 233–47. Mie-ken Joshi Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Sh gakk Shot Ky iku Kenky kai, Kakuka gakush shid no riron to jissai [Theoretical and practical guide by subject (Mie Prefecture: Shot Ky iku Kenky kai, 1928), 354. See, for example, Matsuda Tomokichi’s condemnation of the Freehand Drawing Education movement, along with Rousseau and Western attitudes toward nature. Matsuda Tomokichi, Kokumin gakk shogakunen ky jushitsu no keiei [Management of the classroom in the lower grades of national schools (Tokyo: Keibunsha Shuppan, 1941), 290–91. Kindai Nihon ky iku seido shiry 1956–1959, 2:235. Naganoken Shihan Gakk Fuzoku Kokumin Gakk Ky ka Kenky kai, Kokumin gakk ky ka no jissenteki kenky [Practical research in the national school curriculum (Nagano: Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha Shuppanbu, 1941), 445. Monbush , E no hon [A book of pictures (Tokyo: Nihon Shoseki, 1941), vols. 1–3. Sheldon Garon, “Fashioning a Culture of Diligence and Thrift: Savings and Frugality Campaigns in Japan, 1900–1931,” in Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy: 1900–1930, ed. Sharon A. Minichiello (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i

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37.

38. 39.

40. 41.

42. 43.

44. 45. 46. 47.

48. 49. 50.

6. THE END OF REPRESENTATIONAL MIMESIS

Press, 1998), 322–31; Sheldon Garon, Beyond Our Means: Why America Spends While the World Saves (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2013). Jordan Sand, “Keynote Address. Reading Material: The Production of Narratives, Genres and Literary Identities,” Proceedings of the Association for Japanese Literary Studies 7 (2006): 5. Annika A. Culver, Glorify the Empire: Japanese Avant-Garde Propaganda in Manchukuo ( ancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2013). Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” in Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry ohn (1936; New York: Schocken Books, 1969). A mad Shaf q hir, “al- Akh al-sh i a f rus m al-tal m dh” [Common mistakes in the drawings of pupils Majallat al-tarbiya al- ad tha 11, no. 1 (October 1937): 29. This textbook was written for public nonelite primary (awwaliyya) schools. A mad Shaf q hir and ab b Jurj , Kit b ta l m al-rasm f al-mak tib al- mma li’lta l m al-ilz m [Book of drawing education in public primary schools for mandatory education (1935; Cairo: al-Ma ba a al- Am riyya bi-B l q, 1937). Another, similar textbook from the same period, this time for elite primary schools, was written by Ma m d asan Kha b, a drawing teacher at the usayniyya royal school in Cairo. Ma m d asan Kha b, al-Rasm al-zakhraf al-taw li- alabat al-sanatayn al-th litha wa al-r bi a al-ibtid iyyatayn [Illustrative ornamental drawing for the third and fourth years of primary school (Cairo: Ma ba at Rams s, [1930 ). Mu ammad Al Mu af et al., Kit b Mab di al-tarbiya, al-juz al-th n [The book of the principles of education, part 2 (Cairo: s al-B b al- alab , 1938), 143. Mu af ’s ambivalence toward freehand drawing education was not unique. It echoed Gaston Quénioux, the French educator who in 1909 had written the educational reform that introduced freehand drawing education in French curricula. For Quénioux, children’s drawings were a necessary but temporary stage in the child’s development. Pernoud, L’invention du desin d’enfant en France, 42–43. Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse? (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986). A mad Shaf q hir, ab b Jurj , and Mu ammad Abd al-H d , ad th al-fun n [The story of art (Cairo: al-Am riyya, 1940), n.p. Ma m d al-Basy n , Usus al-tarbiya al-fanniyya [The basis of art education , 2d ed. (1954; Cairo: D r al-Ma rif, 1956), 108. The commensurability of children’s art and “primitive art” was a common theme expressed by nineteenth- and early twentieth-century thinkers such as Herbert Spencer. Macdonald, History and Philosophy of Art Education, 320–54. Jurj was also mentor and father-in-law of the architect Ramses Wissa Wassef. Habib Gorgi, “Creative Art in Egyptian Schools,” Arts and Education 2 (December 1949): 8. Elizabeth Miller notes how the creation of a uni ed art scene went hand in hand with the purging of foreign artists from the cannon of Egyptian art. Miller,

CONCLUSION

51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

229

“Nationalism and the Birth of Modern Art in Egypt,” Ph.D. dissertation, Oxford University, 2012, 237–40. Along with other advocates of Pharaonicism, Jurj saw Egyptians as sharing a common culture that both connected them to the ancient Egypt of the pharaohs and gave them an identity that was independent from both the West and the Arab world. As a Coptic Christian, Jurj was suspicious of an Arab world that risked drowning Egypt’s Coptic identity in an Arab region with a Muslim majority. [Maurice Couyba et al., L’Art à l’École [Art in the school (Paris: Biblioth que Larousse, [1908 ), 27. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (1979; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984). Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile: Or on Education, trans. and ed. Christopher Kelley and Allan Bloom (Lebanon, N.H.: Dartmouth College, 2010), 388. F. Michard and J. Aza s, Le nouveau guide du maître pour l’enseignement du dessin d’après nature (Paris: Fernand Nathan, ca. 1909), 19. Alexander Nehamas, “An Essay on Beauty and Judgment,” n.p.

Conclusion 1. Terry Eagleton, The Ideology of the Aesthetic (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 20. 2. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile: Or on Education, trans. and ed. Christopher Kelley and Allan Bloom (Lebanon, N.H.: Dartmouth College, 2010), 388. 3. Hél ne Parmelin, Picasso Says . . . , trans. Christine Trollope (South Brunswick, N.J.: A. S. Barnes, 1969), 73. 4. See Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature, ed. Randal Johnson (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993), as well as Bourdieu’s individual works on other elds, such as Propos sur le champ politique [Discussion of the political eld (Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 2002). 5. Am n Murs Qand l, U l al-tarbiya wa fann al-tadr s, part 2 (1924; Egypt: al-Ma ba a al-I tim d, 1931), 27. 6. Dipesh Chakrabarty, “Afterword: Revisiting the Tradition Modernity Binary,” in Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan, ed. Stephen lastos (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 295. 7. Cli ord Geertz, “Art as a Cultural System,” Comparative Literature 91, no. 6 (December 1976): 1497. 8. See, for example, Claude Levi-Strauss, The Way of the Masks (1972; Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1982); and Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production. 9. Howard Gardner, Art, Mind, and Brain: A Cognitive Approach to Creativity (New York: Basic Books, 1982), 102. 10. Such a dichotomy is familiar to scholars working on aesthetics. Describing calligraphy and poetry in Heian era Japan, Thomas Lamarre writes, “One could insist on the negation and on the despotism of the Heian order, or one could stress the

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aesthetic pleasures and the delights of the courtiers.” He then concludes, “The truth of the Heian order (the subjectivity it constructs) lies somewhere in between.” Thomas Lamarre, Uncovering Heian Japan: An Archaelogy of Sensation and Inscription (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000), 92. 11. Alexander Nehamas, Only a Promise of Happiness: The Place of Beauty in a World of Art (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2007).

