This book cannot pretend to give anyone a working knowledge of Noh. Only a Japanese speaker who has studied Zeami and the Heian source literatures, learned how to listen to Noh music and what to look for in Noh costumes, masks and dances could hope to gain that, and then only after attending the plays for many years. Zeami insisted that “in making a Noh,” the playwright “must use elegant and easily understood phrases from song and poetry.” Indeed, so easily understood must those phrases have been that one lord complained about the shogun’s attentions to the child performer Zeami: “Sarugaku,”¹ the old name for Noh, or for the concatenation of jugglery, puppet-shows, etcetera, that Noh grew out of, “is the occupation of beggars, and such favor for a sarugaku player indicates disorder in the nation.” But century buries century, and the performances refine themselves into an ever nobler inaccessibility, slowing down (some now require at least double the time on stage that they did when Zeami was alive), evolving spoken parts into songs, clinging to conventions and morals now gone past bygone;² as for me, I look on like an ape in a cage.

Be that as it may, Noh has enlarged my capabilities of discrimination and touched my feelings in spite of my inability to construe many of its symbols, not to mention its very words. The shocking beauty of Yuya, the way the dead boy Umewaka³ can sing me to the verge of tears, the hellish malice projected by Princess Rokujo’s spirit, had I witnessed their equivalents in my own life I would have treasured only the first, whereas the astonishing refinement of their stylization in Noh makes them all equally precious to me. (Noh expresses a combination of verisimilitude and elegant movements; Zeami says that a master must be equally proficient in each.)

Great art projects a sense of inexhaustibility. In literature, particularly in poetry, this may be accomplished through ambiguity: Beneath each and every meaning that I can descry lie others, so that rereading holds out the prospect of new subtleties, inversions, secret codes and ineffabilities. To be sure, the patterns on a surihaku Noh under-kimono may end in monochrome wherever they cannot be seen. But from within my ape’s cage, it seems that the greatest Noh plays offer me still more inexhaustibility than any concatenation of words in my own language, even those of Shakespeare. “King Lear” is so literally profound that the deepest sounding will never plumb it. “Izutsu” is doubly deep to me because I can never hope to know but approximations of the words; then triply deep thanks to Chinese and Japanese allusions only a few of which I recognize. In an adjacent cage, two of my fellow apes forlornly report that translating Narihira, to whose verses Noh is indebted, produces a “feeling one has the words right and everything else wrong” due to the poet’s “aural, syntactical perfection.” But precisely because great art is great, it achieves its infinitude not by relying on mere incomprehensibility or difficulty, but rather through fidelity to its appropriate grammar. In the case of Noh, of course, that grammar involves indirection, understatement, allusion to a substantial corpus — and a degree of obfuscation. Around the beginning of the thirteenth century, the priest Shun’e advises his disciple Chomei that

when one gazes upon the autumn hills half-concealed by a curtain of mist, what one sees is veiled yet profoundly beautiful; such a shadowy scene, which permits free exercise of the imagination in picturing how lovely the whole panoply of scarlet leaves must be, is far better than to see them spread with dazzling clarity before our eyes.

I read these words without any sense of alienness, perhaps because as a child I sometimes read the Bible, sensing even then, as Auerbach expresses it, that the sublimity of Genesis and kindred Scriptures “is not contained in a magnificent display of rolling periods nor in the splendor of abundant figures of speech but in the impressive brevity which is in such contrast to the immense content and which for that very reason has a note of obscurity which fills the listener with a shuddering awe.”

In short, the magic of understatement — beautiful mystery — allures us everyhere. When I glimpse a beautiful garden behind a wall, I experience the tantalizing category of appreciation called miekakure. When I longingly remember some metonymic attribute of a place where I can no longer be, that is wabi, the loveliness of loneliness.⁴ When I fall in love, I am allured, abandoned and enriched by fantasies of entities which dwell beyond me and hence are greater than I. When my heart hurts me in longing for the woman I love, it is because there will always remain more of her than I can know, possess, or surrender to. In short, I see her through a changing fog. And when a Noh mask haunts me from the stage, the mists of austerity and stylization render that female presence likewise awesomely remote while still less attainable.

It is past time to formally introduce the tools which Noh employs in the service of those veiled gorgeousnesses of infinitude. If you are familiar with Noh, this chapter and the next (like all the others) may conveniently be skipped. Otherwise, please be reminded once again that these oversimplifications are an ape’s utterances. For example, nearly all of the following sentences ought to end with “with the exception of ‘Okina.’ ”

ROLES

The waki or witness appears first on stage. He is, like all of us who live, a traveller in an unknown land, far from the capital. (Dante: In the middle of the journey of our life I lost my way.) Sometimes he is an imperial messenger, sometimes a monk. In “Sumidagawa” he is a ferryman who has crossed the river any number of times; this does not make him any less vulnerable to unexpected irruptions. The waki of “Kinuta,” which play received mention in the previous chapter, is none other than the husband of the woman who dies from neglect. He worries about her and wishes to return to her, but worldly compulsion (a lawsuit, and then there is an intimation of a liaison with the younger housemaid) keeps him at the capital until she dies of grief. What next? He decides to invoke her ghost, “to call her to the curved bow’s tip, / poor soul, so that we two may speak.” And here she comes, feebly creeping onstage as far as the first pine. The unknown is upon us, bearing witness to itself in poetry sung and danced. And the witness to whom witness is borne, our representative, is the waki. Another gloss on his function is “watcher on the side.” He frames the tale with contexts and introductions; he narrates. Then, like the implied first-person voice that introduces Madame Bovary, or the somewhat plodding gentleman at the beginning of Wuthering Heights, he watches from the side. His costume and demeanor accordingly aim for a subdued impression. He wears no mask.

Zeami for his part remarks that “a waki fulfills his function insofar as he follows what is good and what is bad alike,” even a bad shite. In other words, while he might express, for instance, compassion, he does not judge. And when he is a priest, what has been called his determined immutability may achieve the power to liberate another character from the miseries of attachment.

On occasion, he figures in tropes beyond Noh. Kawabata’s passive yet sensitive protagonists have sometimes been compared to wakis. Discussing The Narrow Road to the Deep North, a scholar concludes that Basho must have been “just as interested in meeting the ghosts of men who had lived there long ago as in meeting his contemporaries.” Accordingly, our scholar likens him to a waki, who is “in many cases an itinerant monk who invokes the ghost of a past local resident wherever he goes.”

The waki is sometimes accompanied by attendants, the wakizure. In the immortal words of Royall Tyler, “these generally have little to say.”

Sometimes Noh employs a koken, a child actor, often as an object rather than a subject of the action. Spectators might also see a kyogen, who unlike the actor of a comic kyogen play relates some aspect of the story that has not been elucidated more explicitly. His recitation may, however, be the merest recapitulation, in which case the shite is probably busy changing mask and gown.

The shite is “hero” or “heroine” of Noh, but I have never been able to “identify” with a shite the way I can read myself into the soul of a book’s protagonist. This must not be merely a matter of cultural distance; when I reread The Tale of Genji I get absorbed into the psyche of the Shining Prince, and at times, into that of Lady Murasaki herself. But the shite sings to me from the unknown land behind the rainbow curtain.

Shite means simply “actor.” His role sometimes gets subdivided into two: maeshite and nochijite, meaning respectively the shite of the first part and of the second part. He may have tsure, companions analogous to wakizure, but these are generally more active and ornately turned out than the latter. They may wear masks when playing female roles. Occasionally they even eclipse the shite. In “Semimaru,” for instance, the eponymous tsure appears just as prominently and more constantly than the shite, his sister Sakagami. Had I been told that Semimaru were the shite, I would certainly not have known better.

It is, of course, the shite who epitomizes masked and costumed gorgeousness. Although I have seen him in a chorus, it is certainly in his shite role that I think of Mr. Umewaka.

In “Kinuta” the maeshite is the pining wife of the first act, and Zeami specifies that she be represented with a fukai mask, which pertains to a middle-aged woman; the nochijite is her bitter spirit, who may appear to us through the vehicle of either a deigan or a yase-onna mask, both of which are associated with “vengeful female ghosts.” Other shites include the once-beautiful hag Komachi in “Seki-dera Komachi,” the distraught mother in “Sumidagawa,” the abandoned sweetheart Pining Wind in the eponymous “Matsukaze,” and the old man (maeshite) who turns out to be the Dragon God (nochijite) in “Kasuga ryujin” (which gets discussed in the next chapter).

The shite’s situation, with its resulting dramatic and metaphysical possibilities, brings to mind a great critic’s comment about the souls in the Inferno:

From the fact that earthly life has ceased so that it cannot change or grow, whereas the passions and inclinations which animated it still persist without ever being released in action, there results as it were a tremendous concentration. We behold an intensified image of the essence of their being…

And this goes far to explain the melancholy of so many Noh plays. The desperately impoverished reed cutter in “Ashikari,” whose wife gets rich and returns to bring him lovingly to the capital, is an exceptionally fortunate shite, and it is all the stranger that Zeami wrote this play. “Shunkan,” once attributed to Zeami and now tentatively to Motomasa or Zenchiku, better fits the mold: On a place called Devil Island, three exiled Genji factionalists await, with very little hope, their pardon and recall, “the only wine a valley stream, and flowing with it streams of tears.” In the end, two men will be rescued, and Shunkan will be left alone to die a hideous death.⁵ “ ‘Wait a while, oh! wait a while,’ say the far voices growing dimmer”; they promise to plead in the capital for his return, but never will. Indeed, many plays (like many geisha songs) are about waiting; and the weary pounding of the fulling block, which we have already discussed in regard to “Kinuta,” appears also in “Torioi-bune,” when the wife, who like the heroine of “Kinuta” waits many years for her husband’s return from the capital, specifies one item of her misery as “the dull thud of the fulling block, in the chill of night.”

Are we not all dead in something, confined within something, seeking restlessly to escape into peace? The shite of “Izutsu” is known as “the woman who waits for her lover.” He is long dead, as is she. She recites a poem she once wrote comparing herself to a cherry blossom, which despite its reputation for transience, hence fickleness, spends the year awaiting the one who is destined to pluck it. But who and what is she? This constant ghost gazes into the well, and sees her reflected image altering into that of her beloved, “the man from long ago.” This, of course, comprises no escape, but a mere vicious circle.

When I watch this species of Noh plays, I often wonder to what extent the ghosts comprehend that they are dead. (As a woman’s specter in “Nishikigi” tells the waki: “We who dwell in dark delusions leave to you who are alive the question of reality.”) This question leads me to the more fundamental issue of whether I can ever comprehend my own evanescence. I remember the final poem of Tales of Ise, whose dying narrator, the Genji-like courtier Narihira, expressed incredulity that he must actually die today.

NARRATIVES

Zeami directs that most plays be written in five sections: one beginning, three middle parts and an end. In the first section, the waki comes onstage. In the second, the shite appears. In the third, the shite and the waki engage in dialogue. In the fourth, there is a musical interval. This is, in effect, the climax. Finally comes a resolution of some sort, and here in particular the shite dances.

Zeami summarized the above with jo-ha-kyu. These three terms, taken from ancient court music, refer to a smooth preface, a break, and then a fast climax.

A more fundamental aspect of Noh narratives has already been implied in the foregoing discussion of the shite: with the exception of a very few happy-ending tales such as “Ashikari” or “Hanjo,”⁶ the most impressive plays tend to be cautionary tales about attachment. Yes, there is a mother-child reunion in the beautiful “Miidera”; lines from “Takasago” may inspire a pair of traditionalist newlyweds; but many of the plays of harmony and success strike me as dully propagandistic, as when a goddess rewards some Emperor’s virtue with elixir. My book will avoid them insofar as it can.

When the waki first appears, he generally introduces us to a sad situation of some sort: a wandering monk’s musing over a memorial tablet for two long dead fisher-sisters whose courtly lover left them for the capital commences “Matsukaze,” while “Semimaru” begins with its eponymous blind prince being led by the waki, an imperial messenger, into the wilderness to be left alone by the Emperor’s command. The shites of these two plays are respectively Matsukaze herself, ghost of one of the abandoned sisters, and Princess Sakagami, the sister of Semimaru. Both of these women are mad. At one point in her despair, Matsukaze mistakes a pine tree for the courtier who abandoned her and her sister. Sakagami, while she can converse rationally with her brother, mostly raves the rest of the time. When she parts from him at the end of the play, he and she both weep. Thanks to the waki, who is a priest, Matsukaze (possibly) finds peace. Sakagami does not. But the cause of their misery is the same: a parting from someone loved who, thanks to the temporary nature of human existence, can never be kept.

This theme is hardly unique to Noh plays. In the fourteenth-century Taiheiki, for instance, Nagoya Tokiari the governor of Totomi finds himself on the losing side of a civil war, and in danger of capture. He and his comrades slit their bellies open and then roast themselves “at the bottom of a war fire.” As for the wives and children, they are sent to drown themselves in the sea. “May it not be that the spirits of the dead remained there, thinking wrong thoughts of attachment to husbands and wives?” For afterward the husbands’ ghosts are seen attempting to reunite with the ghosts of their wives, who rise up out of the water, but fires separate them; the female ghosts sink back down, and the male ghosts swim away crying.

The transience of life and the consequent advisability of relinquishing attachments have figured in Japanese literature for centuries.

PROPS

With the exception of a few play-specific props, such as the temple bell of “Dojoji” or the bird-scaring boat of “Torioi-bune,” the stage remains always bare, but thanks to the imagination of Noh it elaborates itself whenever needed into a landscape as remote and fantastic as Hiroshige’s multiphallic mountains and elaborately vaginal gorges, which, surrounded by mist and trees, each comprise another world, perhaps the “real” floating world — floating on mist; and all of these tall, rectangular worlds have been mounted on scrolls which elongate them much further than in their original proportions; world upon world hangs framed upon the walls of the Ukiyo-e museum in Tokyo: a planetary system of the imagination without a sun. (These places, of course, are peopled. I remember the outlines of his women, simple, crisp and sweeping, stylized into life by the genius of his printmaking. Their “individuality” is gestural. They could be Noh actors.)

As I have said, the greatest Noh narratives have to do with separation and desire. Whenever the desire gets eased, the means is oblivion, visited upon a grateful ghost through the prayers of a priest. In the closing lines of “Kanehira,” the ghost of the warrior for whom the waki has come to pray cannot help but exult over his glorious suicide. Sometimes, as in “Aoi-no-Ue,” the ghost is initially not just ungrateful, but demonically menacing. But even that monster is finally overcome and attains Buddahood “free of delusion.” In Noh we never meet with any of the passionate epiphanies that can fulfill a life; for desire, of whatever kind, is precisely the problem.

And so the stage should be bare. This is the waki’s world, and therefore mine. Mostly I can be no more than a framer and witness of quotidian hills and beautiful masks. I watch at the side, or I sit in my numbered seat in the Noh theater, transiently moved by the transient attachments of others.

This is likewise the shite’s world and therefore mine. Forgetting the impossibility it must lead to, I kiss the mask, whose loveliness distracts me from perceiving the essential bareness of the situation upon which my attachment has been projected.

The chorus can express a single character’s consciousness, and Mr. Umewaka and his fellow shites can subdivide into different entities at any time. And so the stage is everyone’s world and no one’s. It is bare because life passes across it only for an hour or two, then withdraws behind the rainbow bridge.

(By the way, what is bareness? Often, as at the Choraku-ji Temple and the Shoren-in Shrine, the garden itself becomes a performance framed by the stage-rectangle of a shrine’s or residence’s open wall; one sits upon a blank tatami mat, which is itself framed by time-polished boards around the room’s edges, and there might be a sliding partition of white screens behind or to the side, while in front it is open; a gnarled tree extends itself around a convoluted stone-rimmed artificial pond; a stone bridge vanishes into a bush or not, depending on how one moves one’s head; branches blow; birds croak, and shadow-patterns alter in two-dimensional dramas upon the swelling sea of foliage. Is this a world, or nothing, or a stage, or all of these?)

On the back of the stage is painted a great pine; the bridge to the rainbow curtain passes three smaller pines which are not painted but quite material. These will be discussed later, since every book needs a chapter about pine trees.

I have read that the stage is in twenty pieces, that the best wood for it comes from Owari, and that in the hollow space beneath it are set ten large earthen jars for acoustical purposes. “The roof should not be tiled, but should be like the roof of the shinto temples in Ise.”

The stage is isolated from us by white sand or gravel — another reference to Shinto.

MUSIC

In spite of Mr. Umewaka’s dictum that the mask is most important always, Thomas Blenham Hare believes that “the music and dance of noh have always been the central concern of most noh actors.” How can one not love an art form which provokes such disagreement even as to what is central?

I recently learned that water pails, swords, hats, fans and other such props have “always” been supplied based on the type of music. No one has yet explained to me how this determination is made.

The musicians are called the hayashi. Either two or three drummers may be present; there is always one flutist. The drums themselves are quite beautiful with their ornamented bands, tri-leaved patterns, and other variable features which are as invisible to the public as an opera diva’s underwear. The otsuzumi, or larger hourglass drum (also called the okawa), is held against the hip. Its sound is the most conspicuous; one commentator describes it as a “sharp, urgent click.” The kotsuzumi, or smaller hourglass drum, is played against the shoulder. The same commentator characterizes its sound as “a muffled, funereal boom.” I have seen one with golden floral and leaf lacquer patterns on its black skin. Another “extra large” drum called the taiko is sometimes also used. All of the drummers can cry out. The flute (either a nokan or a fue) may be played improvisationally or by rule, depending on circumstances. The second category warrior play “Atsumori” begins with a single, shocking flute-note. The flute often also sounds at the end of many Noh plays. I am told that this instrument’s narrow bamboo throat “upsets the normal acoustical properties… and is responsible for its ‘other-worldly’ sound quality.”

The drums and flute may collectively be called yonbyoshi. The percussion may be likened unto rocks in the flute’s stream.

The progression of the music is again: jo, ha, kyu — that is, introduction (slow), development (medium) and climax (rapid). As we know, the narrative follows the same progression. So, at least ideally, does an entire program sequence of Noh plays.

The first three sections of a Noh play are either spoken or else, in Hare’s words, “rhythmically unobtrusive.” Then, in keeping with jo-ha-kyu, the shite begins to sing in the fourth section, and dance in the fifth. It is here that Noh music is most impressive.

I have already compared Noh to a musical jam session. A Noh expert amplifies: “Improvisation in Noh is probably closer to that of Sviatoslav Richter, who said he never knew what he was going to play until he sat down and did it, than to Bill Evans.” He grants that it lacks key signatures and tempo markings. “But a good listener will notice if the drums are off a beat or even a partial beat, or if the musicians are taking a dance piece too fast or slow.” Noh possesses greater latitude in tempo and rhythm than, say, Western chamber ensembles, “so that the actors and musicians are in a constant state of artistic tension in order to stay in synch. The hip drum player is watching the actor, the shoulder drum player is listening to him, and they are carrying on a musical conversation, so to speak, with the flute eavesdropping. The shite has to be listening to the hayashi without losing a sense of his own inner rhythm. The stick drum tends to dominate the hayashi when it comes in, but the flute may also do so during the dance pieces. Each player has to keep on his toes, keeping up with the rhythm as it shifts… When [Umewaka] Rokuro is the chorus leader (who sits in the middle of the back row) it’s worth going just to hear them. He always keeps the beat slightly off the metronome, so to speak, giving it that Noh cutting edge.”

The strangely addictive, not-quite-monotones of the men’s singing can be described in words only indirectly. They sing with slightly bowed heads, very grave and doleful, their voice-beauty not unlike that of certain Native American chants, and then the flute shimmers on.

Kotoba is chanted speech; yowa-gin or wagin is the melodic mode employed to convey elegance and refined emotion; suyo-gin or gogin is the forceful mode, expressing bravery, rapidity and the like. It may exasperate or comfort the reader who cannot attend a Noh performance to learn that “pitch in noh is relative. Individual actor-singers sing at their own preferred and/or comfortable pitch.”

At the beginning of the twentieth century, Mr. Umewaka Minoru told Fenollosa that “the importance of the music is in its intervals… It is just like the dropping of rain from the eaves.”

As for Zeami, he considered the very existence of the chorus to be “contrary to the principles of our art.⁷

I read that during the Edo period, skill in Noh singing was widespread among the samurai class. To me, and to many of my Japanese friends, it is one more of this floating world’s unknowns.

Because my subject is the feminine, while Noh music, and certainly the singing that shapes and dominates it, has, for me at least, an extremely masculine character, this book mostly ignores Zeami’s watchword that “a truly fine play involves gesture based on chanting.”

DANCES

Edwin Denby once remarked that “intelligent dancing — which might as well be called correct dancing — has a certain dryness that appeals more to an experienced dance lover than to an inexperienced one.” He was not writing about Noh at all, but he might as well have been. Please remember Zeami’s prescription that “all the exercises must be severely and strictly done. There must be no self-assertion.” And Noh is indeed, for the most part, very dry (at least in comparison to, say, the Tokyo subway in my epoch, when it is impossible to turn one’s gaze anywhere except to the floor without seeing some message; and on the floor one reads the tale of many different shoes, the feet within some of them fidgeting) — its related drynesses of dance movements, music, stage props and scenery comprising a frame for the spectacular costumes and masks, not to mention the occasional almost shocking increases in dance tempo, the sudden shrillings of the flute and raised chorus-voices.

Another manifestation of Noh’s severity is the extent to which the movements have been preordained. As a Kabuki actor once told me: “Noh is for the warrior. Kabuki is for the general public. Noh has many restrictions. For instance, you always have to start with a certain foot forward for a given role.” Such specificities have characterized Noh for centuries. In one of Zeami’s secret treatises we find this admonition for performing “Matsukaze”: The shite must not approach the waki when reciting, “please pray for remains,” or else the play will fall flat. Rather, he must remain where he is, then approach the waki, then withdraw. — In 1900, Umewaka Minoru mentioned to Fenollosa the existence of a “roll” for dancers with “minute diagrams showing where to stand, how far to go forward, the turns in a circle,” etcetera. “There are drawings of figures naked for old men, women, girls, boys, ghosts, and all kinds of characters sitting and standing; they show the proper relation of limbs and body.” Such diagrams are still used.

The teacher of a renowned twentieth-century geisha informed her: “All I am able to do is teach you the form. The dance you dance on stage is yours alone.” Hers alone? Yes, but she too would have agreed with Zeami, who underscored his prohibition of self-assertion thus: “There is no room here for my own thinking.” How then can the dance be the dancer’s?

I once asked the Noh actor Mr. Mikata Shizuka: “What do you yourself bring to Noh from your own mind, heart and training? What is your signature style?”

“This will be judged by the viewers,” he replied. “What I value most is what I would like to express to the viewers, not to show my individuality. When I am doing this, I am not expressing myself.”

“Suppose it were possible to build a robot to move the mask, would that be effective?”

“No. It has no mind.”⁸

“Where does your consciousness go when you perform?”

“It depends. The state where you think absolutely nothing, I think it’s hard to grasp. But the intention is to show. If it’s a Komachi play, I don’t think that I try to be like Komachi.⁹ If you want to show something, it comes to you internally, then somehow shrinks.”

I told him about feeling in my hands and fingers when I am caught up in my writing; it is an exhilarating feeling during which my fingers do not belong to me, but to something else which is writing. What is it? I do not know. At its best, it is not an assertion of myself.

“I feel exactly the same,” said Mr. Mikata.

“How else do you feel when you perform?”

“Depending on the role, sometimes excited. First, one thing: When you put on your mask, your view is restricted. It’s like you are standing in the dark.”

“What effect does that have?”

“Like a binding. Because of the restriction, your mind comes back to you.”

He became “half-eyed” when he played Yoroboshi. “That’s how I can see. That means, I cannot see anything in particular. But somehow, you see the air.”

I think the reason that he can see the air is that he possesses the true flower. I have felt it in his performances. It must be this that makes the dance his alone — and, of course, the flower does not belong to him, but he to the flower.

Noh dance (and some Kabuki as well) is associated most prominently with the style called mai, which is characterized by turning movements and stately slowness, with the knees bent a trifle and the soles of the tabi-stockinged feet always on the floor. Sometimes the actor stamps, this mannerism being a relic of ancient religious ceremonials. Zeami divides the dance into three modes: warrior, old person and woman. There is also the mode of god or demon. Mr. Kanze Hideo told me: “There is not much difference between god and human movements. It depends on how human the god is.” I inquired about the case of Okina, and he said that there “it is different, because everything in the play is a form of prayer.”

What are Noh players doing when they dance? It has been said that “their movements become dreamlike glosses on the ideas carried by the words” — which cannot be entirely true, because sometimes, as with Yuya’s dance, there is no idea to convey, nothing except elegant mystery itself. But certainly, as Mr. Mikata said, “the intention is to show.” And so, slowly, without assertion of self, great actors offer their life-force to a role just as a Catholic priest offers up a chalice to be filled with enigma. “All the exercises must be severely and strictly done,” in the way that in “Semimaru” the green-robed imperial messenger turns his back on us and slowly, slowly leaves the blind Prince alone forever, gliding across the bridge toward the rainbow curtain, followed by the attendants with the palanquin frame. Semimaru kneels and slowly raises his sleeves to his face as if drinking loneliness from them.

COSTUMES

“She was instantly recognized as a geisha of the very first class when she went out in a white-collared kimono decorated with a family crest.” Thus wrote Kafu Nagai in one of his best novels (1918). Noh kimonos expect their own instant recognition — sometimes. People with middling knowledge, such as myself, may be aware that the presence of red in a brocade robe indicates youth (the more red, the younger), and that the rank of a female character can be inferred from the color of the under-kimono’s neckband. Purple, plum, greyish-green, etcetera, represent middle-aged women. True cognoscenti will recognize, say, a gold-backgrounded oryu kimono and know this character as a monster from a Chinese tale. A shirojusu-backgrounded tuyushiba, which depicts dew and grass, would surely have been chosen to allude to evanescence. A kurojusu-backgrounded ayasugi matsuba, which stylizes pine needles, alludes to immortality or fidelity.

