Michael Szalay
Ishiguro’s Prestige
Kazuo Ishiguro’s second novel, An Artist of the Floating World, opens with an account of how prestige gets priced. The painter Masuji Ono looks back on how he came to own the very large house in which he lives in postwar Japan. Though a well-respected artist when the house came on the market in the early 1930s, he could not have afforded the full value of the home, which once belonged to a distinguished architect and urban planner. Ono was able to purchase the home only because the architect’s heirs converted his reputation and standing as a painter into an implied amount of yen. “We are not interested in receiving anything beyond the quoted price,” the owners tell him. “What we mean to do from here on is to conduct an auction of prestige.”1
That auction no doubt had personal significance to Ishiguro, a critically esteemed and prize-winning author whose novels have sold well and consistently been optioned and produced by Hollywood studios. Indeed, Ishiguro has reflected on the Man Booker Prize—for which he has been nominated four times, and which he once won, for The Remains of the Day—in terms that evoke Floating World. He recalls how “the publicity gimmick” that is the Booker Prize allowed “a small elite group of people” working in “literary fiction” to enjoy mainstream commercial success. “We may have [had] glory and prestige, but we weren’t going to make huge money out of it. All this changed enormously in the 1980s, when literary fiction could turn up in a bestseller list. It first happened only to Booker shortlisted or actual winners, and then it seemed to have a larger effect.”2 The literary prize, in other words, sets the monetary exchange value for prestige. As Jim English explains, prizes
are our must effective institutional agents of capital intraconversion. By means of prizes, not only are particular symbolic fortunes ‘cashed in’ (the Nobel laureate’s out-of-print titles suddenly appearing in attractive new boxed-set editions and translated into every major language) or particular economic fortunes culturally ‘laundered’ (Nobel’s profits from the manufacture of deadly explosives converted into a mantle of supreme literary achievement . . . ), but the very barriers and rates of exchange, in terms of which all such transactions must take place, are continually contested and adjusted.3
English bases his analysis on Pierre Bourdieu’s literary sociology, which explains how and under what conditions cultural producers convert their stored “symbolic capital” into monetary form. Symbolic capital is accumulated prestige or honor, conferred in part by those whom the producer in question recognizes as his peers. It is also always potentially deferred financial gain. “Symbolic capital is to be understood as economic or political capital that is disavowed,” Bourdieu writes. But once disavowed, it functions as “a ‘credit’ which, under certain conditions, and always in the long run, guarantees economic profits.”4
Not all cultural producers possess the same access to symbolic capital. Bourdieu’s now familiar account of the “anti-economy” of the literary and cultural field describes how symbolic capital accrues to those “autonomous” artists who reject economic or “specific” capital (in essence, money). According to Bourdieu,
the literary or artistic field is at all times the site of a struggle between the two principles of hierarchization: the heteronymous principle, favorable to those who dominate the field economically and politically (i.e. “bourgeois art”) and the autonomous principle (e.g. “art for art’s sake”), which those of its advocates who are least endowed with specific capital tend to identify with a degree of independence from the economy, seeing temporal failure as a sign of election and success as a sign of compromise. (40)
The more oriented a given cultural producer is toward the economic and political fields (which together make up “the field of power”), the less he is able to make claims to aesthetic autonomy and its associated forms of prestige. Rather, in principle, the prestige of autonomy is reserved for those more properly avant-garde artists who maintain distance from the field of power. The same is true when we scale up from individual producers to firms and corporations: small-scale, “restricted production” possesses a higher degree of autonomy from the field of power, and therefore greater access to symbolic capital, than does large-scale mass production.
The terms of the struggle between heteronymous and autonomous producers within the anti-economy are defined in turn by the degree of overall autonomy possessed by the cultural field with respect to the dominant field of power. And the cultural field’s autonomy relative to the field of power, Bourdieu adds, “varies considerably from one period and national tradition to another” (40). But even when the cultural field possesses a high degree of autonomy—that is, even when its honorifics and rewards seem relatively far removed from economic and political capital—it “euphemizes” class relations by transposing them into cultural terms. Artists fight what amounts to a proxy war within the ruling class. As Bourdieu has it, the “eschatological vision” structuring the opposition between avant-garde and bourgeois art—in effect, as one between asceticism and worldly success—conceals “the true relationship between the field of cultural production and the field of power,” mainly by transforming the conflict “between the dominated and dominant factions of the dominant class” into a conflict “between two aesthetics” (101). When artists eager for symbolic capital “disavow” economic or political capital, then, they don’t renounce the field of power so much as transpose it into terms more amenable to their own search for intra-class dominance.