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Index

Note: page numbers in italics refer to gures; those followed by n refer to notes, with note number. Abd al-H d , Mu ammad, 174 Abduh, Mu ammad, 133–34 Ab al-Khayr, Jam l, 160 Adorno, Theodor, 71–72 aesthetic education in Egyptian schools: British and French in uence on, 11–12; and Pharaonic art, 150, 173–74, 175, 176, 229n51; twentiethcentury globalization of, 12. See also curricula in modern Egyptian schools; drawing education in Egypt; music in Egyptian schools; writing education in Egypt aesthetic education in French schools: and competition with Britain, 125, 141; in uence on Egypt, 11–12, 128, 129, 216–17n16; music, introduction of, 2. See also drawing education in France aesthetic education in Japanese schools: British, French, and U.S. in uence on,

11–12; centralized textbook selection and, 223n30; and con ation of morality with beauty, 63; and cultural identity, 28; Japanese artistic leadership of, 55; national historical contexts as critical factor in understanding, 11; twentieth-century globalization of in uences on, 12. See also curricula in modern Japanese schools; drawing education in Japan; Japanese education in wartime; music in Japanese schools; writing education in Japan aesthetic education in modern schools: and child’s freedom in, 178; competition with other seductive in uences, 183–84, 185–86; and con ation of morality and beauty, 63, 66; and creative expression, 179, 184–85; and cultural identity, 3, 28; and enchantment, 177–79, 180–83;

256

INDEX

aesthetic education (cont.) engagement of pupils, 70–71, 72–73, 185; global turn to, 3, 21–22, 55–56; and music, drawing, and writing, 3; and national historical contexts, 11; and power to move children, 42; in societies on the receiving end of Western empire, 4; timing of, 28; turn to, as motivator, 3; twentieth-century transnational engagement in, 159; as unprecedented, 55 aesthetic practice: aesthetic education and, 177–79, 180–83; fascist aesthetics and, 6; history and, 16–17, 193n46; nationalism and, 4, 6–7; and writing education in wartime Japan, 75, 85–90, 91–92, 95, 183, 210n31. See also national subjects, construction of aesthetics: and class identity, 7, 16; de nitions of, 3, 8–10; fascism and, 5–6, 170; history and, 15–16; nationalism and, 4, 6–7; as politically agnostic, 170, 184; power relations in, 42 Aesthetics of Japanese Fascism, The (Tansman), 6 A , Ha z, 98, 100 Africa: Egyptian views on art in, 50–51 A mad, akariyya, 57 Albrespry, André, 143 Al , Mu ammad, 23, 39 Al , Abd al- al m, 67, 68 American University in Cairo, and Egyptian educational literature, 26 Am n, A mad, 57 Amr s , A mad Fahm , al-, 2, 39–40, 44, 52 Anderson, Benedict, 155 Appadurai, Arjun, 105 Arab culture, Egypt’s ties to, 16 Arabic script: Egyptian reform of, 97–101, 99; and Turkish Alphabet Reform, 97, 100

Arab music: Egypt and, 47–49, 48, 49–50, 50–53, 55; instruments of, 48; nostalgia for, 48 art: children’s art and, 45, 166, 173, 175, 221n7, 228n47; as concept in Japan, 8; in construction of national subjects, 151–54, 155, 156–57, 221n8 Art in the School (France, 1907), 177 Arts and Crafts movement, 165, 166 Asada Arata, 45–46 Atatürk, Kemal, 217n23 Awad, Dana, 212n57 Ayy d, R ghib, 151–53, 152, 155, 223n31 Aza s, J., 178 Azhar, al-, 26 Baring, Evelyn (Lord Cromer), 27 Basy n , Ma m d al-, 173–75 Baumgarten, Alexander, 9 beauty: aesthetics as the study of, 8–10; and morality, 63, 66; and sexual desire, 10, 190–91n33 Benjamin, Walter, 5–6, 170 Bhabha, Homi, 193n46 Boktor, Amir, 171 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 12–13, 37 Bourdieu, Pierre, 7, 16, 42, 177 Bourgault-Ducoudray, Louis-Albert, 2, 7 Bradshaw, Richard, 193n44 Brandt, Kim, 221n7 Britain: civilizing project in India, 16–17, 193n46; corrupting e ect of popular music in, 69; and Japanese art, 153. See also drawing education in Britain; South Kensington School Buisson, Ferdinand, 177 Burn, Robert Scott, 126, 127 Cairo Opera House, 187 calligraphy instruction in wartime Japan: and art, 91–92, 95, 183; and new art curriculum, 87, 91; posture, 88, 89; in the postwar, 94–96; and practical

INDEX

writing, 92–94, 93; as shod (the way of writing), 87, 209nn29–30; as spiritual training, 75, 85–90, 210n31 capitalism, industrialized: and geometric organization of urban space, 131–32; and ordering of time, 131–32 Carot, Jean, 128, 129 Centennial Exhibition (Philadelphia, 1876), 125–26 Chakrabarty, Dipesh, 155, 182 Chatterjee, Partha, 173 Chénier, Marie-Joseph, 43, 64 Child’s Soul: Fifty Songs for Schools, The, (1897), 46 China, Japan’s aesthetic ties to, 16 Chinese Nationalist Party (Guomindang), 69, 207n99 Ch kichi Kikkawa, 59–60, 60, 131 Ch t sh kash (Middle School Collection of Songs), 108 cities: gaze of the state, 130; geometric structuring of, 130; and popular music, 69–70 Cizek, Franz, 144, 166 class identity, aesthetics and, 7, 16 Clément, Anne, 68 Cole, Henry, 125 colonialism: aesthetic education and, 4, 187–88; vs. civilizational project, 4–5, 16–17, 186–87, 193n46; and spread of modern educational system, 28. See also national subjects, construction of Columbia Records, and global spread of popular music, 69, 70 Compilation of Songs for Primary Schools (Sh gaku sh kash , Mason), 108, 109 Congress of Arabic Music (1932), 47–49, 48, 50, 52, 53, 115–16 Cooke, Ebenezer, 144 court music (gagaku): Department of Ceremonies and, 107; and Japanese identity, 50, 201n21 Couyba, Maurice, 177