The way a costume is worn also imparts recognition. For instance, the madwoman shites of “Semimaru” and “Hanjo” let their right sleeves fall off their shoulders.

A costume might portray dewy grass, or seven wise men, or butterflies, or grasses and flowers and insect cages; but often we idlers and passers-by of this floating world can see the stage only from a distance, the fantastic figure against the backdrop of painted bamboos, and then the patterns it wears are beautiful beyond specific knowledge. If we are lucky enough to sit closer, we may realize that the darkhaired pallid mask and the water-green of the kimono are “brought out” even more by the glimpse of red garment beneath.

Most of Japan’s ancient¹⁰ Noh costumes were burned up in the American air raids on Tokyo near the end of the Second World War; some of the best surviving examples may be seen at the Mitsui Memorial Museum. What can they mean to me? A black-dragon-wave-backgrounded “sword and mountain” or “flower holder” kimono, how much expressive discretion might its wearer possess? Perhaps the former might appear on the actor who portrays the jealous serpent-woman of “Dojoji,” although a diamond-fish-scale design would be more à propos. (Being associated with snake-scales, triangle patterns often express demonic female roles.) What about the Karahana pattern with the brown background called “Komochiyama?” My translator, Ms. Yasuda Nobuko, gives the Japanese characters, then sadly reports: “Could not read nor find translation.”

Some of the costumes frequently used for female roles are the small-sleeved kara-ori; the ones incorporating red portray young women. (Among those which do not I see one with a checkerboard of subdued rusts and lavenders embroidered black, pink, red and white wheel-patterns, ivylike foliage of various other colors, and pale arcs concatenated into schematizations of rolling hills.) Then there are the small-sleeved, foil-stenciled under-kimonos called surihaku (I remember seeing one in a museum in Kanazawa that was night-blue with silver flowers and grasses), and satin nuihaku, which again are small-sleeved, with surihaku and embroidery — but then again, nuihaku may be employed for noble young male roles. There are rules, but actors and schools may vary them. Moreover, the widths of the garments, and the shapes of the sleeves, have remained stable for a relatively short time — merely since the middle of the Edo period.

A frequent effect of Noh costumes is to balance the austerity of the stage, the chanting and the slow movements with spectacular elegance. If Zeami, many of whose performances were maskless, could see, would he approve? The colors worn by the principal actors are as shockingly beautiful as would be the plumage of tropical birds against a white wall. The necessary hideousness of the extremest monster-masks thus receives its neutralizing compensation; and the face of a lovely woman dances to life in the gorgeous body of a robe. The mask is the face; the costume is the body. Moreover, theses costumes are layered, like Noh meaning itself; I can remember seeing Mr. Umewaka in at least three, his under-layers showing through like accented allusions at wrist and neck and ankle. I wish I had the talent to describe the motions of his immensely wide sleeves.

FANS

The flash of gold around leaves of green, purple and red on a toujumon-kami-ougi fan, you can be sure that it means something. Black slats are associated with women, naked bamboo, with men, gold, with old men. Spiral patterns are associated with strength. Abstractions tend to express demoniacal madwomen; the same goes for combinations of red and gold.

SCHOOLS

At the time of writing, five schools or styles of Noh exist. The Kanze School, from which the Umewaka School once did or did not temporarily break away, depending on who tells the tale, is dominant. The other four schools are Hosho, Kongo, Komparu¹¹ (which is said to own the oldest Noh mask of all), and Kita, this last being a newcomer from the Edo period. An expert writes me: “Kanze has the reputation of being on the flashy side, though not as flashy as Kita… Certainly the dancing style of Kanze is livelier than Hosho, while the latter is renowned for the beauty of its chanting.” These have to do especially with shite acting. Hosho, which is rightly or wrongly said to be less elitist than some of the other schools, frequently employs zo-onna masks for shite roles and ko-omote for tsures. The Kanze School prefers ko-omotes for shites. Schools for waki, musicians and kyogen actors exercise their own influence. Most of my experience as a Noh spectator has been with the Kanze School.¹²

In case you wonder how it happens that an actor follows a particular school, the answer, for once, is simple.

“Why are you a member of the Kanze School?” I once asked Mr. Mikata Shizuka.

Patiently he replied: “Because my father is a Kanze.”

EQUALIZATIONS, NEUTRALIZATIONS

As mentioned in the section on costumes, Noh seeks to balance or even neutralize the image color of a given play, to harmonize positive and negative. For instance, brighter Noh pieces should be performed at night, when the ambiance of the theater is always gloomy. “As a rule,” notes the first-rank translator Royall Tyler, “the more intense the emotion, the more regular the metre.”

This principle, so alien to my temperament, is fundamental to Noh. Later on in this book, I hope to tease out some of the implications for feminine beauty itself.

Noh was supposedly born out of sacred Shinto chants and dances, which gradually became masked. Masked court dances also seem to have been already on the scene.¹ Their sacred character has not entirely faded away even now, as we heard from Mr. Umewaka’s remarks about “Okina.” Some masks were thought to have fallen from heaven or appeared miraculously in the sea; they might be credited for a good rice crop. I try never to forget this aspect of, say, the zo onna mask which has just come to life in a Noh performance; it is more than a beautiful object. The same is true of the face of the woman I love.

Zeami himself says little about masks, and in the appended “Sarugaku dangi,” prepared by Motoyoshi, we learn mainly which mask carvers of that epoch had the best reputations, and why it is that masks should not have too high a forehead (a hat or crown will go out of alignment). “Sarugaki” can mean either “monkey” or “god,” depending on the pronunciation; while “dangi” means “music” or “speech.” In keeping with that name, Noh in its early days most often encompassed gods, devils and the like. Accordingly, those sorts of masks were most in evidence. But by the late sixteenth century, mask makers were no longer creating new categories of masks, but copying old ones, in part because, as one period treatise explained, “masks that are too new tend to glisten and give a bad impression.”

I have not seen many early illustrations of masks. Even in the Edo period, when ukiyo-e frequently depicted Kabuki actors, Noh actors rarely got featured, because in the words of one expert: “Noh was considered the property of the government, so the samurai would not have ventured to own such a print.” All the same, it was probably at the beginning of the Edo time that Noh, and Noh masks, got codified. There are now sixty main types, which can be elaborated into about four hundred and fifty exemplars. More manageable is to consider the five fundamental divisions: Okina, demons, old men, men and women. Of course it is the final category that is of greatest interest in this book.

It is common for Japanese art to imply that each social gradation is its own world, that women, for instance, may be subdivided into hyperspecific sub-types, so that geishas and prostitutes are readily distinguishable, and indeed employ different tools.² In about 1793 there was a vogue for teahouse beauties, and I don’t mean just any teahouses, but mizuchayas, which is to say the teahouses next to temples or shrines. Utamaro depicted these fetching mizuchaya-bijin in several woodcuts. Here, for instance, is a large multicolored print of Ochie of Koiseya reading a comic book. Although her image might be stylized, the props she bears comprise a coded placement in this typology. For instance, how old is Miss Ochie? If we know that the oomarumage hairstyle is for old women in their late twenties, if we are capable of being informed by the shaved eyebrows and shimadakuzushi hairstyle of another Utamaro beauty that she is a still more elderly woman — very likely in her thirties — if we can turn to Ochie and determine that she is still in her fullest teenaged flower, then we are advantaged like that Melville reader who knows his Bible. As for Noh, since it possesses so deep and wide a visual vocabulary, quite a number of feminine epitomizations lie available to it as masks.

Reader, have you ever wondered which mask might be tip-top for expressing a woman from long ago who drowned herself when the Emperor ceased loving her? It is a certain atypical kohime, carved by the great Tatsuemon. One carver believes it to be “the origin of female masks.” In old times, many ko-omotes, rather than being simply “adorable,” retained a trifle of what the carver refers to as “chilling godliness.” As you see, kohimes could be even chillier. This one possesses smaller eyes than a ko-omote. It lacks “the soft look of the dimples near the lips as in the ko-omote. Both upper and lower lips are thick” like a fukai’s, “giving a deep look of a woman… It has an image of a Buddha statue. This is the finest among the masterpieces, from a period before they began attempting to express softness with techniques in female masks… Eyes, nose, forehead shows the nobleness of a mature woman… the hair and double-chin are closer to a ko-omote’s.” Indeed, the face is wider than that of many suffering masks, so that not only the eyes but also the mouth appears smaller. The double chin widens as it descends. The underside of the nose is relatively flat between the nostrils. The expression is almost troubled, the smile apparent only from the side, the corneas entirely dark except for some horizontal streaks of white to delineate the sides of the pupil-holes.

But why this kohime in particular? Would understanding require education in artistic verities, or in mere artistic conventions? — How many mask-choices an actor truly has to express a given role is debatable. In 1765, Kanze Motoakira published canonical versions of various Noh plays. Indeed, he went far to establish the modern canon itself, eliminating hundreds of plays from the repertoire. Furthermore, Motoakira strictly specified which masks and costumes could be used in each play. His rules continue in force, at least for the Kanze School. One scholar bitterly writes that “Motoakira’s legacy today is the rigid world of noh in which a narrow canon of several hundred plays is enacted according to strict rules interpreted” by “the family head.” For whichever reason, the Noh actors I interviewed for this book, who all belonged either to the Kanze School or to its very near relative, the Umewaka School, never mentioned Motoakira’s name. They simply told me which masks they considered appropriate for a given role. I will now relay some of their remarks to you.

There are four basic types of female masks, or dozens, depending on how one counts. I will list sixteen, some of which are variously presented as subcategories of others. In contradistinction to this variability, the uniformity which convention has imposed upon these objects creates in them the same sort of spectacular coherence which shines in different stanzas of a great poem. Each female mask must be seven sun (13.03 centimeters) high. A male mask is shorter, since it lacks the stylized hair. Seen together, the masks haunt and ravish me.

The famous ko-omote, “small mask,” is for the youngest girls who are no longer children — which is to say (as Mr. Umewaka has already explained) girls of about thirteen to seventeen.³ Since Noh dramas take place in an era when people married young, it is quite common for lovely wives, concubines, etcetera, to be portrayed with the ko-omote. In “Hanjo,” the shite, Lady Han, is one of several girls kept at an inn for the purpose of entertaining “travelling gentlemen”; she wears a ko-omote. When I asked him which mask he would choose to play another kept woman, Yuya, Mr. Mikata replied that out of his collection of fifty, the only possibilities would be his seven or eight ko-omote, “plus waka-onna, but we have not so many. I don’t prefer those.” For the role in “Michimori” of the wife whose Heike warrior husband must bid her farewell to join a last doomed battle against the Genji, Mr. Mikata chose an Edo-period ko-omote.

How does this mask differ from others? The renowned carver Nakamura Mitsue replied simply: “It has its specified shape that is commonly understood by the people in this world. There is a sample of the shape. There is a pattern paper to make it. Mask carvers use that.” And she showed me an unpainted ko-omote that she had made. Since this book happens to be written in words, and since if anyone in this rushing, floating world is an expert on distinguishing one Noh mask from another, it must be she, I tried again, and Ms. Nakamura finally said: “I’m no good at expressing in words because I express in shapes, but I will try. The younger, the more plump. The lower cheek is rounder; that’s my image.” She cradled her ko-omote as if it were a baby, and it smiled guilelessly up at her. “Since it’s more chubby, the end of the mouth goes deeper,” she said. — For me a ko-omote recalls the face of the plump-cheeked, snow-skinned girl in a certain Genji Picture-Scroll, her eyebrows high and considerably thicker than her demure slit of a mouth, her hair stylized much like a Noh mask woman’s: on each side, a solid black zone from the crisp white parting down temple and cheek between two widening arcs, paralleled by long single strands which pass across eyebrow, eye, cheek, chin, neck.

It would be too easy if the masks of a given category could be interchanged; and in the Kanze family’s fabulous mask collection we find a “hard” ko-omote from the sixteenth century; this mask finds application, as in the play “Mina,” in the portrayal of young women who turn into goddesses.

Then comes the equally famous waka-onna, which means simply “young girl.” Acccording to Mr. Umewaka, it is used to represent seventeen- to twenty-five-year-olds. “Look at her from the side,” advised the mask maker Otsuka Ryoji of one of his creations, “and her mouth seems to smile wider.” Ms. Nakamura remarked: “The difference between the ko-omote and the waka-onna is very slight.⁴ The waka-onna’s eyes are a little higher.”

“So would that make the forehead smaller?” I asked. “After all, both masks are about the same size.”

“Oh, the difference is so slight,” she repeated. “You can change this line or that line. But the cheekbones are a little higher.”

These subtleties reminded me of a certain plastic surgeon’s self-assertion: “In what I do, beauty is about millimeters.”

I asked the great actor Mr. Kanze Hideo whether it was really true that only the Kanze School uses the waka-onna mask, and he replied: “That may be the tendency. But the waka-onna itself did not exist in the time of Zeami. In the Tokugawa era, about four hundred years ago, it was created, and Kanze had good waka-onna masks.”

Mr. Mikata for his part remarked of this mask: “In the first and middle portions of the Edo period, it was very suitable for the Kanze School, but it simply looks pretty, graceful. Strictnesss or power I believe is hard to express with the waka-onna. Of course there are good waka-onna masks.”

Having passed her years in praying and grieving for her mother and son, who drowned themselves rather than be captured by the Genji, the former Heike-era Empress of “Ohara Goko” must surely be careworn, and yet as the play opens we find her sitting in her hut, wearing a waka-onna. The mask can also used in the plays “Yokihi” and “Matsukaze,” which will be discussed in chapters of their own. The shite of “Izutsu” wears it, as does “Eguchi’s” courtesan-Buddha.

Slightly less well known is the magojiro, whose name combines denotations of “grandchild” and “second son.” “This has a legend,” said Ms. Nakamura. “It is named after a man who made this mask remembering his late wife. Compared with others, this one’s proportions are closer to those of a real human. In a ko-omote, the eye-nose distance is shorter than in a magojiro, whose face is slimmer and slightly longer. But the truth is that the two masks are about the same size.” Apparently the cheeks are also more taut than a ko-omote’s, and the lower eyelids more curved. This mask is frequently used to play Yuya or Hanjo. The Kongo School employs it almost exclusively.

The famous zo-onna (Zoami’s woman) was named after its creator Zoami, about whom Zeami said: “Both his acting and his singing should probably be classed at the rank of the tranquil flower.” Often the ko-omote seems “warm” and the zo-onna a trifle “cooler.” “From the standpoint of age,” said Ms. Nakamura, “this mask does not differ from the waka-onna. But the expression is different. The shape of the mouth is different. The waka-onna is smiling; the zo-onna is not. Actors often employ it for goddess roles.” We see it worn by the shite of “Seiobo”; he is portraying a heavenly maiden who has come to reward an Emperor for his virtue. It may also be used in “Hagoromo” and other plays; the Kongo School employs it often. One actor remarks of it: “The delicate red on the cheeks of this mask, the beautiful red color of the lips, are so beautiful that when I take a good look at it, it feels as if I am observing the first sunrise of the year on New Year’s day.”

These various young woman masks can most easily be distinguished from one another by the number (and sometimes the crossing-point) of strands which parallel the border of the hair’s solid inky darkness in its journey from the part down the curves of temple and cheek.

As I’ve said, the masks become leaner with the years they bear. The waka-onna has a slightly longer nose and a narrower chin than the ko-omote; the corners of the lips turn upward a little less. These changes grow more pronounced in the fukai and shakumi, which are both associated with middle-aged women. Mr. Umewaka says that the fukai is for women in their thirties to early forties (and there are two subtypes of these, deep and shallow). Its gaze is sharp. In “Obasute,” when the ghost of the deserted crone first appears in the guise of a living old woman, she wears a fukai. Representing “Kinuta” ’s maeshite by means of fukai is elegantly appropriate, since the wife has just recently lost her desirability. In “Miidera” the middle-aged mother of a child kidnapped by slave traders can be represented by either the fukai or the shakumi, depending on which of the five Noh schools is putting on the performance. The shakumi sometimes has thinner, more slanting eyebrows than the fukai. (By the by, an American makeup artist informs us that “eyebrows convey different emotions depending on how they are drawn.”) The shakumi’s eyes are also a trifle narrower and perhaps lower. “Basically they are the same,” said Ms. Nakamura. “ They are slightly different. The actor chooses what he likes.”

“Is the difference so subtle that even you could not tell in a performance?” I inquired.

“It depends. Sometimes I clearly know and sometimes I wonder.”

The masukami mask bulges and furrows on its forehead, in the shape of a curving, four-taloned claw. There is a wrinkle beneath its lower lip, and its chin has sharpened, its lower face narrowed into a sort of rounded arrowhead. But the cheeks are still smooth. It is sometimes used in that very sad play of blindness, madness and separation, “Semimaru.”

The manbi may be a trifle younger; the forehead is smoother, but the underlip is accompanied by much the same crease, and wider, shallow creases swerve outward from the corners of the mouth across the woman’s slightly flaccid flesh to above her chin.

The mask maker Hori Yasuemon describes manbis rather more appealingly: “How can charm be expressed? That is what makes carving interesting. It is quite difficult to carve extreme charm after carving a noble piece such as a zo-onna. How can we express a sex appeal different than those of ko-omote and waka-onna? Some twists are needed, such as the way her eyes and mouth are carved, the shape of the nose, double-chin, making a small dimple near the mouth, lifting the lip high, making the face slightly clear-cut, and the parts larger.” The manbi, he says, has wider eyes than the ko-omote. “The name is derived from the phrase stronger than a hundred coquetries… Adding some seduction with sex appeal to a ko-omote, the brush stroke sends a clear message. Perfect for the beautiful woman that a demon has turned into in ‘Momijigari.’ The Katayama Kurouemon family has another manbi mask carved by Omi, which has goggling eyes and mysterious sex appeal…” The manbi about which he writes “is young and beautiful, and is used for roles such as Hanjo, who is crazed in love.”

In any event, the manbi has suffered more than her younger counterparts. Still older women are represented by the rojo, “old woman,” and the uba, which means not only an old woman but also a wet nurse. In “Obasute,” when the ghost of the deserted crone finally comes on stage undisguised as a living woman, she replaces her fukai with an uba. (Hokusai’s final — and incomplete — series of colored woodblocks was entitled “Pictures of One Hundred Poems by One Hundred Poets, Explained by the Uba,” and an editor believes that the artist’s “style is the same as hers — not a style of ignorance, but of innocence.”) Uba and rojo are both used, among other purposes, to portray the poet Ono no Komachi. The latter, so I read, can “reveal inner elegance. Only an occasional crease lines the clear skin.” The first exemplar was carved in the fifteenth century.

In an old woman’s mask, the lips turn downward, and sometimes the face becomes spectacularly hideous, as in the mask which Mr. Umewaka employs to represent Komachi, who turned away all her suitors and found herself alone,⁵ it wears a downcurved, self-disgusted grimace and eye-slits which curve upward like Kagekiyo’s (although they are slightly wider than his, since Komachi can see). Mr. Umewaka remarked about this mask: “In the end, her miserable appearance is a very sad final stage of her life. We just symbolize her as a beggar. She had the loneliness of someone who maintained her own thinking. There is another interpretation: It was actually not Komachi, who’d been famous for her beauty, but some spirit who took over this old woman who then thought of herself as Komachi. I follow the first interpretation in my performances.”

Then, of course, come the ghosts of angry or unsatisfied women.

The deigan is a living woman crazed with jealousy. Ms. Nakamura showed me one of her unpainted blanks, a mask of a woman concentrating on something, staring up at me from the table, the mouth downturned. To my naive gaze, there was hardly even a suggestion of sullenness in her yet. Although the name means “mud eyes,” a finished deigan, she said, would have the whites of her eyes painted gold. The jealous ghost of Lady Rokujo often appears in a deigan mask at the beginning of “Aoi-no-Ue.” The abandoned wife of “Kinuta” can also incorporate herself in a deigan.

The ko-omotes, waka-onnas and zo-onnas look through me. A seventeenth-century deigan by Genkyu Mitsunaga looks at me, but seems not to see me. Her face is as smoothly beautiful as that of the other three masks, but her mouth, instead of ending in sad smile-points, forms a long rectangle, and the teeth are paler against its opened darkness. On each temple, two strands of hair curl out of place. The pupil-holes tilt slightly upward and outward. If the whites of the eyes have been gilded, it was with an understated touch. Who knows what she is thinking? As I stare at her I begin at last to sense that something is not right with her; some sorrow hurts her. But I would still be foolish enough to trust myself to her, since she seems to trust herself. This mask is a gem of subtlety.

In contradistinction to the deigan is the extremely varied category of hashihime, “bridge princess.” In Ms. Nakamura’s words, “the deigan has some grudge inside the mind, while the hashihime has not kept the grudge inside concealed but is showing it.”

She showed me her masks of this type; they had protruding cheekbones, gold-plated copper rings about the eyes. Often many Medusa-strands twisted down their foreheads; and they seemed to be lost between anguish and the subsequent stage of demonhood, malignant joy; for their mouths narrowed in the center and widened at the corners, while the downward gaze of those black and golden eyes expressed great pain. Some of them were snarling, some had smaller, demurer mouths, all downturned. Their attachments had so far enslaved them that they seemed less feminine than their deigan sisters and predecessors; they were humans becoming monsters. “The reason why there are so many types of hashihime,” she smilingly said, “is because the mask makers are male, so for them probably each one has a personal experience with a jealous female.”

In this group is the ryo-no-onna, and also the hannya, which one source singles out as “particularly famous as a mask embodying a woman’s hatred and sorrow.” Pound and Fenollosa opine that hannya comprise not one type, but a full group of masks. “The hannia in Awoi no Uye [another transliteration of ‘Aoi-no-Ue’] is lofty in feeling; that of Dojoji⁶ is base… The Adachigahara hannia is the lowest in feeling.” These masks resemble horned, grinning skulls with the flesh still on them, darkness glaring around the round holes in their golden eyes, the teeth huge and variously discolored, with greyish-black hair flowing thinly around the horns. Their malignance is spectacular, their hatred terrible. They tend to express grief when tilted down, and fury when raised.

What the hannya proclaims the ryo-no-onna understates. The Kanze School considers it especially appropriate to represent the ghost of Unai-otome, who, harassed by two suitors, diplomatically drowned herself.

The yase-onna, “skinny woman,” is in a different group from the above. As already mentioned, sometimes the ghost of Kinuta wears this particular wooden face: hollow-cheeked and bony-cheeked, with sunken eyes and a narrow almost rectangular gape — all in all, a softer feminine version of the abandoned exile Shunkan. One commentator remarks on its “calm, almost rectangular pupil openings.” It is used to portray vindictive female spirits “when the intention is to empathize their pathos.” The ancient carver Himi is said to have used the frozen corpse of a starved woman as his model for the yase-onna. Asked to differentiate between a rojo and a yase-onna, Kanze Hisao replied: “The bones are the same. However, the yase-onna must have a beauty which shows that a beautiful woman became thin because of love.”

Such is my resume of female Noh masks.⁷ Needless to say, any other book will categorize them differently. I have bypassed the higaki-no-onna, which the Kanze School occasionally employs to play the fabled Ono no Komachi; and doubtless I have committed many other errors.

“Do you have any general advice for people going to a Noh play for appreciating the beauty of a female mask?” I asked Ms. Nakamura.

“If you have an opportunity to look close up, the combination of the actor’s ability and the mask makes a change in the expression of the mask.”

“When a mask maker fails, what is the most common failure?”

“Too much engraving. Sometimes, that you can fix by painting something over it, but when it’s complete, sometimes I just don’t like the expression.”

In short, the trick was understatement.

In both Noh and Kabuki the changing of one mask for another provides critical information (for instance, a shite who first appears as an old woman returns as the young girl-ghost whom the old woman always was). In Kabuki one additionally sees the changing of wigs. Kabuki is more prop-rich in every way: Gorgeous groups of man-women arranged by color, ladies all in a row, sing to the shamisen up and down; while the warrior struts and stamps like a whitefaced devil.

Kabuki is the way that I so often write; Noh is how I would write if I were more “spiritual,” more understated or perhaps just older.

Zeami is not only one of the greatest artists of all time, but a brilliant and inspiring adviser to anyone who either makes art or appreciates it. Given the arcane character of Noh drama, which takes so much study merely to watch with understanding, given further that his treatises were secret documents, for the benefit of his eldest male descendants only, I find Zeami’s relevance to my own obsessions remarkable. But, after all, he sought to further one of the most profound of all artistic aims: namely, the creation of beauty.

Because the beauty he describes consists of epiphanies and ineffable accomplishments, it seems to me more universal than it probably was; and there is no doubt, as I continually remind myself, that because so much of Zeami lies beyond me (for instance, his musical theories, right down to their very technical melodic terminology), I am mis-applying him. No matter. The jungles in Rousseau’s paintings (none made from life) have been attacked as misunderstandings not only of jungles, but of basic painting technique; all the same, Rousseau’s paintings are beautiful. Accordingly, I insist on appropriating Zeami for myself, and I invite you to do likewise; because he indicates, insofar as a human can, the infinite heights of beauty. The possibilities he raises within me magnify my freedom and my ambition, now and for the rest of my life.

In the treatise “Fushikaden” (“Teachings on Style and the Flower”), he writes that a successful play of the first rank is based on an authentic source, reveals something unusual in aesthetic qualities, achieves an appropriate climax, and shows grace. To me the first requirement is inconsequential, and I will ignore it in what follows. As for the third requirement, appropriate climax, here it suffices to repeat that Zeami builds his plays out of parts which escalate the movement, song and dramatic action right up to the proper point.¹ The important points here are that no aspect of artistic presentation should be ignored, and that each level of organization considered has its scaled counterparts on all the other levels.