As David Hesmondhalgh argues, this general schema is potentially less effective in addressing contemporary large-scale or mass cultural production than small-scale firm production: Bourdieu is almost entirely blind to the culture industry and the transnational corporations central to it. Hesmondhalgh thus prefers categories offered by Raymond Williams in Culture: “the artisanal, the post-artisanal (including patronage), the market professional, which is akin to the 19th-century states of the field much more fully described by Bourdieu, and finally, from the early 20th century onwards, but enormously intensifying in the second half of that century, the corporate professional stage.”5
In Floating World, that last stage matters a great deal. Ono first finds employment at a commercial art firm that “prided itself on its ability to provide a high number of paintings at very short notice” (66). For his part, Ono defends his commercial art as “unchallengeable in terms either of quality or quantity” (69). The firm provides a collective endeavor, but for dubious aims: “battling against time to preserve the hard-earned reputation of the firm,” Ono and his peers produce works of art that will “look ‘Japanese’ to the foreigners to whom they were shipped out” (69). The heteronomy here at stake involves more than a commitment to the market as such. After the war, Ono’s grandson has eyes only for U.S. popular culture, from the Lone Ranger films to Popeye cartoons. The sudden omnipresence of U.S. corporate culture corresponds in turn to the increased role of corporations in Japan generally, corporations that are too beholden, Ono thinks, to the U.S. In retirement, then, Ono is forced to contemplate the superannuation of the drama that has organized his life, in which the heroic artist either embraces or rejects an affiliation with the field of power. After the war, as his sons-in-law and grandson debate the relative virtues of this or that corporation, nobody seems to care one way or another about “the position taking,” as Bourdieu would have it, of a painter such as Ono. Indeed, as we will see, the vision of aesthetic autonomy to which Ono briefly commits when he flees the corporate production of “Japanese” art for foreign export is itself a Western import that transforms a collaborative and commercial popular tradition into a solitary avant-garde affair.
Ono’s ambition to become an autonomous artist of the kind that Bourdieu describes begins at an early age, when his father calls him into the reception room of the family home, a room typically reserved for business discussions. Holding the child’s paintings in his hands “as if to test their weight” (46), the father chastises the son for his indolence and cautions against a life spent in the arts. The echo with the novel’s opening prestige auction is unmistakable: where later Ono’s cultural standing will enable him to afford an otherwise prohibitively priced house, here the father weighs Ono’s paintings as if against gold and finds them as insubstantial as the ash into which he shortly will convert them. At this moment, Ono recalls, he resolved never to find himself “telling my own son about accounts and money” (47). He will “rise above” (47) “the counting of loose change” and “the fingering of coins” (48). He realizes that ambition years later only after leaving the commercial firm mentioned above. He becomes the protégé of a “serious” painter “trying to ‘modernize’ the Utamaro tradition” (140). Ono now begins what we might call the properly autonomous stage of his career. He enters the “floating world” described in Ishiguro’s title, a world of bohemian pleasures that is in many ways akin to the 19th-century French demimonde. The geisha and the inebriated client matter here as much as they did to Baudelaire. But Ono’s apprenticeship is rich in historical reversals that confound any simple application of Bourdieu.
The “floating world” (ukiyo) with which Utamaro would become so famously associated took root in 17th-century Japan, in pleasure districts like the Yoshiwara, a 20-acre walled compound in the city of Edo (the term emerged as an ironic variant of the Japanese word for the sensuous “transitory world” of birth, death, and rebirth from which Zen Buddhists sought release). The districts catered mainly to merchants who, as a group, possessed significant wealth but low social status in the Tokugawa shogunate.6 As a result, the ukiyo-e paintings and wood blocks associated with these districts, and later with Utamaro in the 18th century, were not simply a popular, antinomian form, but a paradigmatically commercial one, despite the importance that Utamaro in particular later held for the French avant-garde.
In fact, according to Julie Nelson Davis, Utamaro was from the start something of a “brand name”: the “Utamaro persona,” she argues, was a marketing device used to package a collaborative, assembly-line art that involved, in addition to the artist who designed the black-and-white drawing upon which the final product was based, publishers, block cutters, and printers.7 That Utamaro mattered as much as he did to late 19th-century French painters thus renders the triumph of U.S. corporations with which Floating World concludes doubly ironic: in wanting “to bring European influence into the Utamaro tradition” (202), Ono’s mentor transforms along Western lines a national tradition that was as commercial as it was incipiently corporate; but that transformation masks a deeper affinity between “the Utamaro persona,” now prestigious and autonomous, and the Hollywood studios that produce the heteronymous, mass-produced popular culture that inundates Japan after the war.