257

Crary, Jonathan, 139 curricula in modern Egyptian schools: range of subjects in, 29–30; similarity to Japanese curriculum, 30, 31, 197n22; state control of, 29 curricula in modern Japanese schools: optional subjects in, 198n26; range of subjects in, 29–30; similarity to Egyptian curriculum, 30, 31, 197n22; state control of, 29 curricula in modern schools, 28–31; constituent parts of, 21, 27; as a global archive, 22, 31–33, 197n21; prescribed vs. actual, 30–31; state control of, 21, 27, 29 Danielson, irginia, 57 D r al- Ul m, 26 Déloye, Yves, 64 D’Enfert, Renaud, 131 Denzel, Bernhard Gottlieb, 46 Department of Ceremonies (Japan), and national anthem, 107, 110 Department of Schools (Egypt), 23 Descartes, René, 39 Di-Capua, Yoav, 154 Dictionary of Egyptian Customs and Expressions (Am n), 57 Dor, Édouard, 26 drawing: as component in aesthetic education in schools, 3; as representation of reality, 124 drawing education in Britain: and competition with France, 125, 141; imitation of, in Egypt and Japan, 121; shift to representations of real objects, 134; South Kensington system and, 125. See also South Kensington School drawing education in Egypt: and construction of national subject, 151–53, 152, 155, 156, 173–75; drawing cards for (K mil and Ayy d), 151–53, 152, 155, 223n31; embrace of Pharaonic

258

INDEX

drawing education in Egypt (cont.) art, 150, 173–74, 175; French in uence on, 128, 129, 216–17n16; for government bureaucrats, 128; and national aesthetics, 121; South Kensington School geometric drawing education and, 121, 124, 128, 129, 129–30, 143, 149, 156, 171, 228n41. See also free drawing education in Egypt drawing education in Egypt, and Arab designs: and ethno-regional classi cation of art, 151–53, 152; geometry in Islam and, 149; introduction of, 140, 148–49, 158–59; as turn to national forms of expression, 141–42, 143, 145, 149–50, 151, 156, 222n27 drawing education in Egypt, and copying from the textbook, 132–33, 138–39; critiques of imitation, 133–34; parallels to memorization, 133, 139 drawing education in Egypt, and representation of real objects, 134–35, 135, 136; and empirical knowledge of the world, 137–38; and nationalist goals of, 135, 137 drawing education in France: and design competition with Britain, 126–28, 141; in uence in Egypt, 128, 129, 216–17n16; shift to representations of real objects, 134; and South Kensington School geometric drawing, 126–28; turn to free drawing education, 144, 159–60, 161 drawing education in Japan: and empirical turn, 124; introduction of educational drawing (ky ikuteki zuga), 150–51; South Kensington School geometric drawing and, 121, 124, 126, 127, 128, 129–30, 148, 156; turn to free drawing education, 144; turn to representation of real objects, 135–36; wartime

inclusion in new art section, 168. See also free drawing education in prewar Japan; free drawing education in wartime Japan drawing education in Japan, and copying from the textbook, 132–33, 138–39 drawing education in Japan, and soft-hair brush: brush vs. pencil, 145–48, 147, 154, 224n38; and ethno-regional classi cation of art, 151; introduction of, 140, 145, 158–59; replacement by educational drawing method, 150–51, 223n30; representational mimesis, 146, 147, 159; as rise of national forms of expression, 141–42, 143, 145, 151, 156 drawing education in modern schools: as enchantment, 182–83; relation of children’s art to primitive art, 45, 166, 173, 175, 221n7, 228n47; representation of real objects, and empirical knowledge, 137–39; transition from functional to aesthetic goals, 160–61. See also free drawing education; South Kensington School Dresser, Christopher, 153, 154 Duara, Prasenjit, 155 Eagleton, Terry, 180–81, 186 Eckert, Franz, 105–6, 107, 110 educational drawing (ky ikuteki zuga): introduction in Japanese schools, 150 educational systems, modern: as break from early modern, 13; educational pyramids, 21, 24–25, 27; global comparison, 13, 22, 24; institutions of, 24–25; state control of curricula, 21, 27. See also curricula in modern schools; Egypt’s modern educational system; music education in modern schools; teachers educators: discussed in this book, characteristics of, 11, 23; in modern

INDEX

aesthetic education, as global population, 11; within national systems, as operating within Bourdieu’s eld of education, 31–32 Egyptian art, and the construction of a national subject, 151–53, 152, 155, 156, 173–75 Egyptian construction of a national subject: art as tool for, 151–53, 152, 155, 156, 173–75; in relation to Ottomanism and Arabism, 154 Egyptian independence: and narrative of Egyptian exceptionalism, 51, 173; and Pharaonicism, 52–53, 173–74, 229n51; struggle for, and Egyptian education, 47. See also Egyptian construction of a national subject Egyptian national anthem (“Salutation to Our Lord”), 115; criticism of, 114, 115–16, 117–18, 118–19; inclusion in Western collections of national anthems, 112, 119; lyrics for, 112, 113–16; replacement, after overthrow of monarchy, 118 Egyptian national anthem (“Wa All h zam n y sil ”), introduction of, after overthrow of monarchy, 118 Egyptian script styles, 80–85, 82; capital letters, introduction of, 98, 99; and claiming of Arab cultural heritage, 97–98; naskh, characteristics of, 80, 81–82, 82; reform of, 97–101, 99; ruq a, characteristics of, 82, 83–84; teaching of, in schools, 80, 81–82, 83–84, 84–85; thuluth, characteristics of, 84–85 Egypt’s modern educational system: attendance rates, 27, 196n12; early modern kutt b schools, incorporation of, 25–26; establishment of, 20, 23–24; foreign schools and, 197n24; and gender, 30, 197n24, 198n25; and in uence of British imperialism, 27, 47; institutional structure of, 25, 27; in

259

its elite track, 26; and Quranic recitation, 65; similarity to Japanese system, 28; state supervision of, 20, 27; two-track system, 25–26, 194n9, 196n14 Emile (Rousseau), 136, 178 empirical knowledge, interest in: and Japanese search for ethnographic origins, 137; and real objects in drawing education, 137–38, 139 European music: adoption by local elites, 37–38, 38, 40; in British schools, 39–40; and concept of universal language, 41; introduction in modern schools, 39; use in military in Japan and Egypt, 39. See also piano Fahmy, Khaled, 130 Fahmy, iad, 69 Fann wa al-tarbiya al-ijtim iyya, al-, (al-Kh dim), 172 Faroqhi, Suraiya, 130 fascist aesthetics, 5–6, 170 feminist theory, aesthetics and, 9 Fenollosa, Ernest, 154 Fenton, John William, 106–7 Ferry, Jules, 63 Foucault, Michel, 190–91n33 Foxwell, Chelsea, 141–42 France: and corrupting e ect of popular music, 69; leadership in the arts, 126–28; and morality of music education, 64–65; and music in schools, 2; and Third Republic, 131. See also aesthetic education in French schools; drawing education in France Free Academy, 165, 167 free drawing education: adoption by modern schools, 144, 159; comparison of children’s art to primitive art, 166, 173, 175, 221n7, 228n47; critiques of, 160, 178, 227n32; and drawing as self-expression, 122; as e ort to train