The second matter, unusualness, is at the heart of what Zeami calls “the flower” — namely, the beauty of a Noh performance. This flower will under certain conditions be “false”; for example, an actor might through his youthful voice and appearance make a handsome impression, and complacently believe himself to be a master. (In my own epoch, the cinema’s leading ladies usually are, and the heroines of erotic centerfolds almost always are, young, or at least young-looking. Here one Japanese expression for prostitution, selling spring, is à propos.) The false flower must fade, of course, and the performer who, as an American would say, “banks on it,” will presently find his credit dwindling. Meanwhile, one of the many astonishing achievements of Noh is when a dumpy old man becomes a lovely young girl, all the while showing his swollen feet in the white tabi socks and working his Adam’s apple as he sings in his old man’s bass. No matter what his body is, the young girl lives in him! He possesses the true flower.

Zeami writes that each flower has its season, so that any flower is of itself ephemeral, like a Noh performance itself; therefore, when an actor possesses “the flower,” he owns in fact the ability to flower in the appropriate way. He “possesses all the flowers.” “Flower, charm and novelty: all three of these partake of the same essence. There is no flower that remains and whose petals do not scatter.” For just that reason, when a new flower comes into bloom, it will seem novel. And novelty is indeed the thing. A Noh actor who sets out to portray only demon roles will not possess the flower, because his demons will merely be demons; whereas an actor who can play not only demons but also women, old men and warriors will manage to impart some characteristic of one or more of these other roles to the demon role, so that his demon will unexpectedly, yet convincingly resemble “a flower blooming in the rocks.” To take a still stranger case, an actor who has over time achieved greatness by systematically excluding all impurities of technique wins the freedom to color his representation with novelty by introducing this or that impure element — a strategy which would only make the performance of a lesser actor all the more deficient.

These considerations lead me to wonder whether all beauty is somehow surprising. This is a question to which I do not have the answer. It is certainly true that when an alluring lady sweeps in, be she a woman or a man in a mask, I feel a sense of unfamiliarity; and part of my joy in gazing at the loveliness of a woman I know well is trying to determine what makes her so beautiful; I wish to solve a mystery, and so my gaze cannot be satisfied. In any event, there is no single final form for beauty; if there were, it would not be novel. Hence Zeami reminds us that “the flower does not exist as a separate entity.”

It follows that “a flower blooms by maintaining secrecy.” This is why the mirror room where the Noh actor dons costume, wig and mask is out of sight of the audience; and surely this explains why so many self-transformers, especially cross-dressers and old women, hate to be seen at their makeup. And due to this secrecy, even the principle that novelty is essential must be kept hidden. The point is to make the audience experience skilled unexpectedness. If they anticipated novelty, they would undervalue it.

We now arrive at the fourth requirement: grace. This is the quality that “stage characters such as Ladies-in-Waiting, or women of pleasure, beautiful women, or handsome men, all show alike in their form, like the various flowers in the natural world.” Grace is represented by the deportment, “dignified and mild appearance,” “refined and elegant carriage” (which must move us without being ostentatious) and “beautiful way of speaking” of the nobility. — But what is grace exactly? Zeami does not say, because his effects exist beyond words. In the treatise “Shikado” (“The True Path to the Flower”) he advises us that “roles requiring great taste and elegance come naturally from the style of women’s roles,” and he may well have grace in mind here; in any event, there are plausible if contradictory indications that for Zeami as for me, the representation of femininity is the profoundest art. In “Kakyo” (“A Mirror Held to the Flower”) he speaks of the five skills of dancing, each of which is an extension of the preceding one into greater inexpressibility. The penultimate skill, “mutuality in self-conscious movement,” which is already nearly indescribable, and then so only by extension from the three skills before it, is appropriate for male roles. The most arcane skill of all, “mutuality in movement beyond consciousness,” “produces an art beyond any mere appearances” and is, I am happy to say, proper to female roles.

When performing a woman’s role, the actor should “slightly bend the hips, hold his hands high, sustain the whole body in a graceful manner, feel a softness in his whole manner of being, and use his physique in a pliant manner.” He must wear skirts long enough to hide his feet (as implied, this rule gets frequently disobeyed in Noh performances of my epoch). His body should be hidden below the neck. And Zeami will offer any number of such instructions to the man who wants to be perceived as female, as warriorlike, as old… But this does not get to the heart of grace. The following does, stunningly: Whether an actor plays woman, warrior, demon or old man, “it should seem as though each were holding a branch of flowers in his hand.”²

The more I consider this statement, the more it thrills me. I am not at all sure that it must be true, but why not create something on the assumption that it is? The late A. R. Ammons once advised me in a poetry course that if one’s effect feels a little off, it is time to push the off-ness as far as it will go, until it achieves strange beauty (in other words, Zeami’s flower of novelty). — Zeami for his part asserts that off-ness has to do with being out of balance. Therefore, add the complement. If something is rough, add flowers to it. If it is weak, add strength. Even the beyond-conscious role of a beautiful woman will be out of balance — strengthless, even vulgar — without its opposite. The woman is more effectively female when tinctured with maleness. For his own part, the warrior must bear his flower-branch. Of course it would be superficial, reductive, to suppose that the man’s flower-branch must be the same as the woman’s. All the same, this feminine emblem which brings the various male roles into balance must surely remain feminine for the female ones; therefore, even though a Noh heroine as much as any Noh hero contains her opposite already (through the appropriate strong characteristics of chant, posture and dance), that branch of flowers can only make her more herself,³ in which case it would seem that the female principle is fundamentally more in balance than the male.

Set this aside for a moment, or for the rest of your life. I am not sure whether I believe it myself. But let us think more about this matter called balance, which can mean one or both of two things. An artist might impart opposite qualities to what he creates, either to make it neutral, or else to make it infinite. Photographers like to speak of a neutral surface for a print, meaning a scale of values whose color or value is not obtrusive.⁴ A rich but somehow nondescript black which can be decomposed into various greys neither warm nor cold, and a white which is not too sunny or snowy, will best allow the image to offer itself without extraneous connotations. Of course I might break this rule, and often do: following the more-is-more principle of Ammons, I selenium tone subjects which to my feeling possess “warm” connotations, so that the shadow areas in that portrait of the Mexicali street prostitute singing narco-ballads on a hot night take on a blackish-crimson tinge; while such “cold” subject as the jet-black men in the Congolese prison-cage deserve to be toned with gold chloride until the white areas bleach down harshly and the shadows take on a bitter blueness. But could it be that this procedure is a shallow or even hysterical insistence on telling the viewer how to feel? Should I cold-tone the street girl and warm-tone the prison-cage, so that only the subject remains?

In daytime, says Zeami, perform subdued plays, and in nighttime do brisk bright ones. When an actor expresses anger, “he must not fail to retain a tender heart. Such is his only means to prevent his acting from developing roughness…” When he stamps his feet, he must suppress his upper body into near immobility; and vice versa. The treatises offer many more such examples of cancellation. Always the tendency is to reduce, understate, dampen vibrations, approach neutral buoyancy until beauty hovers in the water, massively still, profound beyond sight, so pure that it might be mistaken for nothingness. “If the motion is more restrained than the emotion behind it,” he writes in “Kakyo,” “the body will become the substance and the emotion its function, thus moving the audience.” What would happen if the motion were insufficiently restrained, the silver gelatin of the photograph insufficiently neutral? Then our hothouse could raise only false flowers. This is why Zeami warns that a “surface brilliance” of visual spectacle may actually be inimical to a great performance, because the audience might then miss the subtle beauties of the acting. To avoid this, plays have slowed themselves down over the centuries; and, for the same reason, the sound of Noh ought to be “sober” even if that bores provincial audiences.

To artists who create in an unmediated rush of feeling (Céline, Rachmaninoff, Gauguin), this prescription will be deadly. Balance itself is hardly a prerequisite to beauty. But for the remainder of this book, I will either respect Zeami’s rules or else react to them.

When I see a Noh play, I think of strong, stately stillness. Indeed, as Zeami remarks, a good actor may fascinate his audience when seemingly doing nothing — in other words, when he is between two actions or movements. This achievement is possible thanks to tension and concentration.⁵ It is as if I could simultaneously increase both the warmth and the chilliness of my photographs, leaving each print to appear almost untoned. If so, my representation would be richer.

What then is the flower? What is grace? What is beauty? Many specific things can be said; for instance, body posture is as important as the specific characteristics of any role. Never mind. In another of his methodically enigmatic utterances, which always point beyond conceptualization, Zeami writes: Forget the details of a play in order to see the entirety. Then forget the play itself, and consider the actor. Next, forget the actor himself and observe his spirit. Finally, forget his spirit; and the essence of the Noh will be manifest.

And so the lovely woman approaches, sliding silently across the stage, the ancient mask of her face shining warmly like ivory. She is not a woman — not only because she is a man but also because she is inhuman: perfect grace and womanhood itself. Slowly, slowly she inclines her head, and her face alters expression an infinity of times, each expression feminine, tranquilly lovely, and alien to the faces of any of the living women I have ever known. Who is she, but the true flower herself? I cannot tire of her, perhaps because I cannot keep her. She gazes through me, into the spirit world; she sings in a deep old man’s voice. How beautiful is she to me precisely? With his customary flair for subcategorization, Zeami offers nine levels of beauty. Lowest of all is the way of crudeness and leadenness. I can understand that; I can grasp all of the lowest three levels, and even the middle ones, but of the highest three levels, each of which is associated with its own flower, I can comprehend only the third, and my comprehension, like my admiration for this woman on the Noh stage who is still more transient than I but whose face may still hover above a stage centuries from now, is wordless. Never mind the highest level; I am too small to see its beauty, let alone describe it. Never mind the next highest. Let me express, with grateful thanks to Zeami, the beauty of this woman from the perspective of the third level, which she might already have gone beyond — a beauty beyond logic, as beauty must surely be: “The art of the flower of tranquility. Piling up snow in a silver bowl.”

Then out comes the masked actor, silent against this spring night’s birdsong. His wife, the tsure, knows all too well that he was not abducted by the enemy but accomplished the glorious act of suicide. In short, he betrayed her. So she attempts to return to him the red-wrapped bundle on the white fan — a lock of hair he’s bequeathed her. Her rejection embitters his ghost. And they fall to blaming one another, the salaryman beside me sleeping through it all, until the inevitable reconciliation allows the dead warrior to become a Buddha. Thus the plot of the eponymous “Kiyotsune.” The wrinkle between the flutist’s eyes as he blows, the chorus’s chrysanthemum-in-diamond kimonos, the way the shoulder-drummer strikes the base of his instrument with his palm, may be less “important” than the plot, but one can experience them, as do I, without comprehending a word. Kiyotsune¹ turns around. He is so wide without depth, like a beetle, that his rotation is one with a fan’s supernatural revolutions in a geisha’s hand. From behind we see how the kneeling Noh actor slowly paddles himself about with his white-stockinged foot, but even that motion is eerily perfect.

What would it mean to truly “understand” Noh? Presumably that would entail mastering not only the interrelated texts, places and events in a play’s epoch, but also the refinements and allusions of the centuries between that play’s composition and today’s performance.² Noh actors tell me that a mask grows more alive with age. The same must be true for a play. Does the thing itself “gain character,” or is it our collective experience and appreciation that grow to “characterize” the thing? The answer depends on whether we objectify what we perceive or the lens perceiving it.

Once upon a time — in 1203, to be exact — the monk whom we now call the Venerable Myoe received visions of the god of Kasuga Shrine, a place whose present day white paper prayer-curlings on vermilion latticework, wet pavingstones, forests of stone lanterns and overarching trees may offer some equivalent of its thirteenth-century incarnation; but Kasuga must have diminished, relatively speaking; for the neighboring temple of Kofuku-ji, whose god adopted a dragon’s form as one of his attributes, gradually devoured more and more of the legend for itself; and when the unknown author, who could have been Zeami’s son-in-law Komparu Zenchiku, wrote the Noh drama “Kasuga ryujin,” which translates as “The Kasuga Dragon-God,” the Venerable Myoe’s visions scarcely resembled their originals, which, by the way, had been facilitated by a female medium whose body emitted divine fragrance. The Dragon Girl’s kimono-sleeves pass across the ocean; the Eight Great Dragon Kings bow their crowns to her. There is now a Dragon God Noh mask, a kurohige, employed in such plays as “Kasuga ryujin.” “The face is long, the chin protrudes and the tongue is visible in the widely opened mouth. The slanting eyebrows and moustache are delineated in black.” Kofuku-ji had aggrandized itself through its dragons, invading Kasuga’s story. And why not? After all, it was older and more prestigious than Kasuga. In its saplingdom, Kasuga Shrine’s eight-hundred-year-old cedar might have witnessed different events than this; such are time’s customary corruptions. “No doubt the Dragon God of the play… is continuous with the Kasuga deity proper…” grants the play’s translator. “But although dragons are not absent from Kasuga lore, nothing in this lore suggests that the deity could actually star in a play in dragon form.”

In this play, Kasuga recalls Kofuku-ji.

(How does it do so? Why, in its own indirectly Noh fashion, of course! It mentions the Venerable Gedatsu of Kasagi, a pre-eminent Kofuku-ji monk;³ it refers to the Seven Great Temples of Nara, most of which figure in Noh plays and one of which, Kofuku-ji, is supposed to be supreme. We might also note that Zeami’s Noh troupe were one of several affiliated with both Kasuga and Kofuku-ji.)

Behind Kasuga’s sliding screens of paper and latticework, within rectangular tatami-matted rooms overhung by tassels, the chantings of monks tell their own stories, as does the sad back of the woman who prays motionless, slowly bows, then returns to her frozen kneeling. A greyrobed priest with a peaked cap seats himself on a mat with his back to us outside, and begins to chant; to my foreign ears his lilting male cadences resemble those of a Noh song although they are more rapid, less trained, less musical, and he is not reciting but reading. Kasuga is itself — indeed, so perfectly as to be one of merely two shrines which Zeami specifically mentions before remarking of Noh: “One must not permit this art to stray from its original refined elegance.” The other shrine referred to is Hi-e. But Noh has joined in eternal marriage Kasuga not to Hi-e but to Kofuku-ji, where on a late spring night just after the fall of the cherry blossoms I sit watching a Takigi-Noh performance of “Kiyotsune.” Although torchlight Noh plays now take place in more than two hundred sites in Japan, they say that it was here at Kofuku-ji that the tradition began⁴ eleven hundred and thirty years ago as I write — nearly five centuries before Zeami. The Noh stage evolved from the paper which used to be laid down upon the grass. If moisture passed through fewer than three sheets, performance was permitted. Takigi-Noh events originally lasted for seven days, and forty-nine Noh dramas were accomplished on one such occasion. Of course they were speedier then.

KIYOTSUNE’S FACE

Very close by, the temple bell sounds tinnily. Another mask comes to life, incarnated in a blue-grey pillbox hat, long hair and a blue-grey kimono. Turning, it becomes an old ivory profile against the summery trees. The black teeth, moustache and frozen fan are all beautiful. A bus passes behind the temple wall; the foliage falls still; paper knots hang limp from the ropes. And Kiyotsune is dead, his mask staring and gaping, its expression somewhere between despairing and ecstatic. What is that expression, exactly? I once asked Mr. Kanze Hideo the same question I so often asked others, namely, why it was that the faces of woman-masks differed from the faces of living women, and he replied: “Particularly the female masks, if you make them with much expression of joy or sorrow, you can express only that one emotion in performance. So you must express the joy or sorrow only in the gestures. Of course a living person makes different expressions! With a mask, using the same expression you can convey different emotions.”

Mr. Kanze is dead now. He died but lately as I write. He was never as warm to me as Mr. Umewaka; on the one occasion he allowed me to interview him, he seemed guarded and harassed, so that I felt a trifle ashamed. The mood of his performances was more gnarled than Mr. Umewaka’s, and when I watched him on stage, my aesthetic pleasure partook of an awe whose colors balanced one another to near invisibility; while in Mr. Umewaka’s case, the experience, by no means inferior or less “subtle,” was iridescent. One man’s art budded as if from an ancient pine; the other’s was greener, as if Keith Jarrett had replaced Tatyana Nikolayevna in playing Shostakovich’s preludes and fugues on the piano. Now the ancient pine is dead. Someday Mr. Umewaka and I will also be dead, like Kiyotsune, whose mask will be reanimated by an actor whom Mr. Umewaka or Mr. Kanze might have taught. That unknown actor’s Noh will remain Zeami’s, and his, and theirs. And the expression of his mask will be nameless.

Kiyotsune swings his kimono sleeve around and it suddenly, naturally unfurls. It is shorter than a geisha’s. The stage creaks, unfortunately. Somebody coughs. Then in sudden darts of the head the mask comes once more alive against the darkening foliage. The staff flashes out; the fan curls.

Regardless of its textual component, Noh is ultimately indescribable, like sexual ecstasy; what consoles me for my failure of language is the fact that so is everything else. Moreover, Noh aspires to indescribability. Beautiful mysteriousness, shot through with supernatural or sacred beyondness, possesses a name: yugen. Zeami informs us that this is the highest principle of his art. The actor must be simultaneously emotive and unostentatious. When he portrays a demon, his body may writhe fearsomely but his feet must glide gently. In all things he understates himself with the nuanced mildness of some bygone (and probably fictitious) noble of the Heian court. Such are yugen’s prerequisites, but expressing them correctly can take a lifetime, as can appreciating them. Of Noh’s nine stages of excellence, the highest of the middle three is the flower of truth. “It is superior to the art of versatility and exactness,” writes Zeami, “and is already a first step toward the acquisition of the flowers of the art.” In short, even here we have gone beyond expressiveness! What comes next? The lowest of the three supreme stages is the flower of stillness.⁵ Zeami likens this, we now know, to the pure white light of snow piled in a silver bowl. What does this “mean”? What can it mean?⁶ If I could rush this little book to the highest of the three stages, I certainly would, but what if the mask of yugen can never be kissed? What if distance will always remain essential? Doesn’t snow melt in the mouth?

Whatever yugen may be, its very delicacy might partake of indestructibility. I admit that Takigi-Noh sharply distinguishes itself from indoor, electric-lit Noh; and in his classic essay “In Praise of Shadows,” the great Tanizaki, devotee of aestheticism, eroticism and sadomasochism, insists that Japanese lacquerware was not meant to be viewed under Thomas Edison’s glaring radiance, that Japanese rooms look plain only when darkness’s pretty mysteries have been swept away like cobwebs, that the gilding of a priest’s robes grows garish under any luminescence more powerful than candle light or firelight. “Whenever I attend the No,” he pursues this topic, “I am impressed that on no other occasion is the beauty of the Japanese complexion set off to such advantage — the brownish skin with a flush of red that is so uniquely Japanese, the face like old ivory tinged with yellow.” What about when the actor is masked? Well, his neck and hands can still be seen. At a performance of “Kotei,” Kongo Iwao impersonated the tragic Lady Yang,⁷ “and I shall never forget the beauty of his hands showing ever so slightly from beneath his sleeves.” And Tanizaki elaborates for another page, finally warning what disastrous vulgarity would ensue should floodlights violate the Noh stage as had already occurred in Kabuki. “It is an essential condition of the No that the stage be left in the darkness in which it has stood since antiquity.” Most of the Noh performances I have attended took place at a remove from this darkness. Was their beauty all vulgar, then? Is my understanding deficient, that I can’t dismiss them? Or is my capacity, or this world itself, so debased that yugen needs but to exist in a half-dead state in order to successfully hover above and beyond me? Do they present my blindness with an aluminum bowl of white sand? Even should this be so, the beyondness of yugen survives.

The trees begin to move behind Kiyotsune, and I remember a passage from “Kasuga ryujin”: When the Venerable Myoe first arrived at Kasuga, the trees and grasses bowed down before him.

SISTERS AND GOLD CLOUDS

A great many of Noh’s plots derive from The Tale of Genji, The Tale of the Heike and The Tales of Ise. It’s in Kasuga that the very first story-and-poem of The Tales of Ise occurs: A young man who goes hawking on his estate there gets enraptured by a pair of “very elegant sisters” whom he spies through a fence. He cuts off his purple sleeve, writes a verse expressing the turmoil of his heart, and has his attendant convey these tokens in. The extremely sad Noh play “Matsukaze” is said to have originated from this episode, since it’s about two saltmaking sisters loved by a courtier in his exile, and left alone by his recall and death. But “Matsukaze” is likewise indebted to The Tale of Genji, for the courtier and Genji are both exiled to this same spot, the Suma seashore; and Genji’s impression of the ocean waves calls for comparison with the courtier’s poem. At the end of his exile, Genji’s desires draw him into an affair with a lady from Akashi, whom he impregnates. Once his position in the capital has been restored, he sends for his mistress and daughter, but finds little time for them. Accordingly, the lady makes a sad reference to the wind in the pine trees, a phrase whose Japanese equivalent, and the title of this chapter concerning her, is matsukaze.

Indeed, The Tale of Genji offers several two-sister love triangles. In an album of illustrations from the Muromachi period,⁸ we gaze down through clouds of pure gold into a tassel-hung room of green tatami mats on which sits Genji in his elegantly spread kimono of diamonds and quadruple dots, equidistant from Reikeiden and her younger sister Hanachirusato, whose long inky tresses sweep across their own more flamboyant clothes. Soon his enemies will get him expelled to Suma, and this double love will glimmer down into admitted ephemerality. The sisters will be left behind in the capital — a sort of reverse prefiguration of the situation of the Noh play “Matsukaze.” Years after the death of Genji, another illustration from the album shows his supposed son Kaoru (actually the offspring of Genji’s wife and his best friend’s son), dressed in a red flower-patterned cloak and bluish kimono, peering through a bamboo gate and beneath a cloud of gold into a raised house whose blind has been partially raised for moon-viewing, so that Kaoru can spy out four longhaired beauties whose respective kimonos depict spiderwebs, hexagons, sanddollar-like octagons, and triangles whose internal parallel lines alternate at right angles; two of these girls presumably are maids, and the other two are Big Princess and Middle Princess — sisters, of course. Recapitulating The Tales of Ise, Kaoru writes an elegantly sorrowful verse and has a servant bring them in…

And so a visit to Kasuga takes us not only to Kofuku-ji (and thence to a nineteenth-century Hokusai woodblock drawing), but also to Suma, and, through Suma, to Kyoto and Uji — the places depicted in the two Muromachi illustrations. In “Hanago,” the love-crazed prostitute Lady Han recites an old verse about Kasuga moor.

A millennium after Lady Murasaki completed her masterpiece, I saw geishas dance the Yukigeshiki Uji no Ukifune, which is to say the Snow Scene in Uji from the Tale of Genji. And this dance was an allusion to and partial resume of “Matzukase.” Just as when the flute ascends in two hands from the hidden folds of the flutist’s kimono, so Noh’s references arise unpredictably out of texts.⁹ An old man swirls his fan in the firelight, whose reflections crawl on his forehead. The fan passes from gold to silver depending on its angle. Sometimes the two sisters are Matsuzake and Murasame, sometimes Reikeiden and Hanachirusato, Big Princess and Middle Princess, or the unnamed pair who excite the anonymous protagonist of The Tales of Ise. Our spirits wander through firelight and embroidery.

THE TORN SPIDERWEB

At one time this game was not just for aesthetes, but for all educated people (in other words, for aesthetes). In 1271, a proposal that the fourteen-year-old Lady Nijo become the Emperor’s concubine gets couched in a metaphor from The Tales of Ise. She knows the reference. And in fact, this interesting, accomplished and ultimately very sad person quotes constantly in her memoir from The Tale of Genji. (In her time the sacred tree of Kasuga Shrine was brought to the capital, in order to overawe the mighty and thereby to influence policy. Fleeing an unhappy attachment, she refreshed herself with Kasuga’s rainy air and moss-paths walled by stone lanterns, but her lover dreamed where she was, and got her.) Several centuries earlier, another Emperor amuses himself by testing his concubine on the twenty volumes of the Kokin Shu poems. Perhaps because her father desperately hires the chanting of sutras for her in one temple after the next, or else because she has an impressive memory, the lady, enduring the Emperor’s resentful amazement, completes the ordeal without a single error.

In Heian times, this web of allusions must have been at least theoretically coherent and manageable. Arthur Waley believes it to have been sufficiently limited that an illiterate would have known much of its weft from popular songs. One measure of a society’s degree of refinement and “culture” may well be the number of references its people share in common.

“In Zeami’s day,” I asked Mr. Umewaka, who was sitting before a white paper screen, “were all the conventions understood by the general public?”

“I think so,” he said.

“And now?”

“Maybe it was easier then.”

The difficulty of an undertaking need not increase its value. However, if, as Fenollosa claims and I believe, the alteration of language involves the sedimentation of layers of metaphor upon fundamental relationships (“a nerve, a wire, a roadway, and a clearing-house are only varying channels which communication forces for itself”), then to undertake an excavation beneath the calcified usages upon which any given generation thoughtlessly treads offers the hope of revelation. “The chief work of literary men in dealing with language, and of poets especially, lies in feeling back along the ancient lines of advance.” Accordingly, as Noh grows and grows into a constellated super-text, our journeys from star to star grow likewise, from leaps into quests.

So the game goes on. In 1825, the woodcut artist Utagawa Kunimori I makes erotic parodies of both the Suma and the Matsukaze parts of Genji. Why not? Isn’t frivolity a virtue when we play upon this floating world? In a subsequent century, the Nobel Prize winner and soon-to-be kidnapper-suicide Mishima Yukio recasts several Noh plays in contemporary settings. And as the new allusions swirl down, century by century, the old plays themselves begin to alter.