One might object that the position occupied by Utamaro in Japan’s 18th-century cultural field hardly matters to the one that his work occupied in 19th-century France and 20th-century Japan, or to the one Ishiguro himself occupied in the Anglo-American literary field when he published Floating World. Symbolic capital can be cashed in and out and laundered as many times as need be, Bourdieu might say. But the difficulties are just beginning. Even were we to imagine that the Utamaro tradition had by the early 20th century acquired the symbolic capital typically associated with autonomous art, it would still be difficult to claim that the prestige that allows Ono to purchase his lovely home derives from the symbolic capital he accumulates as an autonomous artist. More obviously, his rejection of his mentor and his subsequent (heteronymous) embrace of the Emperor generates that prestige.
Before the war, Ono gives up his autonomy, as Bourdieu would understand it, because he covets the worldly influence and standing that comes from supporting the Imperial cause. This could mean that the kind of autonomy that concerns Bourdieu was never available to Ono in the first place. Ono is susceptible to the promise of economic and political power at all, we might say, because the floating world to which he is apprenticed offers too little in the way of symbolic capital. Put another way, perhaps that demimonde “floats” adrift less because it is autonomous than because it is inconsequential. “There’s a certain kind of artist these days,” says an advocate of Imperial “restoration” who has come to recruit Ono to a more active involvement in affairs of state, “whose greatest talent lies in hiding away from the real world” (171). As it stands, the recruiter suggests, Ono is irrelevant.
All of this said, Ishiguro wants us to take Ono’s one-time autonomy seriously, even as he wants us to register its surprising affinities with service to the Emperor. When Ono objects that there can be no Imperial restoration because the Emperor is already the ruler of Japan, the recruiter declares, “power has been grasped from him by these businessmen and their politicians” (173). The Imperial cause requires a studied disdain for the incursions of capitalism. Do you even know who Karl Marx is? the recruiter asks Ono. The Emperor’s followers, then, display a version of the antipathy to the bourgeois field of power that defined the 19th- century Parisian demimonde. That demimonde also took shape in the context of a series of royal restorations, but Ishiguro places a far greater emphasis than does Bourdieu on the structural homology between the royalist and the autonomous artist, this despite the fact that Ono is being asked to leave a demimonde.
The painter’s task, Ono’s one-time mentor instructs, is to capture something of the fading, transient light that suffuses the floating world, and the momentary reprieve felt by evening revelers as they rekindle for a moment otherwise irrecoverable joys. Though there are few recognizably avant-garde aspirations on display in this world, its nostalgia remains enigmatic: it’s hard to identify the social nature of the loss that Ono’s mentor would depict. But it surely matters that he means to capture on the faces of revelers a personal “restoration,” which is perhaps only to note that such a project, organized as it is around a leisured escape from the demands of the working day, shares something of the antipathy felt by the recruiter for businessmen and politicians. The political prestige that Ono derives from supporting the Emperor does not amount to a durable form of symbolic capital; it is too immediately instrumental and therefore too perishable. Still, while Ono becomes heteronymous in his commitment to the Emperor, he discovers in that commitment, also, a paradoxical autonomy. Thus he uses his political influence to reproduce in his neighborhood a version of the evening pleasure world that he otherwise accuses of decadence. Though draped in patriotic pretense, this world will be in many ways identical to the one painted by his mentor.
Even as Ono discovers a kind of autonomy in his heteronomy, he causes us to perceive a potentially deeper heteronomy in even the autonomy that he forswears. For Bourdieu, the 19th-century autonomous writer laid claim to a new kind of prestige by declaring his independence from both economic and political power, and his contempt for commercial success as well as the instrumentalism of both reactionaries and revolutionaries. As we have seen, that declaration amounted to a disavowal rather than an absolute rejection, since there is no aesthetic autonomy, in Bourdieu’s account, that is not at the same time a deferral of worldly gain. The market will eventually value rejections of the market; political power will eventually embrace art that rejects political power; and both rejections depend, in any event, on the tacit forbearance of those occupying a given field of power. But Ono enjoys much more than the tacit forbearance of those in power. Although he presents the prestige auction that allows him to afford his house as the intraconversion of his stored symbolic capital into economic capital, that auction seems, potentially, and much more simply, the application of an implied coercion in the service of economic gain. It might be that Ono pays a discounted price not because he possesses any cultural prestige, but because he is part of the Emperor’s repressive apparatus, and therefore intimidating to the sellers. Then again, it might be that the prestige he derives from his affiliation with the Emperor is in some basic sense indistinguishable from the prestige he seems to enjoy as an autonomous artist.