260

INDEX

free drawing education (cont.) pupils’ hearts, 122, 182; emergence of, 121–22, 144; and freeing of child’s inner self, 159–60; as global, 171, 173; as means of shaping child’s tastes and desires, 160; and shift of focus away from object of drawing, 179 free drawing education in Egypt, 171–77; and ancient Egyptian artistic heritage, 173–74, 175–77; and freeing of child’s inner self, 160; introduction of, 171–73, 172; and nationalism, 171, 173–75, 178–79; turn to, 144 free drawing education in prewar Japan, 161–66; as an aesthetic practice, 160–61; as antimodern dissent, 165, 166; and child’s inner self, 160; ideology of, 162, 163; introduction of, 161–63, 162; as moral education, 165–66, 177; as reaction against South Kensington method, 165 free drawing education in wartime Japan, 166–70; and changes in textbooks, 167–68, 169–70, 226–27n25; as character education, 168–69; as establishment of a new standard, 167–68; state’s appropriation of, 167–70, 177, 178–79; and taste and creativity, 169–70 Free Education movement in Japan: free drawing education movement and, 163, 165, 167; practices associated with, 163; schools adopting, 165, 167; in Taisho era, 166–67 Freehand Drawing Education (Jiy ga ky iku, Yamamoto), 164 Freehand Drawing Education movement (Japan). See free drawing education in prewar Japan; free drawing education in wartime Japan Frühstück, Sabine, 167–70 Fu’ d I (king of Egypt), 97 Fukuoka, Maki, 218n37

Fukuzawa Yukichi, 4, 14, 15, 58–59 Fundamental Code of Education (Japan), 20, 24, 26, 29 gagaku music, 58 Gardner, Howard, 185 Garon, Sheldon, 170 Geertz, Cli ord, 184 Geisler, Michael, 105 genbun icchi movement, 212n61 geometric structuring of space: e ects of, 130–31, 138. See also South Kensington School geometry: Atatürk’s study of, 217n23; in the history of Islamic art, 149 Ghaz l , Ab mid al-, 57–58 girls’ education: in Egypt, 30, 197n24, 198n25; and Free Education movement, 165; in Japan, 30, 87, 197–98n24; in modern and early modern schools, 30 “Glorious Apollo” (song), 108, 109 Gluck, Carol, 11 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 43, 72 Gombrich, E. H., 124, 138 good taste, and morality, 63, 66 Got Yoshiyuki, 128 Gottschewski, Hermann, 107 Grammar of Ornament, The, (Jones), 151–53, 152 Great Exhibition (London, 1851), 125, 126–27 Guide to Western Drawing (Seiga shinan, Kawakami), 126, 127, 156 Guomindang. See Chinese Nationalist Party Hamm m, Mu ammad Y suf, 51, 63, 172 Hani Motoko, 165, 167, 170 Harootunian, Harry, 156 Harvey, David, 130, 131 Ha an, Mu ammad Kha b, 90–91 Haussmann, Georges-Eug ne, 130

INDEX

Hayashi Hiromori, 107 ifn , Ma m d A mad al-, 52, 117, 117–18 Hill, Christopher, 14 History of Sexuality (Foucault), 190–91n33 Homori Kingo, 132 Hosokawa Sh hei, 58, 201n21 Howson, E. W., 64 usayn , Q A mad ibn M rmunsh al-, 90 Ibn Khald n, 149 Ibr h m, Abd al-Ra m n Mu ammad, 90–91 Ibr sh , Mu ammad A iyya al-, 49 Ihara Saikaku, 203–4n53 Ikuo Jun, 45 Illustrated Drawing Book, The (Burn), 126, 127 Ima’izumi Gen’ichir , 143 Imperial Household Ministry, and writing of Japanese national anthem, 107 Imperial Rescript on Education (Japan), 65–66 Inbaba Teachers’ College, 135, 137 India, British project in, 16–17, 193n46 Institute for Modern Music and Music Education, 72 International Exhibition (London, 1862), 153 s , A mad, 45, 47 I bah ni, Ab al-Faraj al-, 56–58 Ishibashi Keij r , 87, 94–95, 95–96 Ishihara Wasabur , 214n9 Ishikawa Mokugyo, 88–89 Islam: and calligraphy, 90; four legal schools of, 57; and realistic representations of nature, 219n45. See also Quranic cantillation Islam and music: candidates for Egyptian music and, 53; music vs. Quranic cantillation, 56 Ism l (Khedive of Egypt), 14, 23, 112 Istanbul, and geometric city planning, 130

261

Iwakura Mission, 59 Izawa Sh ji, 39, 108 Jacob, Wilson Chacko, 227n29 Japanese art: and claim to unique cultural heritage, 141–43; and construction of national subject, 141–42, 143, 145, 151, 154, 156, 187, 188; European awareness of, 153; and European technology, 4; as justi cation of Asian conquests, 54; and the leadership of Asia, 54–55; nihonga (Japanese-style painting), 221n8 Japanese Association of Calligraphy Education, 94 Japanese education in wartime (early Sh wa era): continutiy across trans-war divide, 170; crackdown on seikatsu tsuzurikata (writing from life), 170; creation of new art section, 87, 91, 168; curriculum for moral education, 168, 227n29; focus on character education, 168–69; and martial arts training, 87, 94, 209n30; and physical education, 91, 168; and quest to overcome modernity, 93–94. See also calligraphy instruction in wartime Japan; free drawing education in wartime Japan; writing education in wartime Japan Japanese fascism, aesthetics of, 6 Japanese language, concept of aesthetics (bigaku or kanseigaku) in, 8–9, 9–10 Japanese national anthem (“The Reign of Our Lord” Kimi ga yo): a ective component of, 111–12; banning of, in occupied Japan, 118, 119; establishment as the de facto national anthem, 119; Fenton’s rst melody of the, 106–7; rst printing of, 110; “Glorious Apollo” as the second version of the, 108, 109; Hayashi and Eckert’s third melody for, 105, 107,