If Zeami could be resurrected, he might take issue not only with the increased length but also with other alterations of his plays. The scholar Hare, who knows infinitely more about such matters than I, finds it “safe” to say that “the shite’s parts are more reliable than the waki’s, and that passages in congruent song are more reliable than those in noncongruent song, which are in turn more reliable than spoken passages.” (Regarding the instrumentation and the dance choreography less can be said.) About the Genji-based play “Aoi-no-Ue” a performance guide advises that the version “Zeami experienced must have been more visually explanatory and possibly centered on yugen, while the revisions focus more on Rokujo’s jealousy.” Moreover, once upon a time Rokujo’s robe was green. Now it is black and grey.

Zeami advises that if a Noh play has to do with a place, “then you should take lines from well-known poems about the place, in Chinese or Japanese, and write them into concentrated points… In addition to this, you should work distinguished sayings and well-known expressions into the shite’s language.” To me, of course, those sayings and expressions will never be well-known. But in some regards I am richer than Zeami and Lady Nijo. Amidst my treasures I possess, for instance, some reproductions of Hokusai, whom those two never saw. I also prize my foreignness, thanks to which Noh, not to mention Japan, can never be mastered by me. I am accordingly spared much recognition of triteness. The pretension that snowflakes can be cherry blossoms and vice versa begins to irritate me in its knowing repetitions across eras and dynasties.¹⁰ Wouldn’t I be better off if I avoided getting annoyed? Translating the eleventh-century Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, Ivan Morris sets out to escape the “false exoticism that can arise from identifying the Emperor’s residence, for example, as ‘the Pure and Fresh Palace.’ ” I could not disagree more.

So I am ignorant. So I have lost much. No matter. Malraux writes: “All that remains of Aeschylus is his genius.”

But in spite of these lovely textual landscapes, which are fully as rich as a Kyoto garden, it must be repeated: The text, beautiful although it often is, remains of limited importance in comparison to Noh’s wordless lovelinesses. The mask is most important always — the living mask.

The day after he gave a spectacular performance of the warrior play “Michimori,” I asked Mr. Mikata Shizuka the following question: “In the essay ‘Kyui,’ Zeami discusses the top three levels of Noh: flower of peerless charm, flower of profundity and flower of tranquility. Could you please explain in your own words how spectators and actors can perceive and distinguish these three levels and what they mean?”

“For the spectators to appreciate them,” he said, “the actor must be in that stage already. Otherwise it does not look like that, because he has not achieved that level. Even a good audience who looks at a deficient actor cannot see it. The actor who is able to achieve that level, if he acts with the right timing and tension, and if the other actors’ ki has been unified with the surrounding air including the audience, only then will there be peerless charm.”

(Proust must have been referring to this same phenomenon when he described Madame Berma in the title role of Phèdre: “Certain transcendent realities emit all around them a sort of radiation to which the crowd is sensitive.”)

“For a great actor, how often can this take place?” I asked Mr. Mikata.

“It is difficult,” he said. “If he feels the intention, and wants to feel this way or that way, and everything goes well, of course, then he can achieve this state…”

All I took from this was: It is difficult.

“What do you think Zeami means when he speaks of snow in a silver bowl?”

“Because snow does not have any noise, the noise of no noise, and silver rather than gold is very like Noh. That indicates the tranquility.”¹

“In the second highest level, when there is no snow on Fuji because it is not just high but also deep, what does that mean?”

“I cannot imagine clearly,” he said. “But one thing is that Fuji is higher than a cloud, and then it does not snow. It is just stable, just itself.”

“And in the highest level, the sun on Silla?”

“You can imagine the temperature and the coldness of snow in a silver bowl. But you don’t feel any sound there, no smell there, so you cannot imagine really. As a picture it looks pretty and it is easy to imagine, but peerless charm is an expression to try to express what each member of the audience has inside himself or herself. Tranquility, profundity and peerless charm, these refer to some aura that the actor can naturally exude without doing anything. But the audience’s ability to appreciate and receive is definitely necessary.”

And still I did not know what the sun on Silla would entail. Still I could not define the beauty of women.

Why do I want to kiss the zo-onna? Because she is a woman and I am a man.

Why do I believe in her? She is nothing but a wooden face; therefore, for me to believe in her, she must be a perfect face.

And what makes for a perfect face? Edo period prints of beautiful women and young boy-actors look much the same. At times (infrequently, to be sure) Noh actors employ a mask of one gender for a role of the other. Feminine beauty is not so easy to define.

All the same, Japanese art of any given period can express it explicitly and consistently, even to the point of stereotype.¹ To be sure, in the various traditions called Euro-American we also can meet with this or that artist who devotes himself to representing the type that he desires: Just as the twentieth-century Parisian sculptures of Maillol glorify women (and often a woman: Dina Vierny) sporting lushly slablike thighs, so in the beautiful-lady woodblocks (bijin-ga) of the early ukiyo-e master Kaigetsu one very frequently sees a woman standing in a particular way, using both hands to comb her hair. But what defines the face of a Kaigetsu beauty? Would she be equally appreciated by a tenth-century Heian courtier and a twenty-first-century corporation president?

Noh mask, ukiyo-e lady, geisha — these three points upon the arc will occupy much of this book’s investigation. Divergent as they are, they all partake of a certain kind of radiance, which over the years has become as preciously familiar to me as the blue streetlight glowing up into my coffin-hotel in Shinagawa. What is it? In the Ukiyo-e Museum in Tokyo you can see, for instance, chrysanthemums and birds; the fishes are simultaneously representational and stylized, wide-eyed and aware, frozen in an upward or downward lunge through a blankness which sometimes shades into blue; a prawn rises up behind a pale pink bream which is swimming across a blue bonito in an aquarium whose borders are blue paper imprinted with white birds. Can we say any more of all this than that it is “Japanese”?

“LIKE A JEWELED HAIRPIN”

Let us begin with the black teeth. A nineteenth-century American (one of Commodore Perry’s men) appraised them without undue enthusiasm: “As their ‘ruby’ lips parted in smiling graciously, they displayed a row of black teeth, set in horribly corroded gums. The married women of Japan enjoy the exclusive privilege of dyeing their teeth…”²

Five and a half centuries earlier, a famous tale immortalized the eccentric young lady who in spite of her noble blood and upbringing admired snails, insects and other such creatures; moreover, she refused to blacken her teeth! People said, “Her eyebrows look like furry caterpillars, all right, but her bare teeth you would think have been skinned.” The ugliness of black teeth or white ones, like that of the unbound Chinese lady’s foot, or the uncircumcised Sudanese clitoris, definitely varies by time and place. I have been educated by my dentist to consider black teeth a sign of decay. One Filipina prostitute of my acquaintance, possessor of what could politely be referred to as a “midnight smile,” found her business suffering on their account. I took her to get all her top teeth pulled (anesthetic unavailable, I am sad to say, but this did not deter the patient), after which plastic teeth were installed, and Virgie expressed satisfaction. On the same planet where she allures men with her new white smile, I open a book, and look in on court ladies blackening their teeth for the New Year’s banquet of 1025.

Hence the blackened teeth of a Noh mask, which even nowadays may occasionally be emulated by a geisha in her last month of maikodom.

Tanizaki, in whom I see myself because he too embraces the no-longer-existent, offers a characteristic theory about the old practice: “Might it not have been an attempt to push everything except the face into the dark? In the past this was sufficient. For a woman who lived in the dark it was enough if she had a faint, white face — a full body was unnecessary.”

A face alone, with even her teeth dulled down into darkness, is this not a mask?

But what, if anything, does a lovely mask “represent”?

“Like a jeweled hairpin, / a vision of her alone / pierces my sight more and more.” Thus runs a poem in The Tales of Ise. I would have supposed that any vision sufficiently noteworthy to pierce my sight must require specificity. An Italian Renaissance poet might spell out the beauties of the cheek. But The Tales of Ise, which concern themselves mainly with romantic assignations, many of which bear voyeuristic overtones, say no more of the women (or men) involved than that they come from this or that social station, or are old or young. The sole physical description of any lady in the Tales is this: One or two boils erupt on an unnamed someone’s body, so she declines to meet her lover. She shrinks from being imperfect before him, withdrawing into the darkness forever.

Some years on in this dreamy epoch, maybe sixty, perhaps two hundred, Lady Murasaki writes in her diary a line that epitomizes feminine beauty in the Heian period: “The moon was so bright that I was embarrassed to be seen and knew not where to hide.”

For her, the beauty of a lady’s face resides most of all in the hair, which in the Japanese case is darkness reified into a waterfall; much of the time Murasaki hides herself behind the ornate fan she bears for that particular purpose, so that her garments define her still more than her face; certain color combinations are elegant, others shockingly incorrect. In the picture scrolls and sometimes at Noh plays I feel almost exhausted by the detail of so many kimonos, their lovelinesses’ intricacies beyond not merely my powers of recall but even my ability to see them entire; occasionally a garment may bear a simple, repetitive geometry, like the one which alternates triangles of beautifully tarnished gold with triangles of dark purple; but more often the effect is to understate any human face above it into a pale oval. This must have been the intention. Here is Murasaki’s description of Lady Dainagon: “Her hair falls just about three inches past her heels and is so luxuriant and kept so beautifully trimmed there is hardly anyone to match her for elegance.” Miya no Naishi: “The contrast between her pale skin and her black hair sets her apart from the rest.”

What is blackness? Ms. Nakamura left white specks in the black hair of her Noh masks, remarking: “If we make it solid black it looks strange.” — To me it was all strange.

In any case, the value set on black hair endures. In the bijin-ga woodcuts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, we find depictions of courtesans whose black hair is studded with ornamental picks. Ichirakutei Eisui’s print of “The Courtesan Karakoto of the Chojiyu House” shows its subject’s heavy bun of hair pierced with pale hairpins like wheelspokes, her hair shaved or at least lighter at the temples. Meanwhile, in the poems of the Manyoshu, or Collection for a Myriad Ages, whose contents go back to the eighth century and before, the stock epithet for a lovely maiden’s hair is “as black as the bowels of a mud snail.” One poem deserves to be quoted at greater length, since it spells out the attributes of loveliness:

Her tresses black as a mud-snail’s bowels,

Scanning into my computer an image of a certain zo-onna mask, then likewise capturing the face of the erotic model Aya Kudo, whose never quite nude form graces every page of the glossy hardcover tribute to her entitled Koi me no rippu, which is to say Heavy Love Lipstick; and rotating her scan nearly forty-five degrees to correct for the fact that in the double-page spread from which I wrested it, the divine Miss Aya was sprawled on her side in a bathing suit, red-lit, with her right hand out before her, palm down like a Sphinx’s paw, while her left vanishes in her rich hair in order to better pillow her diagonally inclined head; next resizing the two scans until their eye-to-mouth distances were approximately the same, I became able to make certain comparisons. Never mind the difference between the ivory complexion of the zo-onna and Miss Aya’s red-and-orange-flushed face; who knows what color the young woman’s face really is?

Each of these fantasy ladies may be said to have what Tanizaki called “a slender, oval face of the classic melon-seed type, the kind of face you see in ukiyoe woodblock prints,” although if they vary with respect to this characteristic, it may be that Aya Kudo possesses what may be nearer to “a face well-rounded in the modern style” (those words were written in 1686). The lips of Aya Kudo are shinier, glossier, wetter and fuller than those of the zo-onna. The width of each mouth is approximately the same. Interestingly, the height from the top of the upper lip to the bottom of the lower is also comparable, but the porn princess’s lips appear considerably puffier and fleshier, in part because the zo-onna’s upper lip narrows in the center by almost half; moreover, Aya Kudo’s lips are parted just enough to show the tiniest glint of two upper teeth, whereas the zo-onna’s lips are open and half-smiling in that meditatively melancholy Noh way, allowing us to see a crescent of pure black emptiness alongside the top of the lower lip, crowned by a curving strip of at least four or five bluish-black upper teeth. So the zo-onna’s lips are narrower; she can open them to breathe, and, of course, to sing, without taking up more space in doing so than the nearly closed lips of Aya Kudo.

Meanwhile, the Noh mask’s distance from lower lip to chin is nearly twice that of Miss Aya’s face.

It is a strange exercise to gaze back and forth between the two visages. The zo-onna’s features are so perfect that by comparison the short chin of Miss Aya seems almost deformed. And the woman was given the ultimate twenty-first-century accolade for her loveliness: we paid her! — But here I remember another juxtaposition I made, between a waka-onna mask and the bound model in JaponiSMe, whose name I do not know; I decided to match these faces against each other because both were turned slightly downward and to the side (although I admit that the S/M model reveals herself in three-quarter profile while we see the mask nearly head on). In this case the longer chin of the Noh mask makes her almost witchlike in comparison to the sweet young girl with the rope around her neck; the smile of the waka-onna is, as H. P. Lovecraft would say, eldritch, whereas the girl is simply human, lovely and sad, a demure sacrificial victim. The waka-onna’s sharply upcurving smile partakes of craft, although as usual her eye-holes gaze at a point between us and her, so that one has no need to feel cautious around her; she cannot even see me; she is engaged with somebody on the other side of the Bridge of Dreams. — So how can I say that a long chin is superior to a short chin? It is not that the waka-onna is less beautiful than the bondage model. And when I turn back to Aya Kudo and the zo-onna, I find myself similarly at sea. Whose chin is most beautifully proportionate? Side by side, each undermines the other; alone, each becomes perfect.

The eyes of Aya Kudo are wide, innocent, little-girlish and slightly surprised. They gaze upon me candidly. Her parted lips add to the impression of trusting youthfulness. She seems to be on the verge of offering herself to me. But she and I both know that we will never meet. Her face, like the zo-onna’s, is but an image.

The zo-onna’s eyes are longer and much narrower than hers. The pupils, which of course are really holes, are not centered as are Miss Aya’s, but drawn in slightly closer to the nose. So how can I imagine that the Noh goddess sees me at all? Like her waka-onna sister, like the makeup artist Yukiko who gazes into my face but not at me as she paints my eyebrows on, she declines to reach me. She smiles, almost, or perhaps not; yes, with perfect concentration she gazes at something between herself and me, something in the black heaven she came from.

The Shinto-derived¹ crescent-shaped indentations between her eyelids and forehead are as nude as a young girl’s vulva, for in approved Heian style she wears her painted black eyebrows (willow-leaves, no doubt) two-thirds of the way up to the parting of her hair, whose inky dullness is much more disciplined than Miss Aya’s luxuriant bangs and those slithery locks which frame her head all around. Indeed, the zo-onna’s face, which unlike Miss Aya’s narrows as it goes upward, is outlined by its three innermost hair-waves, two thin ones within one thick, then comes the darkness of the mask-edge, ready to meet the wig.

In comparison to her rival’s, the porn princess’s eyebrows almost resemble moustaches, so frankly hairy and corporeal do they seem. Poor Miss Aya belongs to my mortal race! (“Her eyebrows look like furry caterpillars, all right…”) Please don’t accuse me of demeaning her; her beauty is comforting, sweet and not in the least eerie. In her various poses she changes bathing suits and backdrops as rapidly as the cyclings of Tokyo’s long narrow vertical brilliant neon signs in the rain, and the colors of the gel lights used to photograph her remind me of the glaring fires of car-eyes smeared on the black pavement, which is as shiny as new rubber boots. Perhaps I’ve even unknowingly seen her in one of Shinjuku’s bright small busy restaurants whose windows are wallpapered with the gilded or jade-shelled windows of skycrapers, white shirts of pedestrians swimming by as the night becomes ever more excitingly foggy, reflections blending with real signs and windows to form mutually translucent facets of a single giant crystal. I rush through the Japanese night, devouring it. Shall I experience the daburu sabisu, the double service? Then, as it gets clammier outside and hotter inside with cooking and the perspiration of human beings, the windows of the restaurants mist up, reducing all external shapes and lights to delightful non-definition. And somewhere in that steamy life, Aya Kudo breathes.

As for the zo-onna, she sleeps inside of a wooden box, and her waking night is perfect blackness, with three pine trees to guide her way across the bridge from the rainbow curtain. Once upon a time, the idealized Heian woman whom she was painted to invoke rushed through her own steamy life. “On the last night of the year,” writes Lady Murasaki, “the ceremony of casting out devils was over very early, so I was resting in my room, blackening my teeth and putting on a light powder…” And on the last night before the next performance, the zo-onna awaits the ceremony of being inhabited by yet another man, a man whose true flower sweetly guides him, like the woman I love who sometimes sits astride me to better control her pleasure; he inhabits her in order to bring her back to life in the manner that he expresses life, so that we may watch and experience the joyousness of our own desire, which he and the zo-onna have understated into metaphysics.

The distance from nostrils to eyes is slightly greater in the young woman than in the zo-onna, but this difference is less conspicuous than the others.

I said that I began by making the eye-to-mouth distances of both female faces the same. If we resize the zo-onna’s head to make it the same size as Miss Aya’s, we immediately discover that the face has moved upward on it. If we align the eyes with Miss Aya’s we find that the mouth and nose are still higher than hers. In other words, the zo-onna’s face actually occupies a smaller proportion of her head than Miss Aya’s. And this difference is most disconcerting of all.²

What then makes a perfect face? In this male investigation of femininity and beauty, the answer must be: the face that is most perfectly female. Psychological research indicates that people asked to choose their favorite out of a set of face photographs tend to choose that which looks young, symmetrical and composite. Moreover, compared to masculine faces, feminine ones are narrow and short. In women the following two distances are longer: From one eye’s outer extremity to the other, and from eyes to eyebrows. (Now we know why women sometimes apply white eye pencil around the edges of each eye in order to “extend the whites.”) Meanwhile, these three distances are shorter: Between the cheekbones, between mouth and eyes, and nose width. — But do such variables help anyone but a mask carver or a casting director? — Moreover, even they fall subject to emendation, subcategorization. The mask maker Hori Yasuemon informs us: “Female masks, whether ko omote, waka-onna, zo-onna, fukai, or yase-onna, are said to require three variants — ‘Yuki’, ‘Tsuki’ and ‘Hana’ ” — which is to say, Snow, Moon and Flower. “In general,” Hori continues, “masks give a strong look when the eyes, nose and mouth are closer to the center, but with ‘Hana’ they are about four millimeters apart from the center, giving it a generous, gentle expression.”

So what makes a woman look womanly? Just as in Tanizaki’s reverie of his mother there was no female body, so in Taliban Afghanistan there was no female face, not in public, at least; and that cool, conscious purveyor of femininity’s theatrical allurements, a prostitute, might flash her red-fingernailed white hands, or wear fancy socks. Femininity is an embellishing act as much as specific concatenation of bone and flesh. Like a Noh mask, a woman’s face alters infinitely and eternally as it moves.

A Noh mask gazes through me with her hollow eyes, and she is so real that I believe in her and love her; accordingly, I want her to see me, but she cannot, not without an old man inside. It is he who makes her alive.

A woman sees me, and kisses me. I refuse to believe that because she is real she is not perfect.

WITHIN THE MASK

Ms. Nakamura Mitsue was the one whose exhibition I’d seen in Yokohama. She had made the zo-onna mask under discussion here, and also the waka-onna. Mr. Umewaka spoke highly of her abilities. As for Mr. Mikata, of his fifty or sixty masks, the oldest of which derived from the late fifteen hundreds, he possessed seven made by her. “Her technique is good,” he said, “although some things can be attacked. But some spirit will start dwelling in it as time goes by, since many actors wear it. Because of that, the colors may change and the mask’s power will increase. That’s why I appreciate the old masks.”

I interviewed her over several years at her studio in Kyoto. Downcurved, her masks often appeared dreamy and distracted like the faces of the dead. When looked at from below, they smiled less. The smile narrowed; the upturned eye-corners turned down, the blankness between the black teeth widened; so the lips curled into a grimace and then as I lowered my gaze the lips went down, too. Very set and sad at the appropriate angle, these young mask-women; and the middle-aged fukai expressed still more perfectly the truism that all of us must die.

Once I asked: “When you’re making the mask, at what point does it come alive?”

“It’s hard to say, but from a certain point it starts to exist.”

“How much individuality can you put into your masks?”

“There are cases when I make a mask and the mask starts to affect me somehow, so I start to follow that something from the mask, rather than doing something to the mask. In other cases I have a clear idea of what I am doing, and I simply obey that. Both approaches can be powerful.”

“Do you feel that there is a real spirit to the mask, or is it simply a tool for the actor?”

“Both can be true. This thing that is just made with wood; I don’t completely believe that there is a spirit in it; but there is something. And of course when it is worn on the stage and the actor is on the stage, the eyes start to be alive.”

“It must have required a certain level of accomplishment on your part for that to occur.”

“I studied for many years, trying to imitate the forms which had been maintained traditionally,³ to deeply understand the traditional standard of beauty. I have done that for many years, so it’s not that long ago that I finally started making masks of my own.”

“How long ago?”

Her elaboration of “not long ago” was in keeping with the manifold slowness of Noh: “I have been making masks for twenty-one years.”

She thought that “a really talented person can learn to make a mask in five to ten years.” It took her about a month to complete one mask. She had tried to use power tools, but they were too noisy. Sometimes she experienced wrist pain from working too hard with her chisels, and back pain from bending over too long.

“Is is difficult for you to say goodbye to the mask?”

“If it’s going to be used on the stage, I’ll be happy,” said Ms. Nakamura. “Last year, somebody from Ireland just passed by and bought a lot, and I felt a little sad.”

“Are there any stories about somebody who fell in love with a mask?”

“I can’t think of any story like that, but I wish that someday someone will fall in love with one of mine.”

“Since you are now so familiar with the standard of beauty for the Noh mask, can you tell me what proportion determines the perfect female face?”

“It’s very hard to say. Of course I cannot indicate any numbers. The standard varies. When I’m making something, that is the most beautiful for me, but when I start making something else, then it’s the most beautiful.”

“Why is there a different standard of beauty of the ukiyo-e face than for Noh faces?”

“Probably, depending on the time, the standard of beauty changes. Noh masks originated six hundred years ago. Even before that, a standard of beauty existed which the masks reflected. Ukiyo-e, on the other hand, is from the Edo period. The standard of beauty in the Edo period, I think it is different…”

I had brought with me a book of Utamaro reproductions, so I pulled it out and we leafed through it together. The mask maker said: “Here the face is long, an oval face, and the eyebrows are rather clear. That is totally different from a Noh mask.”

And she instantly began to sketch:

“The balance of the items on the Utamaro face, it’s just like a normal, ordinary person’s,” she said. “Whereas on a Noh mask, the eyes are somewhat lower, and the mouth and nose; this is like a child. And the eyebrows are here” — Ms. Nakamura pointed upward. “So this balance is totally different. And the reason, my guess is, these eyebrows have some meaning. Why they are so lifted and why the forehead is so large must be that probably in Heian period, their beauty was between eyes and eyebrows.”

“How often do you see a Japanese woman whose face is proportioned like a Noh mask?”

She giggled. “Whenever I’m in a train I always look at the other faces, but I never see such a face! But a person who has a nice forehead, I notice that and think it is like a Noh mask.”

“So if it is not lifelike, why is it so beautiful?”

“Probably it’s not because of that proportion of that balance, but something appealing inside, something that is attractive.”

“And what would that something be?”

“That’s what I’m always wondering, actually,” she said.

A standing robed figure of gold shows her round-cheeked face through the oval window of her ornate golden headdress. Her face, proportionately much wider than any Noh mask, is a golden cube with rounded corners, with long tresses of a darker, perhaps tarnished color. The blackish pupils are alert in her gold eyes. Tarnish or dirt has given her a slight moustache. She upraises one hand and extends the other, seated cross-legged in a spill of concentrically pleated metal skirts above her various lamps, her eyes looking straight at me. First her brilliant golden eyebrow-crescents in that slightly verdigrised face snatch my gaze; then I see more golden sweeps of under-lids, very geometric and distinct, more so than the golden places where light is caught upon her cheeks and chin. She is very far beyond and above me in the temple’s darkness. When I raise my binoculars to her, I find that her face is of stunning beauty. Her golden lips are slightly parted, shining.

On page after page of a fashion magazine, the movie star Kate Bosworth, twenty-five years old, parts her dark pink lips, showing me a sliver of white upper teeth framed by darkness, her lower lip ornamented in each photograph with a segmented stripe of gloss-glow. Her skin is a flawless blend of pinks; I suppose it has been powdered and airbrushed. Her mascara’d gaze beseeches me with the appearance of melancholy or erotic intimacy. Her mouth pretends to say: “Kiss me.” This professional signifier appears on many women in pornographic magazines and in the long slow sequences of romantic films. For some reason, I rarely see it on the faces of strangers in the street.

That knowing, almost half-smiling face of Kannon, which first seems merely watchfully aware of me, then does perhaps offer me lurking gentleness or even pity, metallic pity, what does it project and what does it contain? Kannon is what? How feminine is she? How human is she? Among the thirteen best-loved mandala deities of Esoteric Buddhism we find Amida and his attendant, a certain Kannon, more obscurely known as Avalokiteshvara. Sometimes she is male, often not. Never mind that or even her ancientness in that twice-bygone capital of Nara; how could I kiss those lips of hers? Grown man that I am, I remain small enough to be born from them…

A waka-onna, zo-onna or ko-omote possesses this same inhuman beauty. So does a geisha; so does a maiko; likewise the woman I love. The grace they shower upon me surpasses even my capacity to desire.

But where to start? Who is any woman? In the Tokyo National Museum, a certain cosmetic box depicting a scene from the Noh play “Kikujido” is squarish, with golden flowers on a speckled gold-and-black background — a heavenly zone rendered still more lucent and distant by the lacquer. What is kept inside I will never know.¹ And as I revise this chapter in an airport I look up and see across of me a middle-aged woman with stringy hair, her glasses halfway down her nose as she reads a book beside her husband; who is she? I will never know that, either. A slender, elegant old lady sits down with her legs pressed together and her feet precisely aligned; she begins to operate some flat silver electronic device.