The unexpected affinity between Imperial propaganda and autonomous art is in many ways the secret subject of Floating World, and confronts us as a function of the unreliable narration that characterizes most of Ishiguro’s work. Unable as we are to trust Ono’s memories and judgments, we can’t know the precise difference between his autonomous and heteronymous cultural production. We’re forced to consider that Ono deludes himself about his relation to prestige in any number of ways. Was he ever really an esteemed painter? Was his renunciation of the floating world really a momentous event? After the war, his eldest daughter accuses him of overestimating the degree to which his past commitment to the Emperor now affects his reputation and social standing. The potential delusions here are both individual and social. As English reminds us in his essay for this volume, “prestige” derives from “prestigium: a juggler’s illusion, prestidigitation, sleight-of-hand.” For English, “cultural prestige is a form of collective make-believe from which non-belief, consciousness of trickery, is never entirely absent.” Likewise for Bourdieu, commitment to a field requires a commitment to illusion, such that the honorifics and consecrations offered within it can seem intrinsically valuable. It’s hard to know, then, whether Ono misrepresents his particular relation to cultural prestige, or whether that prestige in general is revealed after the war to have been a collective illusion in which it is no longer possible for anyone to believe. If it is the latter, Ishiguro suggests, we must confront the possibility that the waning of art’s illusions, and the corresponding irrelevance of the individual artist, derives in part from the waning of the fantasies that surround the Emperor. Ishiguro thus recalls us to a longer and potentially wider, less Franco-centric history, in which artistic prestige derived, ultimately, from the prerogative and body of the royal person. It is not simply that Ono enjoyed a social advantage because his propagandistic art advanced the aims and interests of the Emperor. It is also that the aesthetic power attributed to his propaganda, and the prestige he garnered as a result, derived from the police, as they expressed the Emperor’s sovereignty. During one of his later lectures, Foucault uses “a rather strange word for describing the objects of the police,” that is, “splendor.” He asks, “What is splendor? It is both the visible beauty of the order and the brilliant, radiating manifestation of a force. Police therefore is in actual fact the art of the state’s splendor as visible order and manifest force.”8 Though the splendor in question derives from their person—or, better, from “the second body” that is their office—Kings and Emperors aren’t themselves necessary to at least one version of this political theological schema. For Agamben, “the media” now perform a role similar to the one once performed by the police, though not because they overtly support state power. Elaborating Foucault’s account while changing his terminology, Agamben writes, “If we now call ‘glory’ the uncertain zone in which acclamations, ceremonies, liturgies, and insignia operate, we will see a field of research open before us that is . . . relevant and, at least in part, as yet unexplored.” “What is in question,” he continues later, “ is nothing less than a new and unheard of concentration, multiplication, and dissemination of the function of glory as the center of the political system. What was once confined to the spheres of liturgy and ceremonials has become concentrated in the media and, at the same time, through them it spreads and penetrates at each moment into every area of society, both public and private. Contemporary democracy is a democracy that is entirely founded upon glory, that is, on the efficacy of acclamation, multiplied and disseminated by the media beyond all imagination.”9
Ishiguro, recall, uses “glory,” along with “prestige”—to describe the symbolic capital of the acclaimed novelist. And Floating World makes clear that terms like these tell a story about the incipiently fascist sublimation of sovereignty into aesthetics. In The Remains of the Day, the butler James Stevens knows his social prestige derives from his association with class privilege; he is less willing to know that the aristocratic manners to which he is devoted channel an ominous authoritarianism. Both novels take shape as a retroactive rendering meaningless (or worse) of one’s life work. However much it is experienced as a calling, the artisanal labor important to Ono and Stevens is compromised and complicit; in fact, the more intent each is upon purifying or perfecting his labor, the more likely he is to expose its fascist lineaments. But in Floating World, this problem assumes added urgency to the degree that it is more explicit and directed toward the cultural field. Ono commits to the Emperor in his art in a way that Stevens never does in his service to the fascist cause espoused by his employer.