262

INDEX

Japanese national anthem (cont.) 108, 110, 213n5; inclusion in Western collections of national anthems, 112, 119; legal recognition of, 110; lyrics, choice of, 105–6; and mobilization for war, 111–12, 214n9; post-occupation restoration of, 119; postwar militarism, 118, 119; as product of Western in uence, 108–11 Japanese national subject, art as tool for the construction of the, 141–42, 143, 145, 151, 154, 156, 187, 188 Japanese script styles, 80–85, 81; di ering uses of, 84; gy sho, characteristics of, 81, 82–83; kaisho, characteristics of, 80–81, 81, 81–82; s sho, characteristics of, 81, 84; teaching of, in schools, 80, 81–82, 83 Japanese secondary schools: aesthetic education in wartime, 87; martial arts training in wartime, 87, 94, 209n30 Japan: Its Architecture, Art, and Art Manufactures (Dresser), 153 Japan’s early modern educational system: abolishment of, 24; hank schools, 24, 29, 77; terakoya schools, 24, 28–29, 77 Japan’s early modern educational system, memorization of Confucian classics in, 133; and turn to empirical practices, 138, 218–19n37 Japan’s modern educational system: attendance rates compared to Egypt, 27, 196n12; establishment of, 24; gender-speci c curricula, 25, 30; girls’ education in, 30, 87, 197–98n24; institutional structure of, 24–25, 27; similarities with Egyptian system, 28; size of, 27; and the state, 24, 28; state certi cation of teachers, 24, 26; state control of, 24, 27 Japonisme, 153 J rim, Al al-, 116–17 J w sh, Abd al- Az z, 78–79

Jinj sh gaku zuga (Regular Primary School Drawing Manual), 167 Jiy ga ky iku (Freehand Drawing Education, Yamamoto), 164 Jones, Andrew, 207n99 Jones, Mark, 62, 163, 165 Jones, Owen, 151–53, 152 Juppa, Lambert, 112 Jurj , ab b, 123, 171, 174, 175–77, 176, 228n41, 229n51 justice, con ation with beauty, 63, 66 Kagami Tora , 74, 86, 88 Kaibara Ekiken, 90 K mil, Mus af , 15 K mil, Y suf, 151–53, 152, 155, 223n31 Kandinsky, Wassily, 166, 221n7 Kaneko Kazuo, 126, 226–27n25 Kant, Immanuel, 9 Kasai Yoshio, 92–93 Kawakami Kan, 126 Key of Drawing, The (La clef du dessin, Carot), 128, 129 Kh dim, Sa d al-, 172 Kha b, Ma m d asan, 228n41 “Khedival Hymn” (reference to the Egyptian national anthem), 112, 114, 115 Kikuchi Dairoku, 40 Kimi ga yo. See Japanese national anthem Kinoshita Kunimasa, 111–12 Kishida Ry sei, 166 Kit b al-Agh n (al-I bah ni), 56–58 Kitamura Yoshitar , 54 Klee, Paul, 166, 221n7 Koide K hei, 71 Kojin, Karatani, 6 Konishi Shigenao, 45–46 Koonz, Claudia, 170 Korean national anthem, 105–6 Koyama Samonji, 54 Koyama Shotar , 8, 40–41, 75–77, 137, 138 Kraus, Richard, 41

INDEX

Kristeller, Oskar, 8 Kumaya Goemon Yoshikazu, 37–38, 38 Kuroda Teiji, 111–12 Kusabe Sannosuke, 120, 121 Ky shi hitsudoku (Required Reading for Teachers, Northend), 77–78 La clef du dessin (The Key of Drawing, Carot), 128, 129 “l’A endina” (Pugioli), and Egyptian national anthem, 112, 11 Lagoutte, Daniel, 131 Lamarre, Thomas, 230n10 Lane, Edward, 58 language, and the construction of national subjects, 155 Latour, Bruno, 218n37 Law of 10th Rajab 1284 (Egypt), 20, 23–24, 25 Le Corbusier, 130, 131 literature, and nationalism, 6 Liu, Lydia, 156 London exhibition of 1908, 144 Macaulay, Thomas, 16 Marcon, Federico, 218n37 martial arts (bud ) training in wartime Japan, 87, 209n30; as end in itself, 210n31; role in postwar curriculum, 94 Maruyama kyo, 122–23 Marx, Roger, 177 Marxist theorists: and aesthetics, 9; on fascist aesthetics, 5–6 Mason, Luther Whiting, 39, 108, 109 Matsuda Tomokichi, 227n32 Matsumoto Nikichi, 66 Meiji Restoration, and establishment of modern educational system, 24 Meirokusha Society, 83 Messick, Brinkley, 131 Michard, F., 178 Middle School Collection of Songs (Ch t sh kash ), 108

263

Miller, Elizabeth, 229n50 mimesis, global, 120; in drawing education, 121, 141, 145, 155–56, 159, 224–25n1; national anthems and, 105–6, 120 mimesis, representational: disappearance from drawing education, 121–22, 159, 224–25n1; in drawing, 121; optical vs. true-to-nature, 122–24 mimetic moment, in modern drawing education, 121, 122, 139, 141, 156, 159, 187, 188, 224–25n1 mingei arts and crafts movement, 54 ministries of education, control of national educational systems, 21 Ministry of Education (Egypt): and educational materials, 26; and Egyptian national anthem, 117; and reform of Egyptian script styles, 97–98 Ministry of Education (Japan): establishment of, 24, 194n4; and higher teachers’ colleges, 26; and Japanese national anthem, 108; selection of centralized textbooks, 223n30; and South Kensington drawing method, 126 “Minute on Indian Education” (Macaulay), 16 Mitobe Toramatsu, 84 Mizutani Kamesabur , 78 modernity, and disenchantment, 3 morality, con ation with beauty, 63, 66 morality, teaching of: as goal of free drawing education, 165–66, 177; as goal of music education, 62–63, 64–65; in wartime Japan, 168–69, 227n29 Moretti, Franco, 6 Morioka Shinez , 85–86, 140 Most Popular Songs of Patriotism, The (1916), 112, 214n13 Mu ammad, Fu d Abd al- Az z, 51, 172 Mukhtar, Mahmud, 221n8