THE NINETY PERCENT GIRL

“Who is a woman?” I inquired of an American woman whom I had never before met — that way the “who” that I “knew” her to be might be less likely to occlude the “who” that she “really was” (thirty-eight, a wedding and portrait photographer, well-muscled, tall, Aryan) — whether she would answer questions about her female self. She was kind, and said that she would. Just as a geisha’s shamisen has three strings, so a person has three beings. I thought to ask Hilary Nichols about each of them.

I began by asking: What is your soul? and she replied by subdividing the entity of which I was thinking into two parts:

“I think our spirit is our life-force. It’s the god-force rather than the beautiful mystery which is life. And the soul is our persona. I think my energy is eternal and will continue and will carry some essence or knowledge. It sort of reforms and becomes a new life. I kind of feel a connection which is not really of this lifetime, something I have no choice in. I feel that we’re working out whatever issues we came into this world with, and if we don’t work it out in this lifetime, it will continue in the next.” (This point of view is not so far from a Noh play’s: Characters who fail to release their loves, griefs, angers and suchlike attachments remain on stage as masked ghosts.)

“My twin sister and I have all the same DNA and upbringing and friends,” Hilary continued, “but we just came into this world with different souls. I feel my soul is my essence which allows me to I feel that I’m very at ease. I think that my soul is an old soul, poetic. I have a grace that’s come through lifetimes, of acceptance. My sister’s a little more anxious.”

“Could you have been a man in a past life?”

“Absolutely.”

“So for you the soul is not gendered.”

“The soul is not gendered, because it’s undefinable life-force which is the great mystery. It’s in the decision of these molecules to maintain shape, to maintain the agreement to be, to retain the life-force. In some source I feel that we can’t really separate that energy from life. I love that there’s a great mystery and I don’t want to figure it out.”

(Recall Zeami: “As long as the character is mysteriously beautiful, whatever is done should be interesting.”)

“Now for the second question,” I said. “Who are you as a person?”

“I am a social butterfly, very outgoing. Friendship is really one of my highest priorities. I am easygoing and fun-loving, but I am also fiercely loyal and definitely community-minded. My lasting philosophy is that I like everyone until they’ve proven themselves otherwise. My sister’s the opposite. I have an optimistic outlook.”

“To what extent does gender influence your personality?”

“I think gender is in the chemical makeup of girl versus boy. I am happy to be a girl and take that on. My nephew is such a little ball-throwing kind of boy, and my niece is such a little girlie-girl, and I love that. But I feel like at my age I was almost unfairly influenced by being a girl. I really admire women who are so kickass at gender roles. I allowed myself to get off easy because I was a girl. I didn’t have to apply smarts to get by, because I was just acceptable and sociable and cute. I do really value the ten percent that’s genderless, but I am ninety percent girl. I am not a natural athlete, although I’ve rock climbed and skied. I would enjoy an opportunity to be a boy and since I live in San Francisco, I don’t think I’d have to change my persona all that much. The boy I love is a very sensitive man. I could date girls. That’s always fun! I think I could be a boy and still be me. I do play kind of a mother role in my community. I don’t know if that would have to be regendered. I guess I could be a Papa. I think that element of nurturing is natural for me.

“I feel at a disadvantage as a woman, because society encourages me to be a giver instead of a receiver. My Mom was definitely a fifties woman.² But then again, my older sister who’s ten years older than I, is a breadwinner and her husband is a stay-at-home man. So I can’t really say it’s strictly society or strictly family. And I am single and have always taken care of myself. And I wouldn’t expect anyone to do that for me. I’m not saying I would turn it down necessarily but I want to feel that I can stand on my own two feet regardless. As far as the boy I love is concerned, I think that I have to prove my independence every day, and yet I really love interdependence and I want him and me to be there for each other. If I had gotten married younger, I would not have that feeling. But as a single woman I don’t want to be considered that desperate, shopping for a man. I think it’s more the way I appear to other women that concerns me.”

One quality which marked Hilary as an early-twenty-first-century American woman was her gender-anger. When I asked her to compare male and female behavior, her descriptions of the former were invariably critical. It was not that she herself was angry; in fact she was a very sweet person. I asked her if she could think of any positive aspects of the male gender, and she replied: “We all have brothers. We all have fathers who are family members. I do think that testosterone does inform the violence in this world, but I don’t have an animosity toward the men in this world. The nurturing of men has been unfair in that they seek solace in violence and power instead of in art and soul.”

She paused and added: “But I trust the men in my world to be humans just like me — not to say that men don’t frustrate me.”

This assertion of support for the qualities of my sex seemed to me lukewarm, at least in comparison to the support I would have expressed for femininity; and I liked her and wanted there to be symmetry between us, so a few moments later I rephrased the question and asked it again, as well as I could without actually leading or forcing her.

“Well,” said Hilary, “there’s a fearlessness, a natural inclination to be more active and athletic, also more of an encouragement to be self-sufficient and self-reliant.”

But in her next breath the anger came out again, in however a mild and covert a form, when she said: “And I do think there’s kind of a birthright to being a male, that you inherit the world, but that’s societal, and I don’t think that’s true of all males, just of white males.”

She then went on in a more conciliatory fashion: “I think there’s nothing more admirable or enviable than being like a rock star, just having that confidence of thinking you can be a surfer, skier, ladykiller, just have it all. But I do think there are women like that, too, who have it all, just not as many. But I think there are great advantages to being a woman. I traveled alone for ten months and I did take advantage; it was easier for people to offer generosity or comfort to me. People weren’t scared of me, so they’d take me in. And they did take me in, all across the world. On the dating front, I think that men are definitely more conflicted around the concept of pairing up, because they definitely do feel a prowess around the more the merrier, and they feel encouraged to seek that power and see it as a weakness to choose loyalty over quantity. I think that men have more of an intrinsic fear about coupling than I do. Maybe it’s a fear of intimacy that they mask by being out on the town. I pinpoint it perhaps to separation from Mother. I’m thinking of a certain male friend who epitomizes the idea of a loner getting laid. I think that men can kind of separate the sexual urge from the emotional, and women can’t.”

Another of Hilary’s American qualitites: She believed that relationships can and should be negotiated. — “I think that basically men and women have to agree,” she said. “You have to be comfortable with the fact that you’re mutually fulfilled, or nearly. You just have to come to the relationship with an agreement about money, sex, and alcohol or drugs.”

She had been in one three-year relationship which she described as follows:

“We didn’t have a very good sex life but we had an okay love life. The less sex we had, the less we needed. We were very affectionate and cuddly and sweet. But we had different hours.”

“To what extent do you think that desire differences in a relationship are the simple result of the fact that any two people are different, and to what extent do you see them as deriving from some sort of difference or even incompatibility between man and woman?”

“I thought that living with these lesbian girls was going to be, what a joy not to deal with that! — but they had the exact same fits and jealousies, so a lot of it is just specific to two unique people! But I do think that part of the joy in a male-female relationship is crossing the abyss.”

That abyss, and the other on its far side, as haunting as a pagoda’s shape in the night, how can I hope to describe them? Crossing changes the crosser unforeseeably, as we read even in the ancient epic of Gilgamesh, when the beasts of the desert reject the wild man as soon as he has taken the harlot in his arms and murmured love to her; “now you have become like a god.” Later on, when this tamed hero lies in agony on his deathbed, we learn that it was not the sexual act in and of itself which altered him, for in the desert mountains he had had a wife. The cause must therefore be the harlot’s beauty and grace.

“I think that men are often pretty comfortable with a double standard,” she went on. “They can have a wandering eye but can feel insulted if their woman is found attractive by another man. I also just feel sorry for them. There is a societal influence that they have to know their power to be accepted, that they have to prove themselves professionally, and it really is depressing for a man to feel that he doesn’t have anything to show for himself, whereas a woman can simply be.”

Now came my final question: “Who or what are you as a female body?”

Hilary had said that she felt at a disadvantage because society encouraged her to be a giver instead of a receiver. But from an anatomical point of view, she was a receiver. I’ve often wondered to what extent the penetration of a woman, with its associated rhythm, force and duration, which in so many positions she can control only indirectly, through communication with the man, affects the way she thinks and feels. Obviously the woman can ride the man and control almost the entire experience of copulation in that way, but the fact remains that a flaccid penis is a greater barrier to intercourse than a dry vagina, which must be one reason why rape is more often committed by men against women than the reverse. Mouths, tongues, hands, buttocks and other pleasure-accessories possessed by both sexes can certainly take on their own primacy in an act of lovemaking; all the same, the core of the heterosexual coupling experience is the interaction of the complementary genitalia.

Hilary said: “I think that women can be okay with that controlling part, just by doing more of the moving, but women have always had to be okay with that, and when you’re not in synch with it, it can be very offputting. I’ve said that women are taught to be acquiescent, and I do think that there is gender role-playing in bed. Just mentally there is a kind of an external persona that you invest in. My best relationships have been pretty well matched and equal. I think I’ve been pretty much the initiator. I do think that having a certain amount of sexual persona, letting those elements of self to come out, adds to the enthusiasm, even if they’re stereotyped and even if people wouldn’t want to necessarily talk about them out of bed.”

“To what extent do you think that the fact that your body gets penetrated defines you personally?”

“I definitely think that it has a huge impact. Being a receiver, taking someone into a very sacred place and in the most intimate position, you do feel that there has to be trust. You do feel that you’ve given so much that you expect gratitude.”

I said to Hilary that there often seemed to be miscommunication between the sexes over this matter of gratitude. Some men I know have expressed bitterness to me that after a sexual act in which both they and the women concerned achieve orgasm, the women seem to feel that the men should feel indebted to them.

“I do feel that women give so much to let a man inside,” said Hilary. “I do grant that women can be less giving than they should be; they can be passive. And they could be more grateful themselves. I can be. But I do feel, the first time especially, that it’s so sacred.”

“And when would you say that the man’s gratitude becomes less of an issue for the woman?”

“I imagine that the comfort level determines it. The women need to create the rhythm so it won’t be as if they’re vulnerable to the man’s dominance.”

“Since your female body affects who you are, can you imagine yourself as a ninety-year-old woman and tell me how your femininity will express itself then?”

“I do think that a very big sense of self for me is recognizing my attraction. And I live in a very social scene, so it’s all about exchanging attractiveness and being recognized. I know that that goes away. So what will go away? I definitely want to make a contribution and feel that I am appreciated by what I can offer: to support people emotionally and every other way. I’m not really involved in volunteer efforts these days, but I would like to seek that out and give some kindness. That would be a critical part of still feeling useful. One thing comforts me: I think there are different ways when we are in touch with our sensuality, and not just through sexuality itself. I’m not a painter but I do feel that a visual art is some kind of way to do it. Even driving here today, it’s such a wonderful feeling; the soft wind on my hand was just kind of silky. I wanted to be taking pictures of the light and sunflowers on Highway 80. It was almost a sexual feeling.”

And, speaking of visual art, Hilary showed me some of her portraits; I especially remember the gaze of the young mother Tirza, calmly loving and knowing Hilary’s gaze as she lies naked in the bed, breasts and drawn up knees, long dark hair; I am made happy by that calm smile, while the baby (whose name is Lakesh) gazes through us into heaven. There is something here, the woman gazing at another woman, at femininity itself, which lies eternally beyond me, which I can love and long for while knowing that I will never live it; this may be what Hilary means by the attraction of crossing the abyss.

GENDERLESSNESS, DILIGENCE, PERIODS

I next asked a bespectacled, middle-aged Japanese professional woman the same questions that I had asked Hilary Nichols. Sachiko (an alias) had never been athletic. She did not consider herself graceful or pretty. Year after year she said to me: “When I look into the mirror nowadays, I feel so disappointed.” (“I think American woman is more confident about the body,” commented a Japanese-American lady when she heard.)

“What is your soul?” I began.

“I’d like to think that it is gender-neutral, but I am not objectively sure.”

“Who are you as a person?”

Her reply was typically, self-deprecatingly Japanese, at least for her generation: “I think I’m rather diligent, sometimes selfish. In a way, I’m lazy. I was brought up to be diligent, so it’s part of myself, but if I don’t have any deadline, then I won’t work very hard. Fundamentally I’m not diligent.”

So far, this, too, sounded quite gender-neutral.

“Probably I’m not one of the average women,” she continued. “I’m more concerned about discrimination against women. Other women are not concerned about that, but my femininity is partly reflected in that.”

In other words, she perceived her femininity ideologically; she interpreted her womanliness on a class basis.

When I asked the third question, “Who or what are you as a female body?”, her answer was very different from Hilary’s:

“Periods,” she answered at once. “I always hated them. Giving birth, that experience was good, because thanks to it, I became able to think about other children. When I was young, I did not like little kids. I thought they were noisy and so on. Only after I had my own baby I could be nicer, kinder, to them.”

“What about erotic experiences?”

“I have no complaint. At least I can feel good many more different ways than a man can when he ejaculates. The way I feel about sex, it depends on the character of the man.”

I asked her about the effects of living in a more penetrable body than a man, and the utilitarianism of her response exceeded Hilary’s: “Actually, one of my friends used to tell me just that, that after all, men are superior, because when you make love, men are on top. When I was with X, I felt that way. When I am with Y, I never feel that way. When I am with Y, I feel equal to the man.”

She said nothing about grace, or attractiveness. Her femininity seemed to be a mix of ideology and biology. This person, who possesses her own discreet silver-haired elegance, described herself as if her female sexual characteristics were accidental.

Of course, some of this must be ascribed to Japanese modesty and understatement. She frequently expressed her gender through the Japanese housewife’s conditioned reflex of tidying and cleaning, which had grown so deep-seated that she was scarcely aware of it. And here it is worth inserting that the Japanese-American woman whom I have quoted (“American woman is more confident about the body”) perceived personality as a much more mutable quantity than did Sachiko or I. In fact, the Japanese-American woman said: “Gender personality is different. There is a social expectation for man and for woman. So when they are growing up they acquire some personality” — for instance, the conditioned reflex of the Japanese housewife. She decidedly believed that personality could alter over time. All the same, she was willing to categorize: “General female personality is emotional and easy to get hurt. General male personality is more rational because in the cases they encounter, emotion is not involved. When they decide something, they can be more rational. When women decide something, they try to be rational but cannot.”

Sachiko was perhaps more rational than I, but no less inclined to be hurt, which sometimes occurred as silently as when the rainbow curtain ascends to admit the shite onto the bridge to our world.

Could I say I understood her? What would it require to know her? How many allusions, antecedents, texts would it take? If she came with me to Kasuga Shrine, which gold clouds and spiderwebs would lead me to whatever lay behind her mask as she stood smiling politely at me on that mossy path of stone lanterns where Lady Nijo once walked? To whom and what does a person refer? — To her parents, of course, and her lovers and children, but then? To the idea of the Emperor, as in Mishima’s case? — Certainly not in her case. (But before atomic persuasion brought about the Japanese surrender, Sachiko’s mother had believed that the Emperor did not urinate. He was a god.) To the physical necessities of breasts, periods and menopause? To Heian reverberations? Sachiko was quite good at naming and placing ancient poems. What is a woman to me? What can she be, but other?

THE BYZANTINE

Marina Vulicévic was a reporter in Beograd. She had huge dark eyes. We met several times. She and I both felt at ease being open with one another, and when I asked her those three questions she was generous enough to describe her three beings to me.

“Who are you as a soul?”

“I agree with Plato: Our soul comes from the unknown place, the clean place. Maybe before, you are in a very nice huge place and then God comes out and shows Himself. And then that soul reaches for the future or for a certain person. I believe in eternal life, because it would be stupid if this were the only life. In my feeling, the soul lacks all gender, all it needs is to love and be loved, and to swallow love — but not just love made of sex, which is material. — And there is something inside the soul which neeeds to go out… Maybe I have an equal quantity of female and male inside of me.

“I think about my soul only in relation to someone else,” the Serbian woman continued. “When you feel very lonely and sad, people can always hurt you. And yet there is something I need to believe is eternal. Now that my parents are dead, I need to be with them sometimes. I would give my life just to be with them for a few minutes. There is one moment in the day when you feel so free and clean and fresh that you can forgive even your own killer. This happens maybe when you hear a certain kind of music, or when you are alone in church. Before, I went every Sunday. Now I go only when there is a holiday. When I feel especially alone I go to the icons and feel comforted. I have one from Jerusalem: Saint Marija.

“I am a Byzantine. I love, and I suffer for it. You are a Western type. You love just for your own satisfaction. We are something of sad persons, because of our own Byzantine tradition. We are very emotional, very sensitive.”

“Who are you as a person?”

“I’m still a little girl inside, afraid she will be left alone, rejected. One time I was travelling with my parents, and there was only one seat in the train compartment, so they left me with perfect strangers. All through the voyage I was afraid that they would leave me. Sometimes I feel like that; I feel that I’m going to be alone. At home I still have my toys and my brother’s toys, his little automobiles, and I still keep them. I sometimes feel that it’s better that my brother and me should stay kids, without problem. The other part of me wants to have a husband and a child, but I’m also afraid. I want something but I’m afraid of wanting something.”

“Who are you as a female body?”

“When I was with my boyfriend G., he told me he felt like a real man with me, and in my body, my female body, when he would say animal female, you are a real female, I would feel very female. He bought me some pantyhose and wanted me to wear them. I didn’t mind it; it felt nice. I liked to please him in different ways. Sometimes he wanted me to bathe him. I liked to prepare a meal for him. It felt nice to be to him as a body.

“Most of the time I feel good about my body. When I was a little girl I went for ballet lessons. I like that feeling of working out, of calm, of drifting away, a nice feeling after the pain. Sometimes in life I feel a need to make something of a problem, and when I solve it I feel the same as after taking off tight shoes. I feel relaxed and in ecstasy.”

“Why do you wear tight shoes?”

“I hate wearing them, because if you stand a lot, they start to hurt you. But the only nice thing is that sometimes I wear those high heeled shoes; I feel I should have them because I want to be noticed. What I especially liked when I was with G., he had special white slippers for me and I wore those with his white socks. I also wore his T-shirt to sleep.”

So who was Marina? And if I had seen her step into her tight shoes, would I have felt as I did when watching Mr. Umewaka gazing at his masked face in the mirror room of Yasukuni Shrine? Who was he as a soul, and who was I? If I could discern Marina’s soul in isolation, would I know her to be a woman, or would I conclude, as she, Hilary and Sachiko all had, that the soul is ungendered? Did Mr. Umewaka’s soul alter when he put on a waka-onna mask? Whenever I considered my soul, I imagined something shy, clean, young, pertaining to a small boy. I had accordingly expected the three women to have girl-souls, especially since I believed the abyss to be exactly as Hilary had formulated it. Its existence used to exasperate me. Now I found that the possibility of its nonexistence unsettled me.

How to cross the abyss, if it does exist? Can we even describe what we see, much less what to look for? Just as one can be moved by the grace of “Kiyotsune” without necessarily possessing a substantial conscious understanding of Noh’s gestural and thematic vocabulary, so one can be conquered by a woman’s face and form, yet fail to articulate just what makes her beautiful.

Artists try to do so nonetheless. Here is one of Kawabata’s many expositions of qualities, from Beauty and Sadness: “Some Japanese women have fair skin glowing with femininity, perhaps even finer and more lustrous than the faintly pink glowing skin of young girls in the West. And the nipples of some Japanese girls are an incomparably delicate shade of pink.” In Snow Country the word most frequently employed in praise of the heroine, a hot springs geisha named Komako, is “clean.” “The high, thin nose was a little lonely… but the bud of her lips opened and closed smoothly, like a beautiful little circle of leeches… With her skin like white porcelain coated over a faint pink, and her throat still girlish… the impression she gave was above all one of cleanliness, not quite one of real beauty.” And yet of course she is beautiful. Enervated though he is, the protagonist remains obsessed with her. “The smooth lips seemed to reflect back a dancing light… Her eyes, moist and shining, made her look like a very young girl,” and her skin reminds him of “the newness of a freshly peeled onion or perhaps a lily bulb… More than anything, it was clean.” “In the moonlight the fine geishalike skin took on the luster of a sea shell.” Finally and most relevantly to our concerns, we read that in starlight “Komako’s face floated up like an old mask. It was strange that even in the mask there should be the scent of the woman.”

This dancing light, the clean skin, etcetera, what precisely makes them alluring? Inspection may promise to elucidate this, but closer inspection may keep that promise only in the way that Mr. Umewaka’s Edo-era Noh kimonos resolve into real golden scales and soft multicolored threads, all the while giving off a smell of dead men’s sweat. Where is the scent of the woman here?

American fashion magazines from my own time present beauty in some of the same ways as does Kawabata. Most revealing are the advertisements, which concretize the beautiful in order to sell it. Very often they claim to improve a woman’s skin, making it soft, smooth, elastic, moist, taut, “wide awake,” young and luminous. They do so in pseudomedical or magically chemical ways, hydrating, nourishing, mineralizing, concealing within their measured statistical language of benefit (within the first six weeks, seventy percent of our customers report lightening of the dark pouches beneath their eyes) some hope that beauty can be saved from the ageing which brings it such terror. Indeed, much of the discourse of these magazines has to do with fear of imperfection. (We know what the waki priest would say about that.) Perfection, at least as seen in the skin cream and lingerie ads, equals a long sweep of unblemished skin. Not long after A.D. 1169, Chrétien de Troyes made his lovelorn hero report that “from the hollow / Of her throat to the top of her bodice / I spy a trifle of uncovered / Breast, more white than snow.” Thus the beautiful Sordamour. And in a twenty-first-century perfume advertisement I see the face of Britney Spears, in whom everything is paled down, slightly frosted, so that her blonde hair resembles white gold;¹ her pale coral lips freeze in a faint and steady smile; and her complexion’s superficial monochromatism of pinkish-white is actually, like the old ivory of a Noh mask in torchlight, a family of tints and shades whose subtle variations almost escape the gaze; and so it is with her skin — quite a lot of skin; we see most of her, down to the ring in her belly button. The Noh mask gleams a trifle more glossily, the model’s, a bit more moistly. Much of American fashion is the constant presentation of moist pinkness. A face’s shining smoothness becomes naked or nude, one of a piece with the exposed thighs, throat, hairless armpits, all of which appear nearly the same color upon a given model’s body.

And so one might get the impression from these magazines that the preeminently feminine attribute, aside from primary and secondary sexual characteristics, is the skin. But while that might have been so even for Kawabata, we remember that for Lady Murasaki and the Manyoshu, the essence was long black hair. (Meanwhile, Yeats wrote in his poem to Anne Gregory that only God could love her for herself and not for her yellow hair.) And until now I have failed to mention the collarbone, which is “arguably one of the most feminine parts of the body.” Another magazine informs me that “high cheekbones are considered desirable and indicative of high levels of estrogen necessary for procreation.” The thirteenth-century Sufi poet Saadi epitomizes female charm by means of “talons dyed with the blood of lovers, fingertips colored red. Such beauty of face and form would distract the lover from unlawful acts…” And in his Baiae, the Renaissance poet Giovanni Giovano Pontano (who is hardly the only such exponent) singles out from all feminine charms breasts, eyes, hair and mouth — to be specific, the shining breasts of Hermione, which stirred the aged poet into youthful craziness; the dazzling breasts of Lucilla; the eyes of Deianira, and above all of Focilla; the flowing locks of Focilla, the aromatic hair of Theonilla; the honeyed lips of Constantia, Focilla’s aggressive mouth, Neera’s and Batilla’s delicious breath. Of all these manifestations (and, by the way, Pontano neglects the collarbone), only the breasts are particularly female in their natural state. Significant differences in shape and proportion obviously do exist in women’s bodies: the belly curves more and is relatively longer, the back arches, the buttocks protrude; the legs are less knobby; the waist is absolutely narrower and the hips absolutely broader, which combination creates the so-called “feminine A-line,” the feet shorter and narrower. But Pontano dwells on none of these things. Nor does Kawabata. What then can be said about the female attributes of greatest allure to their celebrants? These must partake of some artificial aspect, presumably the aspect of performance. Eyes are shadowed with makeup; hair is grown long, lips rouged, etcetera. Femininity thus becomes not only a noun but a verb. This verb may be grace.

Another way of making the same point is that gender partakes both of anatomy and accomplishment. One feminist scholar of Meiji- and post-Meiji-era Japanese theater describes that time as the replacement by the former, literally embodied by actresses, of the onnagatas, the female impersonators of Kabuki. Accomplishment replaced anatomy. — It must be the case that between those two quantities lies a feeling: the sensation of such feminine accoutrements as earrings, which swing and tingle with delicious weight against the neck; smooth and even silky undergarments; necklaces and bracelets, geishas’ precious hairpieces, etcetera. Then there are femininity’s tools, for instance cosmetics and hairbrushes. (For the ancient Greeks, we are told, a mirror’s “mere outline, next to that of a distaff, suffices to conjure up a specifically female environment.” In Niger, a young man of the Wodabe nomads employs yellow skin powder, black kohl for his eyelids and lips, and a white stripe on his nose. If he is pretty enough, a woman will want him; he will have become a distant version of her. In either case, and in many others, the instrumentality of such items cannot be overlooked. As we read in the Gotagovinda of Jayadeva: “She is sumptuously arrayed in ornaments for the war of love.”) These objects, some of which keep a woman constant company against her very skin, may soothingly reinforce her sense of her female self.² Moreover, a woman puts on a pearl necklace, the recent gift of a sweetheart, and feels, perhaps, more beautiful, confident, loved and worthy of love. And because they are accessories rather than body parts, an onnagata or a Noh actor may well obtain benefits from them equivalent to what they offer someone born with breasts and a vulva. An old lady named Sharon Morgan, who once upon a time was anatomically male, remembered that the sight of her mother getting tightly laced into her corset by a neighbor lady inspired the thought: “That’s for me!” After the thought came experiments, and eventually a transgender operation. In other words, it seems to have been the props that commenced her female performance, which became an identity.