Unwilling or unable to distinguish between the prestige he derived from the Emperor and the prestige he derived from his painting before he enlisted in the Imperial cause, Ono points us not simply to the benefits he derived from service to the Emperor, like his house, but also to the historically fraught sublimation of royal into aesthetic prestige. It matters, for example, that Utamaro’s career effectively ended when he was punished for having represented an image of an ex-Shogun in his popular commercial art. As Davies notes, “the shogun’s face was not known to the public—his features were not replicated in official portraits or on coins, like those of rulers in other parts of the world. Nor did the shogun make appearances where the public might view his body.”10 This apparent rejection of earthly power would seem to restore one version of Bourdieu’s story, insofar as it explains how Utamaro might later seem to French painters a plausible avatar of autonomy. But we might also say that the artist’s later prestige derives precisely from his having represented the royal person at all. What matters is not “the position” that Utamaro took with respect to the Shogun, but that he laid claim to the prohibited image in the first place. The prestige of autonomy and the power of the royal image are in this respect indistinguishable. “Autonomy”— the giving of law to oneself—is revealed to be not a private act, performed in isolation from power, but a public one, a laying claim to the splendor and glory that emanates from King, Shogun, Emperor, and, finally, Führer.
None of this is to endorse political theology as a critical enterprise capable of providing an adequate political economy of state power. Nor is it to suggest that Foucault and Agamben, for example, take adequate measure of the capitalist dynamics of modern cultural production. Bourdieu comes closer to doing so, in his account of the literary and cultural field, but this is an account confined largely to what Marx called “the noisy sphere” of circulation, rather than the “hidden abode of production.” Put another way, Bourdieu conceives of symbolic capital as merely a different form of economic capital because he conceives of production and consumption as effectively interchangeable discursive activities. “The production of discourse . . . about the work of art,” he writes, “is one of the conditions of production of the work” (35). This is a version of the fantasy about post-Fordism now embraced by significant portions of the academic left. For Bourdieu, “position taking” extends the artwork’s production into its consumption, in a way that is analogous to how, for Paolo Virno, say, the communicative interactions of everyday life extend the work of the culture industry proper. The shared fantasy here is one of unconstrained economic growth: there is no theoretical limit to the avant-garde’s generation of symbolic capital, just as there is no theoretical limit to the culture industry’s communicative value production. The real and the symbolic economy collapse into one, and soar aloft as an endlessly inflating bubble.
My aim in invoking Foucault and Agamben is rather to draw attention not simply to Ishiguro’s longstanding interest in the remains of aristocratic class privilege, but to how his fiction exposes its own relation to the aesthetic as a vestigial commitment to the splendor and glory once associated with kings and emperors, and more recently associated with fascism. Put crudely, his fiction suggests that literature’s perceived value can never be sundered from the perceived value of the erstwhile royal person and despot. Before the war, Ono’s was an art of Imperial state splendor. But that splendor was already on the wane, and it makes sense to call him an artist of the floating world, after the war, despite his rejection of the prewar demimonde, because the ostensibly autonomous aesthetic sensibilities associated with that world were themselves an art of sublimated imperial splendor. No artistic prestige, in this account, least of all Ishiguro’s, that is not a crypto-feudal nostalgia—that is not, finally, an incipiently fascist art of royal restoration.
There are historical as well as theoretical reasons to make this claim with respect to An Artist of the Floating World. Recent scholarship stresses the intimacy between Japan’s avant-garde experimentation during the 1920s and 1930s and the fascist cause then taking shape: the autonomist and loyalist cause were one. And many of these accounts rely in turn on Walter Benjamin’s readings of fascism, Baudelaire, and l’art pour l’art.11 The evanescence haunting Baudelaire’s lines, Benjamin thought, expressed the contradictory imperatives of the commodity form, even as it recalled the 17th-century mourning play’s preoccupation with the evanescence of the royal person’s transcendental warrant. Benjamin’s Baudelaire is symptomatic of the commodity form’s macabre reanimation of long since hollowed-out cultural values—of the sacral energies so important to the investiture of the king’s sovereignty, for instance. Ishiguro’s Floating World, I have argued, enacts a similar reanimation of hollowed-out forms and values. Here too, a 17th-century aesthetic practice organized around transience emerges transformed as the basis of an ostensibly autonomous aesthetic possessed of unsettling affinities with fascism.