264

INDEX

Murata Uichir , 148 M s , Sal ma, 97 music: body as infused with, 46–47; di erent meanings in di erent cultures, 22; as expression of heart and soul, 44. See also European music music, popular: acceptance of, in 1950s-60s, 68–69; in cities, 69; earlier arrival in Egypt than in Japan, 206n92; global concerns about, 68–69; global spread through radio and recordings, 69, 70 music, power of: to bind communities, 7; to harmonize individuals within society, 47; to move the heart and soul, 1–2, 3, 42, 44–47; as a natural force, 44–45; over animals, 45; to reform youths, 62–63; and seductive power of Western colonialism, 187 music, power to corrupt: educators’ concerns about, 66–70; Egyptian concerns about, 56–58, 66–67, 68–69; music education in schools as prophylactic against, 67, 68, 69–70; samurai and, 58–59 music education in modern schools: and corruptive potential, 66–70, 72; criticism of, 71–72; as cultural and political indoctrination, 182; and e orts to increase appeal of, 71; and instrumentalization of music, 73; introduction of, 1; and lack of engagement by pupils, 70–71, 72–73, 185; and music’s power to move children, 1–2, 3, 42, 44–47; and savages, 44–45 music in church, 64 music in Egyptian schools, 61; adoption, 46, 47; debate on, similarity to Japanese debate, 47; embrace of Arab music, 50–53; national identity as goal of, 65; nationalist, 55; as part of nationalist wave, 47–49; and power of

music to move children, 2, 46, 55, 65; as prophylactic against vulgar music, 67; reasons for later adoption of, 47; religious training as goal of, 65; and subversive repurposing of, 68; teaching morality as goal of, 63, 65 music in French schools, introduction of, 2 music in Japanese schools, 61; adoption, 47; and Chinese origins, 53–54; concerns about repurposing of, 68; and the cultivation of morality, 62; introduction of, 1; and lack of engagement by pupils, 70–71; national attachment as goal of, 65–66; nationalist, West as foil for, 55; and nationalist wave of 1920s-30s, 47; and power of music to move pupils, 1–2, 45–46, 55; as prophylactic against popular music, 68, 69; religious training as goal of, 65–66; as similar in all modern schools, 62; teaching morality as goal of, 62, 65; training in musical instruments, 61; use of Greek models for, 53–54; and view of music as purview of commoners, 60, 62–63; wartime inclusion in new art section, 168; and wartime nationalist wave, 49–50; writing of curricula for, 117 Music Investigation Committee, 39, 62, 108, 109 Music of Ancient Egyptians, The (M s q qu am al-mi riyy n; al- ifn ), 52–53, 53 music of Egypt: competing de nitions of, 50–53; concerns about corruptive potential, 66–67, 68–69; nationalist interest in non-Western music, 47–49, 48; role of music in Islam and, 56–58. See also Egyptian national anthem music of Japan: association with commoner culture, 58–60, 62;

INDEX

concerns about corrupting potential, 68–69; in the context of Asian music, 50, 53–54, 55; instruments used in, 49, 59, 203–4n53; interest in, in nationalist wave of 1930s, 49–50, 201n20; music as moral cultivation, 60, 62–63; terms for music before modern era, 58. See also Japanese national anthem; music in Japanese schools music teachers in Japan, training of, 117 M s q wa al- an sh d al-madrasiyya, al-, 214–15n19 Mu taf , Mu ammad Al , 171–72 Nagahara, Hiromu, 68 Nakamura Suketsune, 110 Nakamura Y kichi, 63 nation: as both subject and object, 157; as community of shared tastes, 16, 17. See also national subjects, construction of; state national allegiance: aesthetic attraction as basis of, 187; fascist aesthetics and, 6 national anthems: a ective component of, 106, 111, 119; competition between candidates for, 213n4; as inherently mimetic, 105–6, 120. See also Egyptian national anthem; Japanese national anthem “National Hymn,” 112, 114 nationalism: and construction of an indigenous national essence, 151; spirit of, as aesthetic, 4, 6–7 National Society for Art in Schools (France), 177 national subjects, construction of: art as tool for, 151–54, 155, 156–57, 221n8; in Egypt, and Arab designs, 141–42, 143, 145, 149–50, 151, 156, 187, 188, 222n27; and ethno-regional classi cation of art, 151–53, 152; in Japan, brush drawing and, 141–42, 143, 145, 151, 154, 156, 187, 188; language and, 155

265

national systems of education, and Bourdieu’s elds, 31–32 Nazis, political uses of music, 72 Ndzesop, Ibrahim, 193n44 Nehamas, Alexander, 10, 63, 179, 187 Nelson, Kristina, 205n73 neoclassicists, and the imitation of nature, 133 New Drawing Manual (1910), 150–51, 167, 223n30 Nishimura Shigeki, 83 n gaku music, 58 normal schools. See teachers’ colleges Northend, Charles, 77–78 “Of Mimicry and Man” (Bhabha), 193n46 Okakura Kakuzo, 8, 54, 75, 154 Okinawa, as colonial project turned civilizational, 5 kuma Shigenobu, 15, 193n44 Okunaka Yasuto, 39 “Old Lang Syne,” 22, 108 On Beauty and Being Just (Scarry), 63 tsuka Jiroku, 92–93 Ottoman military band music, and Egyptian schools, 50 yama Iwao, 106 Ozouf, Mona, 17 performance, nationalism and, 6–7 Perry, Matthew, 12–13 Pharaonicism, 51–53; and Egyptian art education, 173–74, 175, 176, 229n51; and Egyptian national identity, 52–53, 173–74, 229n51; Pharaonic music as candidate for Egyptian music, 51–53 philosophy of aesthetics, history of, 7–9 physical education classes: as discipline, 168, 227n29; in wartime Japan, 91, 168 piano: arrival in Americas, 40; arrival in Egypt, 37, 40; arrival in Japan, 37–38, 38, 40; global spread with European expansion, 37–42; as marker of class

266

INDEX

piano (cont.) privilege, 42; power of enchantment, 43; as quintessential modern instrument, 37 Picasso, Pablo, 158, 160, 181 Pied Piper of Hamelin, 1; arts teachers as modern versions of, 182–86 pleasure, as a political act, 177 Powell, Eve Troutt, 51 power asymmetries, global: of imperial Japan and colonized Egypt, 15; of West and non-West, 14 Primary School Brush Drawing Book (Sh gaku m hitsu gaj ), 146, 147 Principles of Decorative Design (Dresser), 153 Protestant Reformation, and music, 63 Pugioli, Giuseppe, 112, 113–16 Pyle, Kenneth, 154 Qand l, Am n Murs , 79–80 Quénioux, Gaston, 161, 177, 228n43 Quranic cantillation: in Egyptian kutt b schools, 25–26, 29, 197n22; vs. music, 56; styles of, 205n73 radio, and the global spread of popular music, 69 R j , Ibr h m, 50 Rasm al-taw , al- (Hamm m and Mu ammad), 172 record industry, and the global spread of popular music, 69, 70, 206n92 Regular Primary School Drawing Manual (Jinj sh gaku zuga), 167 “Reign of Our Lord, The” (Kimi ga yo). See Japanese national anthem Required Reading for Teachers (Ky shi hitsudoku, Northend), 77–78 Rescuing History from the Nation (Duara), 155 Rigel, Henri-Jean, 37 Riotor, Léon, 177 Rokumeikan, 187 romantics, and mimesis, 133