But who am I to say that it must have happened in this way? Another young boy experienced an inexplicable “well-being” when he dressed up in his sister’s clothes; when he tried to stop, he felt physically ill. As his body matured, he found himself more hairless and his nipples more “extensive” than other young men. Many years later he too underwent the operation.

Farther along that continuum, a case study in Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis (1886) quotes a patient who experiences “the penis as clitoris, the urethra as urethra and vaginal orifice, which always feels a little wet, even when it is actually dry… in short, I always feel the vulva.” This is no performance, but a state of being. For a biological man, the result is agony pure and simple.

What is feminine? Who are you? I cannot even promise that my understanding of who I am will never change. If I tell you, “a woman is this,” I may through luck, thoughtfulness and experience approach describing something that many women in this epoch are; but then what? I might believe that Mr. Umewaka’s bouts of womanhood do or do not resemble Sharon Morgan’s experience, or the porn model Aya Kudo’s, but to delineate the lives of others in any insistent way is to produce offensive absurdities comparable to the following (Janice Raymond, 1979): “All transsexuals rape women’s bodies by reducing the real female form to an artifact, appropriating this body for themselves. However, the transsexually constructed lesbian feminist violates women’s sexuality and spirit as well.” — Gender varies over time and place. There is no all.

(What is a woman? She is a Noh mask with rectangular eye openings. Male masks’ eye-holes are a trifle curved, and demon-masks’ utterly round. Now the question is settled!)

As I write this book, biological research suggests that male brains are more prone to systematize, female ones to empathize. “They are not mystical processes,” writes a scientist, “but are grounded in our neurophysiology.” But then how should an onnagata’s accomplishment be characterized? — As a mix of empathy (projection) and rehearsed procedure, it would seem. — Meanwhile the performances of Noh actors and geishas, as we have already begun to see, are more procedural, more memorized, less projected. And some women are far less empathetic than others. Who am I to rule out any construction of self? Please raise your sake cup in honor of mystical processes.

Saadi again: “A pretty face and dresses of brocade, sandals, aloes, colors, perfumes and passing fancies; these are all the ornaments of a woman.” Thus femininity: appearance, attributes and performance all together. Hence femininity’s metonym (if you don’t care for the black bowels of the mud snail): A painted fan, which is beautiful in and of itself, which belongs to a dancer, and expresses deliberate grace in motion.

The woman who had once been the little boy dressing furtively in his sister’s clothes (she was nearing the end of her thirties now) asked herself what features or proportions made a face feminine, and could not answer. All she could say was that gender, for a transsexual at least, must be the longing of the mind to be embodied and thereby recognized.

How can the mind succeed in that? Yes, there is an operation; there are pills and props (and a psychoanalyst rather meanspiritedly reminds us that “the transsexual does not exist without the surgeon and the endocrinologist”); there is identity itself;³ the rest is performance — and for all humans who project an image of “who they are” (in other words, of who they truly want to be — someone slightly more perfect, attractive, etcetera), performance is a quotidian fact. Hence the anxious preoccupation of these American women’s magazines with covering the dark circles beneath the eyes, lifting sunken pouches to make skin “flawless,” hiding freckles, shaving armpits, preventing the audience from seeing past the mask of performance. If one’s figure is imperfect, wear an embellished collar to direct attention upward to the face. Employ the lipstick slightly past the border of the lower lip to make it appear fuller; in Tokyo, the makeup artist Yukiko does this when she is feminizing her cross-dressing clients. High heels will help either sex project the buttocks in female protrusions. In California, a femininity coach advises her “new girls” to smile and hide their large mannish hands behind their backs when they walk. A helpful T-girl suggests that novices go out in public “with a man, preferably one whom you do not tower over, because his presence validates you as a woman.” — Back to the magazines for biological women: A high-waisted skirt flatters the hips. Cream on the lashes will make them shine. Use an eyebrow stencil because “anything around the eye that can make it look brighter and make you look more awake is amazing!” Play up the eyes or the mouth but not both. And of course beauty emulates celebrity. “You have to treat your hair like it’s a baby… It looks super strong but it’s not. It’s an illusion.” Perhaps this is merely a gentler form of the rigorously disciplined imitation through which apprentice geishas and Noh actors learn from their teachers how grace ought to be stylized. In the advertisements, beauty is invited to buy things through which to express and improve itself. After all, costume comprises a significant aspect of performance. And so a blonde actress in a strapless pearly gown gazes out at us with the calm of a goddess. Her breasts are supported and mostly covered, but the gown offers us some décolletage. The fabric falls away from her in crisply elegant folds. Don’t tell me that this moment, this configuration, is not a performance.

Here I disagree with Zeami (or perhaps misunderstand him), when he says that if a woman “connives” to beautify herself “and expends effort to manifest Grace, her actions will be quite ineffective,” since “an actual woman living in the world has no thought of imitating a woman.”

Each of us is an audience of her own performance. “Beautiful nails are a constant reminder of the feminine you,” advises Miss Vera’s Cross-Dress for Success. For Miss Vera, femininity is its own reward, and the main person to be reminded by the nails is their wearer.⁴ Identity’s performance partakes as much of inwardness as a marble Aphrodite’s pupil-less gaze.

But the male gaze deserves its own moment of consideration. Most of the observations and opinions you are reading in these pages were made through just that lens. A Noh play takes place for its spectators, and the performance of femininity, while it does of course to a considerable degree exist in and for itself, like the stirring of a man’s penis when he lies beside a woman to whom he is attracted, seeks its appreciators. (Kanze Hisao: “It is highly detrimental to a mask to be treated like a piece of antique art, to be shut up in a box or shown only in a glass case. It is only on the stage that it continues to maintain its vitality.”) Why else would a woman put on lipstick before going out into a public composed mostly of strangers? Women sometimes tell me that they dress not for men but for other women, but when I consider the gender composition of the human race, I wonder if this might be merely half true. Whether or not somebody pays any attention to me as we stand in rush hour in a subway car, it remains my inclination and privilege to appreciate her. There are men whose appreciations are limited to recognitions of breasts, buttocks, thighs; and in a strip club the point less often tends to be the revelation of some individual beauty than the display of that general quality, nudity of the female body in a state as near as may be legal to nubility. Proust, whose characterization of love is frequently pathetic, introduces the subject with the cynical assertion that when one is young one mistakes for the bounteous grace of a specific sweetheart simple erotic satisfaction, the objects of our desire being “the interchangeable instruments of a pleasure that is always the same.” But the accusation, so often leveled at men in my time and place, of objectification, could be applied to all of us, and therefore seems no more inherently “bad” than the function of the anal sphincter. The gaze can praise grace in the way that this book hopes to do, by memorializing it. I am getting old now, and the women of my age who were beautiful in their first flower are ageing, too. Mr. Kanze is gone; Mr. Umewaka has performed for sixty years. I cannot give grace as they have, but I can reflect and perhaps preserve a trifle of it.

A man on the street who shouts menacingly admiring obscenities at women, a theater-goer, an uxorious fellow who buys a pair of dress shoes for his wife, an ancient Egyptian poet who likens his sweetheart’s breasts to mandrakes and her hair to a willow-snare in which his hands have been caught are all four, like it or not, relatives — my relatives. Just as the golden hairpicks of bygone Japanese courtesans may to my eyes resemble the haloes of Byzantine saints, so any number of specifically feminine expressions may be misperceived by their audience. I readily admit that before I began this book, I had no idea of the difference between mascara and blush. Thus for most of my life my appreciation of women’s made-up faces was as ignorant as my pleasure in Noh plays: I could be gratified by an effect without being able to say what had caused it, or even if what I saw was “natural.” What is grace? We men may not know. Sometimes our gazes’ desire to be temporarily completed by the Other becomes as frantic as the sharp flakes twisting down between the platforms of Niigata station, changeably pitting the silver trains as if with corrosion. The ice cream machine stands empty beside the cigarette machine; the conductor walks the platform, peering into every window. A family in hooded parkas wanders along the edge of the train in bewilderment. In an office which resembles a phone booth there is a window through which another conductor can be seen standing at attention. A young woman enters my traincar, brushing snow from her rich brown hair. I see her; she is beautiful; I feel happy.

In Kanazawa I hear the rain on the square grey paving-stones, and within many walls of shingle and latticework, some glowing yellow, some glowing blue, many dark, there is a quiet teahouse whose ochaya-san sits beside me, Fukutaro-san smiles sweetly over her shamisen, tuning it while the geisha Masami-san bows on the tatami, her head toward me, and I wait until Masami-san has commenced to very slowly flip her sleeve in time to the thrilling of Fukutaro’s lovely voice. I am striving to see; this dance, which connotes the New Year and is called “Fresh Water,” is for me and no matter how many times she performs it will never be repeated. Whatever I miss comprises my failure to her. And Masami is kneeling, her hands clasped together on the floor. Slowly she opens the fan, lifting it to her lips; I suppose it must be in that moment a sake cup. Her snowy face is paler still by contrast with the shining black wig. Her expression is much more mobile than an Inoue School geisha’s.

I hear the sharp snap of her fan. Fukutaro is staring down at her music, singing, the fan has frozen over the geisha’s head; Masami bows, and it is over. I loved what I saw, but already I have begun to forget. If I last out many more winters and summers upon this floating world, and if I remain at least as prosperous as a sake merchant, then perhaps, if I come to Masami over and over, I will someday succeed in adoring her with the gaze her grace deserves.

In a certain bar in Los Angeles a beautiful woman stands on the chessboard-tiled floor just outside the entrance to the women’s room (about which my companion, who was born with a vagina, remarks with smiling innocence: “I wonder why the toilet seat is always up?”). The beautiful woman shines through her smooth collarbone and pale white thighs. Her smooth new breasts fill her black top to the best measure of abundance. Her tartan skirt charmingly infantilizes her chubby knees. Her beauty is a shock. Smilingly she offers her lips to be kissed. I feel happy to remember her here.

Zeami’s notion that the spectators arrive at a performance in a given mood based on external conditions — for instance, the degree of heat and darkness — surely applies to the preexisting factors of male desire; and a woman who seeks to best exploit her audience might as well know what those are. A cherry blossom seems “appropriate to a highly cultivated audience.” Beauty with provenance, he writes, such as a shrine associated with a specific poem, makes a greater impression than beauty without. Provenance depends on the audience’s lives, the man’s proclivities; and the cunning performer knows these. How could this chapter’s attempt to generalize about grace fail to be an objectification? And what are props for, but to assist in objectification? Sharon Morgan employed her corsets to help herself and perhaps others believe that she could be categorized in a certain way (as female). But she remained Sharon Morgan, not some anonymous upholder of womanliness. And so it seems to me that the male gaze, which benefits so much from feminine grace, can increase its own pleasure, and nourish each bearer of grace with its respect, first by recognizing category, as does Pontano when he draws our attention to particular body parts of the women whom his poems adore — and the rare Noh spectator who can distinguish a zo-onna mask from a ko-omote acts likewise — then by paying homage to uniqueness.

Memorializing the poet Kanoko Okamoto, the great woodblock artist Munakata took up his chisel and “express[ed] his joy at being able to openly take up female verses, thanks to the arrival of the age of ‘freedom of expression.’ He commented that he created this piece by purposely using a ‘U-shaped gouge,’ perhaps in order to express the roundness and softness of the female’s body.”

What is a woman to me? The answer must be: A projection. Who is projecting, and for what reason, I cannot necessarily know from the performance itself. Mr. Umewaka and Mr. Mikata do not when playing their feminine roles feel themselves to be women; they strive, as I so often in my wonderment repeat, to be nothing; yet when they enact women I see them as women. Meanwhile the psyche within a male body which mechanically performs itself as such may see itself as female. One eloquently canny researcher of such matters concludes that femininity may be defined as “the possession of either a vagina that nature made or a vagina that should have been there all along, i.e.; the legitimate possession.” The presence or absence of this emblem remains conjectural to any stranger; yet its enactment, and the stranger’s response to it, will confirm the performer, or not. The performance of gender is received by an audience whose members then react. Were the audience unnecessary, the mask would remain safe and unmarred in her dark box.

“Let the glow of Radha’s breasts endure!” begs a twelfth-century Indian poem. Alas, a young woman’s beauty resembles a single performance of a Noh play. It would be unkind and untrue to equate that with the “false flower” of the young Noh actor who portrays her. Basho, the great haiku poet, writes that “the old-lady cherry / is blossoming, a remembrance / of years ago.” I certainly believe that the beauty of the true flower, surpassing mere remembrance, can remain in an ancient woman. In fact, it can bloom all the more, nourished by what it has already been. I think of Mr. Kanze playing Komachi near the end of his life; in a play in which almost nothing happens; in which the weary old lady scarcely moves; in which the priests sadly ask themselves: “Is this Komachi that once was a bright flower?”⁵ Played by Mr. Kanze, she still is. When I remember that performance now, I am moved almost to tears.

In the Noh play “Aoi-no-Ue,” a witch or medium summons Lady Rokujo’s spirit. First we see a noblewoman in a deigan mask. Her face is lovely and almost unlined, but she bares her teeth just a trifle; she broods; perhaps she has begun to be predatory. When the witch fails to break her hold on her rival, Lady Aoi, who is now perilously ill thanks to the emanations of Rokujo’s jealousy, the court sends for an ascetic. This man impels the spirit back. We now see the noblewoman muffled in her cloak. For a considerable time she bows before her summoner, writhing beneath her robe in anguish. Then, as his magicking becomes more imperious, she begins to raise her head; and we discover her in a sickening hannya mask, her head now an angry grinning skull’s, horned and shining-eyed, with enough flesh left on her — a nose, for instance — to render her all the fouler: a decomposing corpse which cannot find peace, nor even crave it, such is her desperate malice against Aoi, who (represented by a kimono) lies on the front left of the stage, perilously pregnant with Genji’s child. And now Aoi’s hannya dance begins, a pantomime of battle against the ascetic, who of course will win out (“never again will I come as an angry ghost”). But first, defying his Lesser Spell of Fudo and much of the Middle Spell, Rokujo dances her dance of hideous menace. And in so doing, she follows Zeami’s prescription, holding her invisible branch of flowers. What I see behind her horribleness and hatefulness is firstly her anguish — I pity her — and secondly her grace, her feminine loveliness.

Well, then, what is grace? How does it differ from beauty itself, or from yugen? Can the lovely impression projected by a certain woman hold its own over time, or even increase, like the alluring pathos of Matsukaze? The Komachi embodied by Mr. Kanze is a bright flower, yes, but she is not as lovely as she was. Her accomplishment, her noh, has increased, but in her anatomy she has obviously decayed. Still she holds us. Well, what would or should this positive outcome entail? If desire is the essential problem of the Noh situation, then what does that say about this book’s celebration of desire?

Might there be not merely ambiguity but hypocrisy in Noh’s representation of feminine beauty? On the one hand, most of the plays under discussion address the suffering of delusional attachment to this world, and in particular to Eros and Agape. On the other hand, just as Milton’s Satan overshadows the other characters in that great poem, so the beauty of the masked Noh figure is such as to invoke our yearning, sometimes to such an extent as to overshadow the warning, or even be augmented by it. When the ghostly “woman of the wooden well” who is the shite of “Izutsu” wraps her long dead lover’s cloak around her and seeks to reflect him in her dance, the chorus sings: “Blossoming sleeves, flakes of whirling snow.” And here the true flower of her supernatural beauty is likewise in full blossom, almost without pathos. At the play’s end, to be sure, she will sing: “Pine winds tear plantain-leaf-frail dream, too, breaks awake; the dream breaks to dawn.” And she dissolves back into death beyond the rainbow curtain. But in the dance of blossoming sleeves, her dream was not yet broken. What then is Noh-grace when dissected from pathos? Is the result approximately what I feel in gazing at a living woman? Perhaps it is the same as the dance in “Yuya,” which is elegantly gorgeous without being sad.

We know from “Kinuta” and other plays, even other prose, that the sound of a woman fulling cloth on a board is considered dreary, mournful, signifying the agony of delusional attachment. But Basho writes a haiku about how clearly the blows ring, travelling all the way up to the Big Dipper. This clarity possesses, among other qualities, beauty. The sometimes agonizing allure of the feminine might as well be contemplated as akin to those rising sounds. Blossoming sleeves must molder like the flesh within them; snow must melt; all the same, in the moment they triumph. Back and forth this book must go, from snow to water, all the while baffled or inspired by the slowness of a perfect Noh mask whose silent wooden alteration of expressions saves us from admitting the inevitable.

Beauty is grace. Grace is pose and poise, as in an ancient Greek bronze of a running girl whose smooth dark legs remain in balance; the bare feet remain flexed, the toes outthrust, the arms upflung in power and joy — but grace is life, hence inconstancy, which can inflict constant and perhaps even eternal attachment. A wise Sanskrit poet advises his heroine not to leave her flaring hips idle, but rush to the darkened forest where her lover-god waits. Her hips must die, but not yet. And the god desires her. Grace may be, as for a Noh actor who strives to feel nothing, projection alone; it can also be a woman’s living feelings. “A flower shows its beauty as it blooms and its novelty as its petals scatter.” This aphorism of Zeami’s must be true; otherwise why would modes and fashions change? And so the heroine goes to the dark forest and unties her belt. Whether she gives herself or refrains, a hundred years later the outcome will be the same.

In that ochaya in Kanazawa the geisha Masami was sitting before the gilded wall where her dances happened, and when I asked how many dances she had memorized, she replied: “Even if you know many dances, it depends on the season. If a dance is long, we may perform only a part of it. Right now the atmosphere of New Year is still present.”

Until yesterday, the fifteenth of January, her hair ornament had been a tortoise shell with rice-stalks (inaho) and a white crane, which for geishas was actually supposed to be an eyeless white pigeon. If a geisha’s wish came true within the fifteen days, she painted an eye on her pigeon. Two eyes meant that two wishes got granted, for instance fortune in love. Geishas would observe each other’s pigeons and make jocular or envious comments. Now her ornament had become a rat, to mark the beginning of the Year of the Rat.

“Each season is different,” added the shamisen player Fukutaro. “If you come here in the summer, there will be no paper on the latticework wall..”

What then is grace? Does its transience sufficiently explain it? Should we construe it as extrahuman? Royall Tyler writes about the play “Matsukaze” that the two sisters “are not actually people… they are the purified essences of human longing.” And how could they be otherwise? If, as Malraux opines, great artists are “conditioned” not by the world itself but by other art, then the sisters must be projected entities, like Hollywood actresses glimpsed through their limousine windows.

In this vein, a certain mid-twentieth-century Kabuki booklet makes remarkable claims about that art’s onnagata: “The art of female impersonation has refined feminine beauty to the extent that it exceeds the beauty of real women in many ways… a man will always have basically stronger, sharper lines than a woman, but in Kabuki, a level of sensuality… has been achieved that is not found in real life… a strength of purpose is required, along with a soft gentleness that makes it quite impossible for a woman to perform satisfactorily.”

This notion rests on the stale presupposition that women are capable only of softness, whereas a man can be both soft and strong, harmonizing and neutralizing those opposing characteristics much as would a Noh actor who is following Zeami’s prescriptions. Not incidentally, Zeami advises his female impersonators to reject any show of strength in their depictions — but this might be because their male strength will shine through regardless. An actor ought to “abandon any detailed stress on his physical movements (since, if the feminine spirit infuses his mind, a relaxation of physical strength will surely come about of itself).” — And what if his female projection relaxes too much? In 1912, the feminist novelist Tamura Toshiko made an exactly opposite claim to the Kabuki booklet, namely, that an onnagata may be able to express feminine weakness, but not feminine strength.

I once asked a Kyoto geisha whether there was anything in dance that women can do that men cannot.

“Women must look softer,” she replied. “A woman gives birth. That a woman can do better than a man. But if she wants to do anything else, a man can probably do it better.”

“Can a woman open a door or serve a drink more gracefully than a man?”

“Instructors of tea ceremonies, who are usually men, can do it better than we can.”

My own opinion is that telling other people what they are incapable of expressing is always absurd. We have already met the Noh actress Yamamura Yoko, whose career is a rejection of the Kabuki booklet’s logic. Originally she had begun taking lessons in the craft in her then home island of Kyushu because it was “nice for my parents.” She followed Mr. Umewaka to Tokyo and studied with him for twenty years. In the Umewaka School (in Tokyo, at least), six or ten percent of the qualified players were female. The Kita School still prohibited women. No school allowed a woman to perform “Okina.”

“The first women performers imitated very hard,” she said. “Fortunately, in my generation we don’t try to imitate men. We try to perform in a different way, exploiting the differences in sensitivity, strength and body figure.”

Even she believed that women were insufficiently adept at Noh to perform alone, especially for waki and kyogen roles. “At this point, we rely on male masters,” she said.

(With his customary openmindedness, Mr. Umewaka said about the few Noh actresses: “I tell them, don’t imitate; make Noh. Create your own female Noh.” He then added: “However, for me there is no female role or instructor.”)

“Why is it so difficult for women to perform the waki role?” I asked Ms. Yamamura.

“Because the mask is not used, and because the waki is a travelling priest,” she replied.

“Do you prefer playing female or male roles?”

“It depends. Boys’ roles such as Atsumori are easy for women. Hardest of all is playing an old demon.”

“How do you play a woman?”

Her reply was not too far removed from the thinking of an onnagata:

“As it stands, men put on a costume and a mask to become a woman. But if a woman is to play a woman’s role, the woman must first be a man and learn that. The costumes are made to express femininity. If a woman uses the same technique to play a female role but lacks male strength, then it will be a weak Noh. So you need a man’s strength.”⁶

Once again, it would paradoxically seem that this species of feminine elegance requires a portion of masculinity. One transsexual speaks of the insecurity which once led him to “hyperfeminise” himself, “to adopt the artificial stereotypes attributed to women.” In time he realized that he could act “naturally,” making use of all the advantages of his previous male experience. Here we might remind ourselves that Zeami was at one time the Shogun’s pretty boy. The grace of the Noh actor dwells near the grace of the transvestite prostitute Ms. Tosaka. All the same, who am I to say that a woman’s grace contains no tincture of maleness?

But how strange to utterly privilege performance over anatomy! A scholar of ballet notes that when the ballerina performs a certain move such as an arabesque, “she’s calling attention to a shapely ankle, an arched instep… and the round hip and ribcage. You can’t mistake it if you’re alive yourself.” Ono no Komachi might have possessed these things when she was young. She could not have kept them all in old age. And how could an onnagata achieve that particular sort of ribcage? The obvious answer is that he avoids the issue by covering himself. He becomes a woman by becoming a female specter. He keeps his male parts shapeless.

A commitedly literalist female impersonator can indeed weigh down his lower body with pelvic prostheses so that his hips will swing like a woman’s. He can wear false breasts, or take estrogen. He can angle his forearms away from his torso to simulate the human female’s greater elbow angle. Because the male voice shares about half an octave of overlap with its female counterpart, a transvestite can train his voice to sound both natural and feminine, in part by pitching it between falsetto and the point where it breaks into its natural bass or tenor. All these props and performances make use of concretions, handicaps, efforts and distortions of nature. But while a man may broaden his hips, it is not so easy to narrow his shoulders; and even if he could, if we imagine a great Noh actor in the full bloom of his true flower, and a young woman possessed of a gorgeous face and body, and if we further imagine the two of them to be naked side by side, how could we guarantee that the judgment of Paris would come out as art would wish it to be?⁷

“Do you try to become the character?” I asked Ms. Yamamura.

She said what almost all of them did: “I try to stay in my ordinary state, calm. When I’m taking lessons I think a lot. But when I put on the mask I try not to think.”

In the climax of “Izutsu,” the shite gazes down into the well, into which she used to look with her lover Narihira, and instead of her own ghostly reflection, or nothing, she sees his image.⁸ To me this seems to be less about androgyny or ambisexuality than about crossing the abyss, identifying completely with the beloved other.

So why is it that the overwhelming beauty of a woman’s face and carriage can so dominate the world that the latter becomes a bare and polished Noh stage?

Before attempting to answer, I must remind myself of Zeami’s caution: “A flower blooms by maintaining secrecy.” A scholarly book about courtesans concludes them to be “fundamentally elusive fantasies of the imagination.” This leads to the question: What would be gained and what lost by seeing a great actress or geisha naked? It also makes me worry that trying to dissect the flower of feminine grace will destroy its effect, which approximates what Zeami called mutuality in movement beyond consciousness. All the same, I will now take out my scalpel.

Just as the geisha’s dance is hers alone, and the fiftieth actor to use a Noh mask makes it his own just as much as did the first, so feminine elegance is unique to the woman or her impersonator. Zeami again: “The life and spirit of Noh is nothing without the player’s forming of his own style… The real shite is the one who studies various kinds of other styles after achieving a unique style of his own.”

“When a Noh actor takes on the role of a beautiful woman,” I once asked Mr. Mikata, “how is it that the illusion is so perfect? The actor sings in a male voice; we can see his adam’s apple, and yet he becomes a beautiful woman.⁹ To me this is even more magical than when an actor becomes a Kagekiyo or Atsumori. How is this accomplished?”

He replied: “I think it’s because what’s expressed is neutral: not man, not woman. That’s what we pursue. Since we are men, when we play a man, it’s just as what we usually do, but when we play a woman, if you move like a woman or sound like a woman, well, that is what an observer can easily see, but in fact we don’t really want to express a woman as such. Woman’s mind, what she feels, her pure mind or jealousy, that’s what we want to express through a woman’s figure. This figure should not stand out, even though when we play the role of woman or elderly man we do slightly change the voices and the moves.”

