Noh mask types: faces and stories

Follow the faces that catch your eye. I’ve grouped them into four starting points, with room for the masks whose stories lead from one section into another.

Magojirō gives us a particularly personal place to begin. Tradition says Kongō Magojirō based the original mask on his wife, who died young. Knowing that story, I find myself looking longer at the eyes and mouth: a face made for the stage, connected to the memory of a real person.

Beside Ko-omote’s full, rounded cheeks, Magojirō appears more slender, with longer eyes and a sharper nose. Waka-onna offers another variation, with less rounded cheeks. These are the differences I enjoy looking for: small changes that make closely related faces feel distinct.

There is more here than youthful beauty. Zō-onna is used for female deities and spirits, while Fukai and Shakumi portray mature women, including mothers suffering separation or loss. Following these faces takes us through different ages and experiences—and sometimes from a human character into a spirit.

Men’s masks bring us young courtiers, warriors and elders. A familiar human face may also belong to a ghost.

Atsumori is the play I keep returning to. A warrior and flute player, killed at sixteen, returns as a ghost to the man who ended his life. Kumagai has become a monk and now prays for him. I find the flute difficult to forget: it gives the young warrior an interest, a skill, a life beyond the battle.

Jūroku is one of the masks used for Atsumori’s ghost. Chūjō also portrays warriors and courtiers. Then there is Dōji: a boyish face used for gods and immortals. He gives us a natural way into the spirits.

Kyōgen’s humour grows from speech, movement and recognisable human behaviour. Most roles use the actor’s own face; masks appear for particular characters.

Usobuki’s puckered mouth can belong to an octopus or a mouse spirit. Oto gives us a comic woman’s face, while Saru brings a monkey onto the stage. Even these boldly drawn faces have quite different lives in performance.

In Utsubozaru, a lord demands a monkey’s skin for his arrow quiver. When its trainer raises a stick, the monkey mistakes the movement for a cue to perform. Its familiar routine moves the trainer and helps persuade the lord to spare it. That is the moment I want to remember when looking at Saru.

The smiling elders of Okina bring another purpose to the stage. Their dances offer prayers for peace and prosperity, giving these masks a particular place in Noh’s ritual life.

Hakushikijō (Okina) is the pale-faced mask worn by Okina; Kokushikijō is the dark-faced mask worn by Sanbasō. Deep wrinkles, curved eyes and separately attached lower jaws make these faces especially distinctive.

Chichi-no-Jō connects us to an earlier three-part form of the ritual. I find these faces especially moving when I think of their dances as wishes for a community’s future.

The individual mask pages are where I want to give these faces more room: to follow their roles, look at particular carvings and explore the stories that grow around them.

If you know a performance, a source or a detail I’ve missed, I’d love to hear about it. A small observation can send me down another rabbit hole—and I’m always happy to have company.