Ross, Denison, 98 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 136, 158, 160, 178, 181 Roussillon, Alain, 193n44 Ruggles, D. Fairchild, 219n45 Ruskin, John, 144, 165, 166 abr P sh , Sharif, 57 Said, Edward, 32–33 Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, 64 Sait Gakusan, 79 Sakurai Hir , 49, 71 sam polemic, 57 samurai: and calligraphy, 91; and composition of Japanese national anthem, 106; hank schools for, 29; prohibitions on music and theater, 58–59; women, and music, 59 Sand, Jordan, 170 Sasaki Seinoj , 64 Sat D shin, 224n38 Sat enjir , 44 Sauvageot, Anne, 131 Sauvageot, Claude, 216–17n16 Sawayanagi Masatar , 78, 79 awt al-fann n (Voice of the Artist), 175 Sayyid, A mad Lu f al-, 219n38 Scarry, Elaine, 10, 63 Schiller, Friedrich, 3 Scott, James, 68 secondary school curricula, and specialized subjects, 21 Seiga shinan (Guide to Western Drawing, Kawakami), 126, 127, 156 Shakry, Omnia El, 137, 154–55 Shawq , A mad, 115 Sh gaku m hitsu gaj (Primary School Brush Drawing Book), 146, 147 Sh gaku sh kash (Compilation of Songs for Primary Schools, Mason), 108, 109 Sh gaku zuga kaitei, 147 sh my chants, 58 Sitte, Camillo, 130

INDEX

Smith, Charles T., 44 Smith, Walter, 125, 143 socialist realism, 138 South Kensington School: arrival in Japan, 126; as basis of drawing education in modern schools, 121, 122, 124, 125–28, 129–30; British critics of, 144; on drawing as skill, not art, 143; emphasis on practical uses of drawing, 122, 125–26, 127, 138; emphasis on precision, 122; and “ rst in Europe, then elsewhere” narrative, 155–56; founding of, 125; and free drawing education movement, 165; geometric structuring of space, 130–31, 138; global spread of, 125–26; and global spread of capitalism, 126; and London exhibition of 1908, 144; replacement by free drawing education in Egyptian schools, 171–73, 172; replacement by free drawing education in Japanese schools, 162–63; as technology for seeing, 130–31 Spitta, Sylvia, 42 Starrett, Gregory, 65 state: control of curricula, 21; control of education for state purposes, 20–21, 55; control of teachers’ education, 21; and geometric organization of urban space, 130; and ordering of time, 131–32. See also ministries of education; nation Steiner, Wendy, 10 Sudan, as Egyptian colony, 51 Su sm, on music, 57 Sugita Katsutar , 146–48 Sunami Genichi, 87 Surak, Kristin, 7 Suzuki K ai, 146–48 ah w , Rifa a al-, 4 Tale of Genji, The, 59 Tamanoi, Mariko, 68

267

Tanabe Hisao, 54, 201n21 Tanaka Kaian, 86, 88 Tanimoto Tomeri, 68 Tansman, Alan, 6, 170 Tawf q, asan, 78, 132, 133, 143 Taylorist principles, in Japan, 79 tea ceremony, 6–7, 141 teachers: in Japan, certi cation, 24, 26; in modern education systems, 26; in state schools, as products of state education, 21 teachers’ colleges, state control of, 21 teachers’ colleges in Egypt: establishment of, 26; as replacement for teaching mosque al-Azhar, 26; and writing of curricula and school materials, 26 teachers’ colleges in Japan: higher and lower teachers’ colleges, 26; in uence of higher teachers’ colleges on education policy, 26; state control of higher teachers’ colleges, 26 teaching manuals in modern schools: as source, 22; and subjects taught, 27 textbooks in modern schools: as source, 22; and subjects taught, 27 Thomas, Julia, 154 time, ordering of, 131–32 Tokyo Higher Teachers’ College: and centralization of art education, 223n30; on free drawing education movement, 165 Tokyo School of Fine Arts, 154 Tominaga Iwatar , 214n9 Tomizawa Naonori, 78 transculturation, 42 Tsurumi, Patricia, 68 Turkey, and Alphabet Reform, 97, 100 Umar, Al , 137–38, 149 Umm Kulth m, 57, 68–69, 118 Unequal Treaties, 141 universal language, music and drawing as, 41

268

INDEX

urban planning, and geometric structuring of space, 130 arma, Raji, 221n8 ienna International Exhibition (1873), 145 Voice of the Artist ( awt al-fann n), 175 von Siebold, Philipp Franz, 37–38, 38 Wahhabis, on music, 57 W l , Ja far, 115 Weber, Max, 3, 37 West, as concept, 14 Wigen, K ren, 226–27n25, 227n29 women samurai, and music, 59 women’s rights, and Taisho era, 166. See also girls’ education Woodbridge, William Channing, 46, 62–63 Woodring, Carl, 139 writing education: as component of aesthetic education, 3; and debate on functional writing vs. calligraphy, 74–80; functional writing in modern schools, 75, 76, 77–78, 78–79, 80, 85 writing education in Egypt: and discourse about skills and virtues, 90–91; incorporation into language classes, 76, 80; interest in calligraphy, 96; purposes of, 90–91; and Romanization of Arabic, 97, 211–12n55; victory of functional writing, 75, 76, 77, 78–79, 80, 85, 100. See also Egyptian script styles

writing education in Japan: compared to Egyptian schools, 80; in early modern schools, 77; and functional writing, 75, 76, 77–78, 79, 80, 85, 86; incorporation into language classes, 76, 77, 80; and Romanization, 97, 211–12n55; and speed, 79, 80, 84. See also Japanese script styles writing education in postwar Japan: calligraphy as an optional subject, 94–96; decentralization of curriculum, 95 writing education in wartime Japan (early Sh wa era): and arts as tool of mobilization, 91–92, 95, 183; as both functional and artistic, 92–94, 93, 100; and calligraphy, 86, 87–89; as calligraphy (shod ), 87, 209nn29–30; as part of new art section, 87, 91, 168; and posture, 88, 89; and renewed interest in calligraphy insruction, 92; as spiritual training, 75, 85–90, 210n31 Yamamoto Hisashi, 46–47 Yamamoto Kanae, 161–65, 162, 163, 166, 167, 175–76 Yanagita Kunio, 137 Yoshida Kumaji, 70 Yoshimi Shunya, 168, 227n29 Yotsumoto Yoshitoyo, 110 aghl l, Sa ad, 134 hir, A mad Shaf q, 171–72, 174, 228n41 ak , ab b, 41