Here we find ourselves returned to the genderless soul independently posited by Hilary Nichols, Marina and Sachiko. An eighteenth-century Japanese scholar of classical literature writes that “the true heart is not masculine, firm or resolute; such attitudes are mere decoration. When one delves to the bottom of the heart, even the most resolute person is no different from a woman or a child.”

At any rate, the detachment within that masculine-feminine balance must to some extent require that grace be a set of conventions; indeed, part of what gives Noh its impressive effect is its very rigidity.

By no means can this be a universal characteristic of feminine grace. Sappho, whose girls of her desire are all soft, tender, supple, violetlike, informs us that “I love refinement,” just as a Noh connoisseur does, “and beauty and light are for me the same as desire for the sun.”¹⁰ Grace is, among other things, the voluminous S-shape of a standing courtesan in a narrow vertical ukiyo-e print, her hairpiece as many-spoked as a mushroom cap is gilled, utterly in balance in spite of all, and not rigid. But even that softest, tenderest and most violetlike expression of Noh, Yuya’s flower dance, could never be called supple; and in her stately glide across the stage bridge, any shite at all, no matter how girlish her mask and garments, reminds me of one of the prehistoric grave-figurines of southern central Europe: thick-legged, her ankles ending in rounded stumps, her thighs as wide as her hips, rendering her middle a sort of apron comprised of her stony or bony substance; this region is generally incised with the disproportionately large female triangle described by one scholar as a “supernatural vulva.” Her arms, considerably shorter and more slender than her legs, which they recapitulate with their own rounded stumps. Her head and neck are a single rounded vertebral cone. Archaeologists have named her the Stiff White Lady. And stiff she is indeed. In her utter rigidity she reminds me of a geisha’s black wig — but she is the color of death: bone-pale. Some of her exemplars are in fact nothing more and less than bones carved with a few stylized female markings. “The symbol closest to death is a bare bone.” I am categorically informed that she, like her sister avatars of the Great Goddess, “has nothing to do with sexuality.” That is one opinion. As for me, I find her beautiful, graceful, erotic. Like a Noh heroine, she has been stripped down, understated until she paradoxically towers before me: In the plate I now study she is not much larger than my finger, which makes no difference because, being a goddess, she has won the victory over ever so many things, including scale.

The Stiff White Lady’s daughters, the Cycladic marble figurines from 3000–2500 B.C., are a trifle more human, but still coldly, beautifully alien, with their noses jutting from otherwise featureless face-disks and their arms folded beneath their breasts. These items likewise seem to have been fashioned to lie in graves. Their smoothly abstracted geometries are their grace; their narrowness is their elegance. Their female triangles are their real faces. What are they, but perfect bones of femininity?

Their granddaughter, a marble statue of Tyche, Greek goddess of fortune, gazes through me with pupil-less eyes. Young and cold, smooth and whitish-yellow, with her arms broken off and her nipples erect beneath the folds of the robe, small-lipped, plump-cheeked like a ko-omote, veiled, crowned with a miniature city’s towered walls, what is she but perfect grace?

A man in a seventeenth-century ko-omote, a man who is now a woman, approaches us. Her cheeks are shadowed faintly black; the corners of her mouth turn upward in an ingenuous smile; the middle of her upper teeth have been blackened. She stares through us with the contentment of a young girl who is still tasting the sweet that she has been sucking on. Even when she gazes downward, she expresses no sadness. Her true face, his face, is as absent as the features of the Stiff White Lady (who may on occasion have a nose). Or are these their faces? How can a woman express perfect grace without supplenesss, without facial muscles, without eyes? And yet she does. I remember with affection how a certain straight pine tree in Nara tapered upward with surprising symmetry, each branch short, slightly upcurving like a fern-fingertip. A Noh goddess and a Stiff White Lady both partake of pine-grace. They also, it would seem, have been made specifically for their roles, and perhaps it is this specificity which distinguishes them from flesh.¹¹ Hisao Kanze once wrote that Noh woman-masks pass “beyond all specific human expression.” What then is grace, if it leaves the human behind? Perhaps it is simply that it, like great poetry, brings us as close as possible to, and then points toward, what ultimately cannot be expressed. By the shite’s pillar of the stage, the Noh mask of a young girl orbits my floating world, laurel of the moon; I cannot go to the moon but I can watch it rise through ever so many of my blue-black nights. And this Noh girl of the ko-omote employs a man’s tabi-socked feet to glide inhumanly across my life, like the moon, which is Elder Sister to Stiff White Ladies.

And so, in contradistinction to Sappho’s yielding lightness, I cite Fenollosa’s belief that “the beauty of the Noh lies in the concentration. All elements — costume, motion, verse, and music — unite to produce a single clarified impression.” And a Sardinian lady made of bone — she is perhaps six thousand years old — overpowers me through her horizontal eye-slits; she will not kiss me because she lacks a mouth; folding her bone arms across her breast, she displays her wide and simple vulva to me, standing upon her rounded stumps; she is femininity; she is grace; I would be comforted to sleep with her in my grave.

For women, goddesses and figurines, grace must be, again and again, performance. And the famous Kabuki actor Bando Tamasaburo once said: “All performance is essentially erotic. To really capture the attention of the audience — to fully ensnare the yearnings of each member of that audience — a performance must be based in eroticism.”

And we remember that Hilary Nichols told us: “I do think that a very big sense of self for me is recognizing my attraction. And I live in a very social scene, so it’s all about exchanging attractiveness and being recognized.” Surely this must be somewhat akin to concentrating on all elements of one’s female self-expression and creating a coherent, refined expression of that attractiveness. This process may require lies and absurdities. In a fashion magazine I find an ad for a skin cream whose magical ingredient is “savage cacao, delivering the antioxidant power of 204 pounds of blueberries.” If a woman buys it literally and metaphorically, perhaps she will perform with greater joy and confidence.

In this context I also want to quote Mr. Kanze Hideo, who in contradistinction to Mr. Umewaka, Mr. Mikata and Ms. Yamamura told me that in playing a role he did not simply remain himself: “First you have to be that role yourself, but you need another self to supervise the person, to control yourself. You need two gazes. Zeami wrote about that: sight from a distance. You have to look at yourself from behind or from the top.” — Here was a man old and surprisingly small, with pouches under his eyes; I had seen him as a beautiful woman; he was an expert; he possessed the flower. He was saying essentially what Hilary had said.

The mai dance characteristic of Noh entails, as we have said, rotating movements, stiffness, with the back straight, the knees bent just a little, the feet flat on the stage and the arms a trifle away from the body. This helps harmonize the actor with the mask, which expresses the hardness of its wood but can certainly swivel upon the turning neck. Maintaining the required stance calls for a measure of physical endurance, and it may be for this reason that so many authorities have disbelieved in women’s capacity to achieve the mai effect. Its grace is certainly tinged with eeriness, and part of the eeriness is that it can be so feminine when that is not the way most women comport themselves.¹² In fact it is unnatural. Bando Tamasaburo once remarked on the fact that women’s clothes are more uncomfortable than men’s, which furthers the end because “when they are slightly uncomfortable, women are more erotic.” Most of my Euro-American women friends bristle at this; their vision of an erotic female is of a woman in freely flowing clothes, or a woman nude. Thus the eros of Matisse. What about the eros of Bando? Bare legs on a cold day, sandal straps abrading bare feet, tight-laced corsets, tiny and half-helpless high heeled steps, knees pressed carefully together when sitting, pierced ears, these and various Western signals of femininity do bear out the great onnagata’s assertion, and likewise of course the fifty-odd pounds of kimonos and hairpieces borne by a maiko in her formal glory, not to mention the wooden pillow she sleeps on in order to keep her hair well styled.

In any event, when playing a woman, the Noh actor keeps his feet slightly closer together than otherwise, and his glide is comprised of shorter steps. A feminist describes the old European minuet as expressing both sexes’ body movements “mincingly and decoratively, contrary to the latter delegation of this stylistic pattern to female.” — I quote again the transvestite bargirl Miss Tosaka: “When I’m a woman, I try to keep my knees together. I take very short steps. When I sit down, I keep my legs together.” — And I remind myself that Mr. Umewaka commented that this was Kabuki style. It can also be geisha style. All the same, it bears comparison to Noh’s feminine mode, which is known as nyotai.

Every performance must come to an end. Every fashion alters, even for the Stiff White Ladies, as when, for instance, Spedos Style A yields to Style B: “round modeling now gives way to flattish relief and a preference for clean incisions to mark transitions and details.”¹³ Aware, that classical Japanese perception of this world’s autumnal transience, is sometimes associated with feminine sensibility, and both the woman who allures me and I myself keep conscious or unconscious hold of the fact that the petals of the true flower must fall. This feminine quality that we share, if it is indeed feminine, what does this make us? Does a woman’s grace inspire me to merge sexually and spiritually with its possessor, or to maintain my separateness from her so that I can better see her and drink her in?

A drawing instructor of my acquaintance, who has employed nude models for many years now, said that in his opinion womanly grace is the result of someone’s being at ease in her body, attractive to the gaze, and willing to offer her beauty to the eyes of others. (The American fashion magazines agree; they often say that grace equals confidence.) One of his models was now ageing and had become self-conscious about posing with younger women; all the same, he saw no reason why she might not retain her grace in old age if she continued to exercise it.

Mystery (which surely includes understatement), concentration, gender harmony, self-awareness and distance from self, consciousness of transience — this very short list of qualities appears to be a trifle mechanical, like a template for a mask as opposed to the animated mask itself, with the actor inside it. In part this animation achieves its success by giving off the shock of reality itself, of a person whose power of attraction over us is so great precisely because we could never have imagined her; she is alive, unique, unforeseeable. But much of the effect does come about mechanistically; a honeybee leads her hive-sisters to the richest flowers by means of a dance, and the graceful woman carries herself in obedience to (or in some rare cases in reaction to, but even then in reference to) her time’s rules of carriage, beauty and the like. “Movement metaphors distinguish male from female,” writes a feminist scholar of dance, who has compiled a very interesting table of “stereotypical nonverbal gender behavior”: For instance, in comparison to men women make smaller gestures (in part because shorter limbs, more constricting clothes and custom constrain them), but they smile more; their movements are more “emotional, expressive” and horizontal, their gazes more submissive and averted.

But then, the experience and interpretation of loveliness is always, as an aesthetician has said, a work in progress, “completed only when beauty has nothing more to offer”; which is why our list could not be complete without killing several of its own quantities, such as mystery — not to mention grace itself. And so I return to Zeami, hoping for help in seeking to uncover with words what lies beyond words.

Once again I remember his prescription from “Kakyo”: Forget the details of a play in order to perceive it whole. Then forget the play itself, focusing on the actor. Next, forget the actor and study his spirit. Finally, forget his spirit; and what remains will be Noh itself.

Accordingly, I propose to forget face, body and clothes in order to take in the entire impression that the woman makes. Next, forget her impression and consider its maker: her. Now forget her, and perhaps you may find a way to see her soul. At the last, forget even that, and then you will know her grace.

Once upon a time in China, near the center of the eighth century, the Tang Dynasty Emperor Xuan-zon became enthralled by a certain Lady Yang Yu-han, also known as Yang Kuei-fei, who was at that time his son’s wife; no matter; Lady Yang rapidly became the Prized Consort. “Tresses like a cloud, face like a flower” is how the poet Bo Ju-yi describes her in his “Song of Lasting Pain.” In the twelfth century, another Chinese author invokes the ideal singing girl: “As lovely as jade, with rosy lips, white teeth, and a complexion like ice.” Perhaps that is how Lady Yang was. When she craved dragon’s-eye fruits, the Emperor established a chain of post horses in order to rush them to her fresh. Soon her relatives had become noble and rich; how could that have gone otherwise? It is equally, since consequently, no surprise that after her uncle’s rebellion-guilt had been rightly or wrongly established, angry officers and courtiers demanded Lady Yang’s execution. “His Majesty knew that it could not be avoided,” writes the ninth-century author Chen Hong, “and yet he could not bear to see her die, so he turned his sleeve to cover his face as the envoys dragged her off.” What kind of love was this? Why could he not have abdicated, or died with her? Perhaps he thought it his duty to remain above ground, or possibly he did not adore her as much as the legends say; but very likely the choice did not occur to him. And so Lady Yang was strangled.

This story, which in many versions concludes with a sadly supernatural reunion by proxy between the two lovers, took place not far from the city of Xian, whose narrow high-walled streets remind me of Peshawar’s with their old stone and brick and signlessness. The many-notched old wall bears many arches; the old streets are quieter and dirtier than those of many other Chinese cities. Elderly people sit in chairs on the sidewalk; men stand sweaty and stripped to the waist; it is late afternoon in an air-conditioned restaurant into which man are carrying cases of beer. The waitresses are laughing, lazing and flirting. One sleeps, with her dark head tucked down on the table between her crimson-clad shoulders; and in this extremely modern-looking place of new tables and polished granite tiles, everybody engages in what a Westerner would call “doing nothing,” because Xian dreams and dreams, her pillow being the dust of the past. Whomever I asked about Lady Yang knew her and presented an opinion without surprise or excitement. The long past of China felt far more present here than the most recent previous war ever had in my own country. After all, Lady Yang’s story was taught in primary school.

A quarter-hour away by car from the long white trenches where the famous Terra Cotta Warriors stand, some of them headless, many attended by horses of the same colorlessness as they (for centuries have licked away the vivid glaze), the Royal Baths still remain, and here, in the twelve-sided Crabapple Pool, Lady Yang used to bathe while the Emperor watched. Far down within the lacquered red railings lies that dry cavity where, according to the mural one sees at her tomb, her pale and chubby nakedness drowsed within a gold-rimmed border; now there is no gold, and a tour guide gripping a yellow flag speaks into her microphone, causing tourists to gaze dully down into the emptiness. Once upon a time there was a Lady Yang; she was a pawn, a corrupting influence or both; now she is a flock of poems.

By taxi, at least by a certain taxi with a red and silver talisman hanging from the mirror and a Chairman Mao song on the cassette player, it takes an hour to reach the town of Ma Mei Zhen, where anyone can direct the traveller to Ma We Po; and here Lady Yang is buried. The flickering of a flashlight discovers the pale white figurines of representative grave-goods, but none of them come from the tomb itself, which is a beehive-shaped mound now covered with bricks because people kept coming here to steal the earth which enclosed her, on account of its beauty-working properties. By the tomb stands the name-marker, a black tongue engraved with gold. A marble statue depicts her as uncharacteristically slender, with mushroom-gill hair and her trademark tree-peony in it. The smell of stone in the rain, then the mound, then the town far away, blue-green with fields, noisy with engines and horns whose sounds rise up like incense, all this comprises another of China’s multitudinous islands of tranquil ancientness.

The taxi waited. Soon we returned, passing white-clad minions in the greenery beneath the wall, where people exercised like armies every morning; then came the train station with its two giant characters for Xian, and a flag in between. The driver said: “Anyhow, Lady Yang had body odor. The history says this. But the Emperor liked it.”

What other enticements had she possessed? Bo Ju-yi writes that her “helplessness so charming” when attendants escorted her out of the bath allured the Emperor to her for the first time. (Bando Tamasaburo again: “When they are slightly uncomfortable, women are more erotic.”)

Bo Ju-yi further envisions her flowered hairpins, jade hairpick, marble-white face, “and the fragile arch of her lovely brows.” Chen Hong calls her hair “glossy and well arranged”; and she was neither slender nor plump. The great poet Du Fu laments the loss to us of her shining eyes and sparkling teeth. In the seventeenth-century supernatural tales of Pu Songling, a semblance of the goddess Chang E performs “Rainbow Skirts”; and a beautiful ghost, whose name just happens to be Yang, presents breasts “as virginal and soft to the touch as freshly peeled lotus kernels,” a simile used by Emperor Xuanzong himself in his praise of the breasts of Yang Guifei.

But probably it was the Dance of Rainbow Skirts that made the Emperor pliable to her every caprice. I have never seen it performed, and the only description I know comes again from Bo Ju-yi’s “Song of Lasting Pain”: It was slow and stately, apparently.¹ There was already a renowned melody entitled “Coats of Feathers, Rainbow Skirts”; this was what Lady Yang danced to. Her performance probably involved arm movements, and in Komparu Zenchiku’s Noh play “Yokihi,” Lady Yang refers to the dance of Rainbow Skirts as follows: “A young girl’s fluttering sleeves well express her heart.” In the play “Hagoromo” an angel performs the same, and we read: “The sky-robe flutters; it yields to the wind.”

Because the Emperor’s love for her disordered the realm and she can therefore be construed as sinister, I imagine Rainbow Skirts to resemble the serpentine dance of the demon-woman in the play “Dojoji”; by means of it she hypnotizes the temple servants, next vanishing into the bell she would destroy. But why not envision it as the writhings of seductive pseudo-helplessness?

The Noh actress Yamamura Yoko said to me, presumably in reference to “Dojoji”: “When I play a woman who becomes a serpent, I want to express the sadness rather than the scariness.” — And it is true that my vision of Rainbow Skirts must express pathos, given the doom of Lady Yang.

This would certainly be the Noh vision; for in Noh a man provisionally becomes a woman who temporarily controls a man. The Emperor kisses the mask. So he wounds his son’s happiness; she sickens the empire; she dies; he pines; it ends, and the actor takes off his mask.

We have said that the Japanese concept of aware refers to the beauty and harmony beyond direct expression which shines uniquely from various entities in their own occasion — for instance, cherry blossoms about to fall. “Gradually,” one commentator informs us, “aware came to be tinged with sadness.” In due course, the tranquil Heian splendors of Kyoto were razed by violence, the Empire shattered into myriad competing dictatorships, and aware “darkened to its modern meeting of ‘wretched,’ which represents perhaps the final evolution in its long history.” On another page this scholar remarks: “The court lady who in the past had brooded over a lover’s neglect was now likely to suffer more immediate grief on learning he had been killed in battle. In some diaries, women described their emotions on seeing their lover’s head on a pike being paraded through the streets.”² And how did the Emperor feel while the one he loved was kicking and choking in the noose?

Lady Yang must have moved the Japanese nearly as much as the Chinese, for we find her haunting the very first page of the Tale of Genji. She appears two more times in close succession: Genji’s dead mother gets likened to her. Indeed, as early as the tenth century we find a tanka about the Emperor’s desperate attachment to Lady Yang: At dawn, it runs, his jeweled dais tries to remain dark out of compassion for him whose passion has not been slaked by the night’s pleasures.

And in the early fourteenth century, Lady Nijo watches the dance of Rainbow Skirts at a shrine, which “summoned forth my own nostalgic memories.” She sees a dancer wearing a fancy crown and hairpins, and imagines her to be Lady Yang’s image. A few decades later, a chronicler of a medieval Japanese war harks back to Tang Dynasty China: “While the emperor listened to the song of ‘Rainbow Skirts,’ the war drums of Yü-Yang came shaking the earth.” The Tale of the Heike makes a byword of the famous couple’s sorrow. In 1931, Tanizaki alludes to Lady Yang in his “Blind Man’s Tale.” In short, it is no wonder that Komparu composed a Noh play about her.

In “Yokihi,” which follows the narrative of Bo Ju-yi’s poem fairly closely, the spirit of Yang Kuei-fei, whose name has now been Japonicized per the title, dwells behind jeweled blinds in the Residence of Great Purity on the Island of Everlasting Youth. To visit her, the Emperor’s sorcerer must fly through the void, as all of us have to do in order to reach whomever we desire. The sorcerer begins the play with these words: “I seek a way to a world unknown.” (Hilary Nichols: “I do think that part of the joy in a male-female relationship is crossing the abyss.”) So off he goes, into the darkness of stars, the flutesong an evil wind of destiny, all the voices of the chorus like rocks in a river or wind in a twilight pine grove. Why not say that it is for him as for Kawabata’s protagonist riding the train into the snow country, finding the fields ever thicker and whiter, the houses ever purer, the ponds shining with ice, the horizon vanishing in white mist? Here he will presently encounter a heroine of incomprehensible beauty. Dark birds fly across white ricefields. Where is he going, but into the brightness of the wet snow beneath the dark sky, from which snow speeds down? On the grounds of many a Japanese temple stand tombs as close-packed as teeth, their rounded tops white with snow. A stone Buddha sits with snow in his lap, the snowy wind stirring the trees with the sound of rain. He goes into the snow, into the cracked and frozen urns. He goes into the peach-colored snowy twilight. Silver-forested hills of pines gather around the train. He passes between a man’s lips and a woman’s in the instant that they kiss. For him the rainbow curtain is raised.

When he arrives at the island, he discovers Yokihi’s ghost in the act — how could it be otherwise? — of grieving over her transient attachment. The mask she had kissed (or was it merely a crown?) abandoned her, as every mask must do. Had she sought to be her father-in-law’s wife? Did she then become guilty of abusing her exalted position? It hardly matters now. She gasped and struggled, like a child in a tantrum; then the play was done. Her desire should have died likewise. But instead, transforming her into a vampire who feeds hopelessly upon herself, it condemns her to consciousness upon the Island of Everlasting Youth.³

Yokihi’s face is most often a waka-onna. Occasionally she embodies herself in a zo-onna or ko-omote. Although the latter customarily portrays a young girl who has not yet suffered greatly, the tsuki, the moon-style ko-omote, can project the inhumanness which is so characteristic of entities on the far side of the abyss. A mask-maker informs us that “the fundamental aspect of ‘Tsuki’ is that the nose is tilted to the left. From the audience, the left side of the mask is the best view. The right half has a rather peaceful expression, in order to show relief from hate and sadness, and enlightenment when she receives prayers from a monk while departing the stage on the hashigakari,” the pine tree bridge. Yokihi, of course, obtains no enlightenment. Presumably she will show us her left side. The perfect-complected face of this mask is almost a squash-yellow, the double chin softer than in many ko-omote, the smile strangely wider, the upper eyelids darkly overlined, the lower ones shadowed; overall, the face expresses hard newness. When it swims upward, the peculiar smile begins to yield to a wide darkness beneath the black-grey crystals of the upper teeth.

The mask-maker continues with a quotation: “The ko omote’s cold brilliance which even reflects the shade of the accessories, touches one’s soul. — Baba Akiko. If this is about a program in which a crown is worn on top of the mask, this poem must be for ‘Hagoromo’ or ‘Yokihi.’ ”

The Noh mask in the box (in Yokihi’s case, usually a waka-onna) desires nothing. I, a spectator in the theater, willingly trick myself in order to drink more beauty from what I see. Then the play ends, and I go out into the excitement of the crowds, the hurrying crowds of this world, in whose manic exaltation Baudelaire was caught up two centuries before me. Unlike the mask of Yokihi, I am still alive; so I seek out other masks to kiss, refusing to believe that crossing the abyss will cost my lovers and me any suffering. Soon I will creep across the stage in my stockinged feet with an old man’s movements, my face almost a skull; by then many of the other personages I now see on Tokyo’s streets will have already glided along the gangway with slow and spaced deliberation; in due time I will meet them behind the rainbow curtain. But if I am lucky I will no longer know them and they will have forgotten me, unlike Yokihi the damned, who informs the sorcerer: “Your visit only multiplies the pain.”⁴ Her complaint is misplaced; for she loves her agony’s cause: the Emperor. To him she would send that familiar token, a jeweled hairpin. (In Chen Hong’s version it is actually the golden hairpin that the Emperor gave her when he first slept with her.) But then she takes back her gift, I presume to use it while she now performs her alluring dance of Rainbow Skirts.

Here is Yokihi the beautiful, her bass soliloquies rhythmic, rising and descending in pitch, sonorous, guarded and respected by pause, not quite song; she inches through eternity upon her old man’s feet. In most performances she wears a gold kimono and a phoenix headdress from which angular treaures sharply hang. Her red lips remain eternally parted in what is both more and less than a smile; her black teeth sparkle like evening ice. The points of her long, narrow eyes reach her temples. Her eyebrows are high clouds of black fog upon her moon-colored forehead. Her painted black hair merges with the darkness of her tortured Paradise. Through the holes in her wooden face, an actor is gazing beyond all of us.

Has he entirely crossed the abyss? Is he Yokihi, or is he, for instance, Mr. Umewaka? And who is Yokihi to me? Can my aesthetic enjoyment of the play be reduced to male sadism in the face of female agony? — In her late middle age, a certain nineteenth-century Japanese lady advised other members of her gender that “human feelings are rooted in the genitals and spread from there throughout our bodies. When men and women make love, they battle for superiority by rubbing their genitals together.” Admirable consistency to this world-view drew her to conclude that no matter how feminine an onnagata (and presumably a Noh actor) might appear, “since he has a man’s body, in his heart he harbors abusive feelings toward women. As he performs he thus in fact takes pleasure in what should be a pitiable scene… that is why he performs in ways that appeal to the men in his audience. Women, on the other hand, take no pleasure in a villain’s capturing a beautiful young woman and doing with her what he wishes.”

Would love exist, if what she wrote were true? If the abyss could be transcended, why must Yokihi and the Emperor remain alone in the end? Who is a woman? If I understood, why would my visit to her multiply the pain?

The sorcerer presently departs, and the play ends when the chorus chants: “Oh, this futile parting! In the Tower of Eternal Life she falls, weeping, to remain for all time.” Bo Ju-yi’s ending was typically more ornate, and may well be echoed in the Noh play “Miidera”: “Heaven endures, and the Earth; but someday they’ll be gone; yet this pain of ours will go on and never ever end.”