“L’art pour l’art,” Benjamin wrote, “erects the kingdom of art outside of profane existence.”12 Claims like these led Adorno to object that Benjamin “rather casually transferred the concept of the magical aura to the ‘autonomous work of art’ and flatly assigned a counter-revolutionary function to the latter.”13 But the link between autonomy and fascism in particular was for Benjamin anything but casual. Fascism was “the consummation of l’art pour l’art. Humankind, which once, in Homer, was an object of contemplation for the Olympian gods, has now become one for itself. Its self-alienation has reached the point where it can experience its own annihilation as a supreme aesthetic pleasure. Such is the aestheticizing of politics, as practiced by fascism,” he concluded. “Communism replies by politicizing art.”14 Ishiguro’s Floating World does not substantially alter the terms of this choice. The problem here is not, as it might seem in Never Let Me Go, art’s implication in welfare state and neoliberal capitalism, as Bruce Robbins and Sarah Brouillette argue, respectively, of that later novel. Nor is it the fact, in Stewart Martin’s explication of Adorno, that art’s autonomy is “both produced and destroyed by capitalist culture, both its ideology and its critique.”15 It is rather that autonomous art requires and is in the end at peace with its Shoguns and Emperors, who return at novel’s end transformed—as a U.S. hegemon whose authority is no less potent for having been atomized within popular culture and, perhaps more tellingly, transnational corporations that seem to thrive precisely as a function of their disembodiment. After the war, Ono finds himself discussing the “noble gesture” (55) of a company president who killed himself to atone for his firm’s complicity in the war effort. “I never had the chance to see him in the flesh” (55), Ono’s interlocutor tells him, before celebrating the man’s self-sacrifice, which allows all those working at the firm to start anew. “We feel we can now forget our past transgressions and look to the future” (55). The King is Dead, Long Live the King.
1. Kazuo Ishiguro, An Artist of the Floating World (New York: Vintage, 1989), 9; hereafter cited in text.
2. Brian Shaffer and Cynthia Wong, eds., Conversations with Kazuo Ishiguro (Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2008), 205, 206.
3. James English, The Economy of Prestige: Prizes, Awards, and the Circulation of Cultural Value (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2008), 11.
4. Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature (New York: Columbia UP, 1993), 75; hereafter cited in text.
5. David Hesmondhalgh, “Bourdieu, the Media, and Cultural Production,” Media, Culture & Society, Vol. 28 (2): 219.
6. “Art of the Pleasure Quarters and the Ukiyo-e Style,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2004,
http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/plea/hd_plea.htm.
7. Julie Nelson Davis, Utamaro and the Spectacle of Beauty (Honolulu: U of Hawai’i Press, 2007), 20.
8. Michel Foucault, Security, Territory, Population: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1977-78 (London: Palgrave Macmillan), 314.
9. Giorgio Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory: For a Theological Genealogy of Economy and Government (Stanford: Stanford UP, 2011), 188, 256.
10. Davis, Utamaro, 11.
11. See Aaron Gerow and Nina Cornyetz in The Culture of Japanese Fascism, by Alan Tansman (Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2009).
12. Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2002), 330.
13. Theodor Adorno and Walter Benjamin, The Complete Correspondence, 1928-1940 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2001), 128.
14. Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility,” in The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility and Other Writings on Media (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2008), 42.
15. Sarah Brouillette cites Robbins and Stewart in her Literature and the Creative Economy (Stanford: Stanford UP, 2014), 206.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Adorno, Theodor and Walter Benjamin. The Complete Correspondence, 1928-1940. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2001.
Agamben, Giorgio. The Kingdom and the Glory: For a Theological Genealogy of Economy and Government. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2011.
“Art of the Pleasure Quarters and the Ukiyo-e Style.” The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Oct. 2004. http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/plea/hd_plea.htm.
Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2002.
–. “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility.” In The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility and Other Writings on Media. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2008.
Bourdieu, Pierre. The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature. New York: Columbia UP, 1993.
Brouillette, Sarah. Literature and the Creative Economy. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2014. Davis, Julie Nelson. Utamaro and the Spectacle of Beauty. Honolulu: U of Hawai’i Press, 2007.
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Foucault, Michel. Security, Territory, Population: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1977-78. London: Palgrave Macmillan.
Hesmondhalgh, David. “Bourdieu, the Media, and Cultural Production.” Media, Culture & Society, Vol. 28 (2): 219.
Ishiguro, Kazuo. An Artist of the Floating World. New York: Vintage, 1989.
Shaffer, Brian and Cynthia Wong, eds. Conversations with Kazuo Ishiguro. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2008.