Studies of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute, Columbia University The Studies of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute of Columbia University were inaugurated in 1962 to bring to a wider public the results of signi cant new research on modern and contemporary East Asia. Selected Titles (Complete list at: http: weai.columbia.edu publications studies-weai ) Down and Out in Saigon: Stories of the Poor in a Colonial City, by Haydon Cherry. Yale University Press, 2019. Beauty in the Age of Empire: Japan, Egypt, and the Global History of Aesthetic Education, by Raja Adal. Columbia University Press, 2019. Mass Vaccination: Citizens’ Bodies and State Power in Modern China, by Mary Augusta Brazelton. Cornell University Press, 2019. Residual Futures: The Urban Ecologies of Literary and Visual Media of 1960s and 1970s Japan, by Franz Prichard. Columbia University Press, 2019. The Making of Japanese Settler Colonialism: Malthusianism and TransPaci c Migration, 1868-1961, by Sidney u Lu. Cambridge University Press, 2019. The Power of Print in Modern China: Intellectuals and Industrial Publishing from the end of Empire to Maoist State Socialism, by Robert Culp. Columbia University Press, 2019. Beyond the Asylum: Mental Illness in French Colonial Vietnam, by Claire E. Edington. Cornell University Press, 2019. Borderland Memories: Searching for Historical Identity in Post-Mao China, by Martin Fromm. Cambridge University Press, 2019. Sovereignty Experiments: Korean Migrants and the Building of Borders in Northeast Asia, 1860 – 1949, by Alyssa M. Park. Cornell University Press, 2019. The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere: When Total Empire Met Total War, by Jeremy A. Yellen. Cornell University Press, 2019. Thought Crime: Ideology and State Power in Interwar Japan, by Max Ward. Duke University Press, 2019. Statebuilding by Imposition: Resistance and Control in Colonial Taiwan and the Philippines, by Reo Matsuzaki. Cornell University Press, 2019. Nation-Empire: Ideology and Rural Youth Mobilization in Japan and Its Colonies, by Sayaka Chatani. Cornell University Press, 2019.

Fixing Landscape: A Techno-Poetic History of China’s Three Gorges, by Corey Byrnes. Columbia University Press, 2019. The Invention of Madness: State, Society, and the Insane in Modern China, by Emily Baum. University of Chicago Press, 2018. Japan’s Imperial Underworlds: Intimate Encounters at the Borders of Empire, by David Ambaras. Cambridge University Press, 2018. Heroes and Toilers: Work as Life in Postwar North Korea, 1953–1961, by Cheehyung Harrison Kim. Columbia University Press, 2018. Electri ed Voices: How the Telephone, Phonograph, and Radio Shaped Modern Japan, 1868-1945, by Kerim Yasar. Columbia University Press, 2018. Making Two Vietnams: War and Youth Identities, 1965–1975, by Olga Dror. Cambridge University Press, 2018. A Misunderstood Friendship: Mao Zedong, Kim Il-sung, and Sino–North Korean Relations, 1949–1976, by hihua Shen and Yafeng ia. Columbia University Press, 2018. Playing by the Informal Rules: Why the Chinese Regime Remains Stable Despite Rising Protests, by Yao Li. Cambridge University Press, 2018. Raising China’s Revolutionaries: Modernizing Childhood for Cosmopolitan Nationalists and Liberated Comrades, by Margaret Mih Tillman. Columbia University Press, 2018. Buddhas and Ancestors: Religion and Wealth in Fourteenth-Century Korea, by Juhn Y. Ahn. University of Washington Press, 2018. Idly Scribbling Rhymers: Poetry, Print, and Community in Nineteenth Century Japan, by Robert Tuck. Columbia University Press, 2018. China’s War on Smuggling: Law, Economic Life, and the Making of the Modern State, 1842-1965, by Philip Thai. Columbia University Press, 2018. Forging the Golden Urn: The Qing Empire and the Politics of Reincarnation in Tibet, by Max Oidtmann. Columbia University Press, 2018. The Battle for Fortune: State-Led Development, Personhood, and Power among Tibetans in China, by Charlene Makley. Cornell University Press, 2018. Aesthetic Life: Beauty and Art in Modern Japan, by Miya Elise Mizuta Lippit. Harvard University Asia Center, 2018. Where the Party Rules: The Rank and File of China’s Communist State, by Daniel Koss. Cambridge University Press, 2018. Resurrecting Nagasaki: Reconstruction and the Formation of Atomic Narratives, by Chad R. Diehl. Cornell University Press, 2018. China’s Philological Turn: Scholars, Textualism, and the Dao in the Eighteenth Century, by Ori Sela. Columbia University Press, 2018.

Making Time: Astronomical Time Measurement in Tokugawa Japan, by Yulia Frumer. University of Chicago Press, 2018. Mobilizing Without the Masses: Control and Contention in China, by Diana Fu. Cambridge University Press, 2018. Post-Fascist Japan: Political Culture in Kamakura after the Second World War, by Laura Hein. Bloomsbury, 2018. China’s Conservative Revolution: The Quest for a New Order, 1927-1949, by Brian Tsui. Cambridge University Press, 2018. Promiscuous Media: Film and Visual Culture in Imperial Japan, 1926-1945, by Hikari Hori. Cornell University Press, 2018. The End of Japanese Cinema: Industrial Genres, National Times, and Media Ecologies, by Alexander ahlten. Duke University Press, 2017. The Chinese Typewriter: A History, by Thomas S. Mullaney. The MIT Press, 2017. Forgotten Disease: Illnesses Transformed in Chinese Medicine, by Hilary A. Smith. Stanford University Press, 2017. Borrowing Together: Micro nance and Cultivating Social Ties, by Becky Yang Hsu. Cambridge University Press, 2017. Food of Sinful Demons: Meat, Vegetarianism, and the Limits of Buddhism in Tibet, by Geo rey Barstow. Columbia University Press, 2017. Youth For Nation: Culture and Protest in Cold War South Korea, by Charles R. Kim. University of Hawaii Press, 2017. Socialist Cosmopolitanism: The Chinese Literary Universe, 1945-1965, by Nicolai olland. Columbia University Press, 2017. The Social Life of Inkstones: Artisans and Scholars in Early Qing China, by Dorothy Ko. University of Washington Press, 2017. Darwin, Dharma, and the Divine: Evolutionary Theory and Religion in Modern Japan, by G. Clinton Godart. University of Hawaii Press, 2017. Dictators and Their Secret Police: Coercive Institutions and State Violence, by Sheena Chestnut Greitens. Cambridge University Press, 2016. The Cultural Revolution on Trial: Mao and the Gang of Four, by Alexander C. Cook. Cambridge University Press, 2016. Inheritance of Loss: China, Japan, and the Political Economy of Redemption After Empire, by Yukiko Koga. University of Chicago Press, 2016. Homecomings: The Belated Return of Japan’s Lost Soldiers, by Yoshikuni Igarashi. Columbia University Press, 2016. Samurai to Soldier: Remaking Military Service in Nineteenth-Century Japan, by D. Colin Jaundrill. Cornell University Press, 2016.