In Kyoto there is a temple that I love called the Shoren-in. The eerie energies of the place’s camphor trees figure lovingly in Kawabata’s novel The Old Capital. Pagoda’d pavilions upon the sphagnum moss mark the resident priesthoods of abdicated Emperors. Closing my eyes to various wars and accidents, I agree to call the garden eight or nine hundred years old.¹ Like any other stage, it can represent whichever time may be indicated. And I, waki of my own life, not to mention the lives of plants and rocks, exist here only to specify for you what I have been told I see. (“While this garden is not considered one of the major examples of landscape art,” says my guidebook, “its admirable details and fine plant material reward the visitor.”) Between the toes of an immense tree, I sit and watch the hours of my life blissfully idle themselves away. Gazing down from the bamboo grove at the stone lantern and the perfect asymmetries of the rock-bordered turquoise pond below it, I find no false alignments. A narrow porch runs around each edifice so that one can walk around it, gazing out at this changing world. Sometimes I do just that, or I might drink in the shadows of a wooden fence upon an ancient wooden gate. One October afternoon, with the tiny mosquitoes silently biting me and the leaves of the camphor trees as still as the tapering gable roofs, the reddish wood, yellowish wood and blackish wood in the gable lattices began to announce themselves almost with sounds. Beneath the trees, the immense bell seemed to vibrate beneath its gable roof. But then and always the favorite drink of my eye remained beyond the yellow wall: the many narrow turquoise-jade risings of the bamboo grove.

In the grove itself, particularly on cloudy summer days, bamboo and sky comprised a single jewel. Here might have been the best place to lose myself. But then, being a waki who lacked the power to release from attachment anyone, including himself, my desire wandered back to the carp pond and the camphor trees.

It was a smallish place, the Shoren-in; and so this circling completed itself easily. There was much to see, and all of it infinite, but the infinities were not glaringly daunting, like the night crowds of Shinjuku; they were almost as sparse as the cosmos of a Noh stage.

Wherever I am, I remain inside my body looking out; all the same, it is obviously possible, as at any other Japanese temple or shrine, to gaze into rectangular wooden darknesses with coppery or golden glitters of statues within. Thus gazing in, the horizon becomes silhouetted waves of roof-tile, with silhouetted leafy branches cutting very occasionally into the pale sky above it, and below the sky, a wall of dark wood studded with darker metal fittings, and in that wall a rectangular opening illuminated by three lamps just bright enough to reveal a bamboo railing within and then the dull gold glint of treasures in the darkness behind it.

NINE-O’-CLOCK

And in Gion, whenever my eyes are granted the thrill of a maiko standing in a half-open lattice-windowed doorway, with darkness behind her, she is still more splendid than those temple treasures; she is a jewel in the darkness!

Another maiko bows to us and darts across the street into a private teahouse, the dark knot of hair at the back of her darker than the darkness, the strange pastel look of her like neon subdued into elegance.

SPECULATIONS ON AN UNWRITTEN TREATISE

What is a woman? What is this woman? Can her soul possibly be ungendered? Could there be any unfeminine element to her grace? What makes her perfect?

Every act and gesture of hers that she allows me to see is, like its Noh counterpart, a performance. If I am the waki who witnesses her from the side, she is certainly the shite who blooms with ghostly glory. Mystery, yes, she possesses that. With his usual subtlety, Zeami defines fascination as a sensation which occurs before the consciousness of that sensation. So what sensation does a geisha first excite in me? Not lust, not quite excitement; almost awe, but not exactly… That is her mystery. Even the Noh mask-maker Ms. Nakamura, whose studio lay the merest quarter-hour’s walk from Gion, was thrilled to accompany me to a geisha teahouse; for a glimpse is one thing; but to really look upon a Kyoto geisha, perceiving any of her jewel-facets — for instance, the painted eyebrows and black-outlined eyes, the vulvalike patch of unwhitened skin on the back of the neck — as more than vague but thrilling light, one must pay extremely, or be invited by a client who does. Anatomy, performance, mental and emotional expression, embodiment, like a Noh actor, of old rote movements, these have something to do with whom or what she personifies, but they cannot explain it. Were some wise old female Zeami of the Inoue School of dance to compose a treatise on the secret teachings of geisha arts, I wonder what she would say? Concentration and self-awareness, how could a geisha of the true flower fail to master those? As Lady Yang’s ghost remarks in “Yokihi,” “a young girl’s fluttering sleeves well express what is in her heart.” She must know what she expresses. And regarding awareness of transience, that remains inescapable, both to her who performs and to me who pays — to be specific, a thousand dollars and more per hour. Moreover, her profession is associated with Gion Shrine, whose bell at the very beginning of The Tale of the Heike rings out this world’s evanescence.

THE PRICE OF THEIR FAVORS

Speaking of compensation, geishas are not prostitutes, although over the centuries they have certainly comprised much of the foliage in the “flower and willow world.” The courtesans were the flowers and the geishas the willows. As the metaphor implied, those two types of loveliness unfolded their leaves together in the meadow of delights. In the Yoshiwara, the red light district of old Edo, geishas performed alongside women of the other vocation. One of Utamaro’s woodblock prints shows the geishas Oiyo and Takeji preparing to dance around a lantern in an annual Yoshiwara event which was held in company with young prostitutes and their apprentices. And here is Chobunsai Eishi’s eighteenth-century painting of geishas in Yoshiwara, clutching their trains, gazing sideways up or down; black hair and subdued geisha colors.

In 1686, Ihara Saikaku assures us: “Even highly reputed maiko have the price of their favors set at one silver coin.” In the “Sleeve Scroll” of Torii Kiyonaga (1785) we find, among other erotic scenes, a geisha, identifiable as such by her black haori, with her mouth on her hand, grimacing and almost gnawing her finger while the man on her back slides his imperial-size penis into her anus; indeed, it is already almost all the way in and her eyes are closed, but every hair remains in place, as does her golden headgear. In Keisai Eisen’s woodblock album of about 1825, a client has just opened his geisha’s thighs and is about to roll her down onto the floor. From 1827 we see a woodcut by Utagawa Kunisada, showing two red-clothed geishas peering down into a bathhouse orgy, some of whose participants may be other geishas.

Writings on this subject sometimes insist on one or the other point of view: Either geishas are artists of a rarefied sort (and authors with this point of view love to berate Occidentals for their salacious suppositions on this score), or else they exemplify “a world where love is bought and sold like merchandise,” in which case they appear as victims or perpetrators.

In fact, the duties and reputations of geishas differ quite specifically. Instead of graceful white-faced goddesses, the early-twentieth-century novelist’s Kafu Nagai’s geisha characters are grasping, pathetic, jealous individuals of extremely variable appearances, talents and morals. Nor are their accoutrements uniform. Were I to describe a geisha to someone who had never seen one, I would probably, following the Peabody Museum, mention the black kimono, accentuating that eerie white of geisha skin, the wig with the hair ornaments, and the crisscrossing-in-front obi; all the same, I remember a certain mid-twentieth-century photograph of a geisha in a straw hat: stripes of shadow painting woodgrain on her upper face to match the stripes of her kimono; a character-studded sash traverses her breast as she beats a drum. I never saw her like in Kyoto.

Likewise vary their styles of dance. Once I saw geishas at the Gion Kobu Kaburenjo; they were performing the Miyako Odori or Cherry-Blossom Dance. Their movements were much less strict and angular than those of the Inoue School, two of whose practitioners will be described in this chapter. The Kanazawa geisha Masami-san danced with decidedly un-Inouean ease-enthusiasm.

Still another distinction between geishas is place of work, which offers clues analogous to those revealed in old times by a Japanese woman’s clothes — for instance, she might be a whore if her kimono is tied in front. A geisha in one of the hot springs might not receive great respect. In Kawabata’s Snow Country, the situation of many such women shows itself in a couple of lines of dialogue. The protagonist asks the heroine, Komako, who is herself a geisha, to summon him a geisha. She expresses bewilderment, at which point he says: “You know what I mean.” Although Komako insists that “no one forces a geisha to do what she doesn’t want to,” a geisha, who presumably has been apprised of his requirements, does in due course present herself. Shall we suppose that she wants to?²

On the other side of the divide, the Heian capital retains its glamor. Kyoto’s geishas are high ranking, and those in Gion remain preeminent. We learn from Saikaku that seventeenth-century Kyoto ladies possessed an especially fetching way of speaking, “handed down from ancient times in the Imperial Palace,” and in my day the enunciation of geishas in Gion, at least — I lack the funds to widen my Kyoto investigations — remains distinctive.

In his final novel, Kawabata opines that “only the balconies along Kiyomachi and Ponto-cho were reminiscent of the old summer evenings by the river”; and by “old” he means deriving from a bygone century. Strangely, Gion figures seldom in his descriptions of Kyoto, although he does describe a photograph of two Gion geishas playing rock-paper-scissors in about 1880.

But what is actually the difference between a high-ranking geisha and a courtesan who dances? Doubtless the former have had to struggle continuously to maintain their distinctiveness. From a pleasure quarter of Edo in 1850 comes this dispatch from the arms race in rival fashions:

… the dress of the geisha now far exceeds that of noble ladies. But the common prostitute oversteps all bounds in modeling herself on the geisha. When the common prostitute adorns her hair with pins of glimmering tortoise-shell, the geisha must also insert a long tortoise-shell pin into the bun of her coiffure.

And so many geishas accumulate debts. Sometimes they find it necessary to pawn their clothes.³

One 1913 essay about whether or not onnagatas should be replaced with actresses sees in geishas a “superficial purity which was their only weapon” against prostitutes. In literature they sometimes lack any purity at all; indeed, they can appear as interchangeable, rather commonplace companions whose association with carnality is the rule. A scholar from my own time positions geishas between prostitutes and artists — and between prostitutes and mistresses.

“THE FACE IS NOT ALLOWED TO EXPRESS ANYTHING”

In the establishment of the ochaya Imamura-san, to whom I was introduced through the good offices of my friend Mr. Kou (employing a geisha in Gion works as follows: you will not learn what you owe until a week or a month later, and for the first time the invoice will be sent to your introducer, who stands responsible should you default), I now await Kofumi-san with her kind smile and her stiff black wig curling upward from her white face. And this year, which marks my second occasion, she will bring her maiko, Konomi-san, who wears a flower ornament in her hair.

Kofumi-san belongs to the Noh-related Inoue School. Noh’s influence may be seen in other sorts of geisha dances. For instance, in a certain Utamaro print of an odoriko, a young geisha who specializes in dancing, we see the “Shakkyo” of Noh altered into a Kabuki dance. It is, we are told, a dance performed with a lion headdress decorated with tree peony à la Lady Yang. The caption continues, in my translator’s raw English which I have no heart to alter: “One of the good pieces in the series with a nice balance of the headgear and lowered hair, adorable hands and expression.” But Inoue dance is said to remain particularly close to Noh. Danyu-san the musician, who on that night would accompany each of the two geishas on the shamisen, explained to me: “The Inoue school is very unique. The legs and feet should not move too much. The face is not allowed to express anything.” This explains why the geishas of Gion exemplify, in some ways even more than Noh actors themselves, Noh masks livingly embodied. For the blurry understatement which the man’s inspired craft veils about his Adam’s apple, substitute the woman’s and her slender throat. In the Getty Villa in Malibu there stands a certain cult statue, Demeter, Hera or most likely Aphrodite, who reaches out to us with her broken marble fingers. The top of her head was robbed from her in a clean slant so that her face resembles a mask, a zo-onna perhaps, for it is, while equally smooth, less girlishly plump-cheeked than a ko-omote. Aphrodite stands, clothed in garments of limestone whose pink, blue and red paint remains only in hints and stains. A breeze is blowing her robe tight across her breasts and thighs as she prepares to step forward. In no way inconvenienced by her incompleteness, the goddess is alive! But how peculiar she is! A head upon a neck, a mask within a box, a masked actor, yes, I’ve seen those, but a hollow mask upon a neck, this proof that beauty is indeed, as the cliché runs, skin-deep, affects me like something between a paradox and a mystery. As for the geisha, she exists as a stylized body in heavenly robes. Her face has been painted until much of its fleshly individuality has been masked by the unearthly whiteness of the goddess. Here in short is another zo-onna. “The Inoue style is noted for its ability to express great emotion in spare, delicate gestures,” wrote one of its practitioners, a twentieth-century geisha. And Mr. Kanze told me: “Originally, there was a family who served the Emperor. The maiden from that family who was serving the Emperor, she created a dance which is similar to Noh. In the second generation a woman married a Noh actor, and her daughter got married with my great grandfather’s brother. A cousin of my great grandfather came to Kyoto and taught this Noh school dance. His name was Katayama.” — I wish I could tell you more about this famous branch of geisha dancing, which is said to be the most prestigious; unfortunately, its head, Inoue the Sixth, required me to submit my questions in writing and in advance, then declined to have anything to do with me.⁴

About Kofumi-san herself I can say that she must be in the neighborhood of sixty (Konomi-san has been a maiko for two years and is now seventeen), and that she is at the top of her profession. Mr. Mikata paid her this compliment: “Kofumi-san is a very good dancer. Her mind and technique are very well trained. My teacher used to perform at the Gion school, and he teaches Noh dance there. When I was still learning from him, sometimes I was a substitute teacher, so I saw her then. Zeami emphasizes that you need to practice a lot, and she does know a lot about that; she is really trained. That’s how much she has practiced — even more than enough!”

When I asked her to describe her experience of dancing, Kofumi-san replied: “I feel just natural. I know how to do it artificially, but I just can’t.”

(And here I recall Mr. Mikata responding to a question of mine about his previous day’s performance of “Michimori”: “There’s a rule about the boat. Within the range of the rule I can do as I like.”)

“Is it really the case that there is a defined sequence of movements for a geisha to open a door?”

“When you enter a tearoom, you open the door a little bit and then another little bit.”

In fact, so I have read, the way she opened a door, and bowed, and many other such acts, derived from the fourteenth-century samurai code known as the Ogasawara style.⁵

One transgender workbook defines “passing” for a member of one’s desired sex as “getting as many signals as possible lined up” — for instance, the “presenting” angle of the buttocks caused by high heels, the protrusions of womanly breasts. As with any performance worth accomplishing, the standard can be high. The rules of “passing” as a high-ranking geisha are more rigorous still.

What one noticed first about her as about her colleagues was the white, white skin, part of whose makeup was bush warbler droppings. In that classic twentieth-century short story “Portrait of an Old Geisha,” Okamoto Kanoko describes a thickly painted cheek as being “radiant as enamel.” As for Kofumi-san, her cheeks had hollowed slightly with age, so that the creases between the corners of her mouth and the wings of her nose could be seen as blue snow-shadows. The perimeters of her eyes did not appear young. All this was true especially in three-quarter profile. When she stood side by side with her maiko Konomi-san, her face showed at better advantage, widening and flattening like the legs of a Noh actor in his kimono. She seemed less at rest than Konomi-san, more conscious, more taut. A lock of her wig descended the center of her forehead, perhaps two-fifths of the way to her flattish painted eyebrows, so that her face expressed a heart shape.

Japanese women tend to mute the colors they wear as they age; and Kofumi-san’s attire was far more understated than her maiko’s. She wore a single reddish-gold hairpiece inset with sparkling hexagons. Her kimono was purplish-black with its obi making a red-overlined white square in the front, the braid whitely striping around her waist without any clasp. Around the knees and on the train went other clusters of much narrower horizontal stripes which ended variably. Some clusters were red and some were white. She had turned the whitish underside of the purplish-black outward to hold the edge with her hand, so that I could see the pale green leaf pattern on it.

As for Konomi-san, she knew fewer than ten dances as of yet. Here is Kawabata’s description of a prospective maiko: “The girl, about fourteen or fifteen, had beautiful white skin. Over her light summer kimono she wore a narrow red obi. She was shy… Her black hair glistened, the color of some mysterious water creature… As she walked away, her gait took on the look of a middle school student.” (The proprietress coaxes an old client: “Won’t you come with us? If only to see the young girls?”) Konomi-san was no longer a young girl as categorized by connoisseurs of the Edo period; but by the standards of my time she was almost still a girl; her beauty, which was breathtaking, had not quite completed its flowering into womanliness. She had smaller eyes than the other woman, and her painted eyebrows partook to a greater extent of the classic willow leaf shape. The lowermost edges of her hair (for maikos wear no wig) resembled a thick upturned U, sloping diagonally away from her ears; while Kofumi-san’s wig ended flatly. Her face resembled a perfect white egg, and her mouth was a crimson heart. The restful shadows around her eyes were of palest ultramarine; they served to accentuate the purity of her snowy cheeks. Her hairpiece was a bouquet of white and yellow chrysanthemums which might have been porcelain or stiff paper, a circlet of green grapes whose composition was glass or emerald but most probably jade, and a miniature shelf of crystal honeycomb from which hung long crystal fringe; this was almost surely a tortoise shell comb. Had I been able to see the crystal honeycomb more closely, I believe I would have found it to be a double row of glowing rings or beads. In my ignorance I cannot tell you why it was appropriate for that particular month.

She wore a night-blue hikizuri patterned with white and pale green leaves, flowers and huts. There were also widely S-curving stripes which might have been stylized ripples. Her right shoulder remained undecorated, an indication that she was a senior maiko, nearing the time when she must take on the more sober appearance of a geiko. Just beneath her breasts ran the wide red band of her obi-age, or silken obi support, whose pattern — eye-flowers within round-cornered broken diamonds — were all gold. (Kofumi-san’s lacked any pattern.) Beneath this was a band of equal width, the obi itself,⁶ made of orange, white and green triangles. These repeated below, much more widely — doubtless it was another fold of the same fabric, formed into a pubic-like triangle by the clasped sleeves of night-blue she held before her — and across it ran a red belt, the braid or obi-jime, which contained stitched or knotted or studded stripes of white, dark green, yellow or green. The clasp (pocchiri) was a glittering rectangle of pale crystalline whitish-green, bordered all around by white beads, perhaps pearls, and inset with a round ruby stone at each corner and an ovoid green stone at the center. For some reason she was not wearing the eri, or scarlet collar of the maiko; but just above her white-stockinged feet peeped a red robe with white chrysanthemums. (A Kyoto geisha informs us that red symbolizes female pubescence, “and we carefully show a trace at the collar and hem.” Thus the aesthetic known as iki.) There were also very dark, perhaps black, glimpses of what must have been the underside of the night-blue outer kimono; here I could see one elaborate and lonely plant, probably a chrysanthemum in profile, crowned by one yellow and two white flowers; spear-shaped leaves, either green or white, rose up off its pale blue stalk in diagonals, and a white root snaked to the border of the red robe.

Although she had not yet reached the legal drinking age, of course nobody was stupid enough to enforce the law in her case — one mark of Japanese superiority over my own nation of one-size-fits-all Puritans. Tonight she was going to perform a dance whose name meant literally “Fan to You,” the implication being of a male lover bestowing a fan upon a lady, and indeed, Konomi-san’s two fans would be crossed in signification of the union of man and woman.

Kofumi-san seemed quite happy with her. “She takes care of me,” she said lovingly. It would have been inappropriate for me to ask, but I supposed that when the girl commenced her formal maikodom, the two women must have “married” in the san-san-kudo ceremony binding a maiko to her “elder sister.”

Mr. Kanze merely laughed and said, “I don’t think so” when I asked him whether the face of a geisha with traditional hairstyle and makeup reminded him of any particular Noh mask; and when I asked Ms. Nakamura if a geisha face more greatly resembled a Noh mask or an ukiyo-e print, she replied: “I have never seen any geisha face that resembles a Noh mask. Thinking about ukiyo-e may be closer.”

Of course there is no one ukiyo-e face any more than there is a single female style of Noh mask. Utamaro’s girls are more plumpfaced than many others, with slightly wider eyes. The faces of Eishi’s beauties tend to be elongated. But it remains possible to speak of types. A generalized ukiyo-e face would incorporate a small rosebud mouth, narrow slanting eyes and flattened crescent eyebrows at human height. And so I pursued: “What would a geisha mask look like?”

“Maybe in the middle, between the two.”⁷

For many people, a geisha face would be Konomi-san’s, not Kofumi-san’s. It would be the face of a maiko. That is why a twentieth-century geisha of Gion remarks:

A maiko in full costume approximates the Japanese ideal of feminine beauty.

She has the classic looks of a Heian princess, as though she might have stepped out of an eleventh-century scroll painting. Her face is a perfect oval. Her skin is white and flawless, her hair black like a raven’s wing. Her brows are half moons, her mouth a delicate rosebud. Her neck is long and sensuous, her figure gently rounded.

I listened to the women giggling together and the sounds of the shamisen being tuned. Then the “Fan to You” dance commenced.⁸

NEVER AGAIN

The maiko’s pale face, her slender pliant slowness, accentuated that freshness she had, that sweet immaturity so dear to Kawabata, which even now as I write, two years after the fact, must be gone, just as her crimson half-smile subsided once she began to dance. I hope that she is a fullfledged geiko now, like Kofumi-san. (It is said that only fifty or sixty maikos remain in all Kyoto.) Her gold and red fans were flashing. The sad slow pizzicato of the shamisen, which might not have sounded sad at all when the song was new, functioned like the chants of a Noh chorus to fill the performance with ritual and rhythm, adding volumes of that hushed slowness, so that her movements approached both carefulness and living perfection. I had time only to note down this or that instant, such as when she pivoted, and I saw the way she grasped the gold fan behind her back, the darkness of her hair-knot when seen from behind the feeling of never again; and by now she had turned back round again, her face severe as she gazed down, crossing her arms, folding her knees, almost stamping her feet, the fans swirling, all the colors of her kimono imparting themselves in patterns that altered water-like, so that there was so much controlled multitudinous beauty that it was impossible to perceive it all at once; therefore it was infinite.

Her gaze was so far away. Sometimes her face was ivory in the electric light, and I remembered the hues of Noh masks in summer torchlight. The two fans touched. She whirled; she stood; she knelt. Danyu-san stared straight ahead, singing.

BLACK HAIR

The next dance was Kofumi-san’s, and the name of it was “Black Hair,” which may for all I know be the “Dark Hair” mentioned twice in Tanizaki’s Makioka Sisters and sung by the geisha Komako in Snow Country. The hero of the latter novel wonders whether it might have been the first song she learned, and it might well have been; for one night after a Noh performance I visited a Gion bar owned by a retired geisha in her sixties; she showed us an album of photos of herself from the days when she was young and beautiful; she had started at fifteen. She said that everyone learned the Black Hair song; it went with a certain style of hair; she didn’t know why.

When I asked Kofumi-san to explain it to me, she said: “This is the story of waiting for a lover or an ex-lover, and she cannot forget and the snow falls and she is remembering the past.”

“How old is it?”

“Maybe more than one hundred years.”

“Beautiful black hair is supposed to be a girl’s best feature, as important as her life,” Kofumi-san also said; and I thought: How could it be otherwise? Didn’t Lady Murasaki say the same? Near the end of the eleventh century, Izumi Shikibu composed a poem of ostensible indifference regarding the disarray of her black hair while she was lying either alone or with a lover, the verse does not say which; meanwhile, she expressed longing recollections of an unnamed someone who had caressed and combed it. And from the ukiyo-e prints I remembered Utamaro’s ladies, with their vast inky rolls of hair bristling with precious hairpins.⁹

The sad white face of Kofumi-san, which was not supposed to express anything in the course of a dance but which I think did — but what? What is a woman? — showed me how lovely age can be; and Kofumi-san, whose own self, whatever that meant, must live so far away beneath her black wig, froze; then she stamped; she was still and she was still and then she stamped. For me, at least, part of grace is space, each expression of femininity’s performance being bordered by such understatement or blankness as the kneeling immobility between actions in Noh. (In another Utamaro woodcut, a woman reads a letter with parted little lips, slender-wristed, her skin the same color as the scroll she reads from; a caption hangs on the page behind her, everything flat, blankness given its due.) And so she was still and then she stamped.

Her hand brushed her face almost as would a Noh actor’s when he symbolizes tears. She raised one hand, touched both hands together, then slowly seated herself, drawing herself in as the singer’s voice slowed and descended, the shamisen slowing and enriching its mournfulness while the geisha gazed with black eyesocket-awareness into the heart of everything. One hand poured time into the other, and the edges of her pale aged hands swept the air. (In the first century B.C., Philodemos the Epicurean sings the explicit charms of Charito, who is in her sixties. “Lovers, if you flee not from hot desire, enjoy Charito / forgetting her decades’ multitudes.”) She stamped once, grasped her long sleeve with the other hand, crossed her wrists again and again, gazing along her crossed sleeves.

Even at that time, when I happened to be involved in a love attachment in whose transience I could not at all believe, the beautiful mournfulness of Kofumi-san’s art was almost unbearable. When I remember that dance now, bereft of my attachment, I am moved in a particularly painful way. But when she was actually dancing, what I felt was simply, as I do at a great Noh performance, recognition of the moment. Although they certainly cause the future and fulfill the past, moments remain themselves, perishing as they flower; and because in order to live we perceive so many of our moments as identical or nearly so, this comprehension with the heart, which is to say this being aware of aware, is rare, and for all I know may be rarer for Kofumi-san while she dances for me than to me while I watch her. Like Noh’s slowness and the brevity of a Heian tanka, the gestures of this great geisha articulate my present instant into art, into beautiful meaning. Once upon a time, the secret moans of the woman I loved did the same, but only for me (or so I hoped). And what Kofumi-san now did was only for me, and only for my interpreter, and only for whomever else might have been there (at that time only the ochaya-san was present, and then only between dances). Her fingertip-gestures were as delicately open as the ferntips before the base of an ovoid rock rising from the moss in a temple garden.

“HIS CARRIAGE NATURALLY BECOMES IN ELEGANT TASTE”

So what is a woman? How is this geisha’s superb womanliness constructed? Much of it comes into being in her dressing room — for instance, when she dons her wig, whose crisp edges remind me of the way a perfectly manicured pine offers distinct ovoid lobes of needles to the eye. But what artifice or fluency occurs when while dancing she raises one sleeve to her mouth? Looking into her red-underlined,¹⁰ black-overlined eyes, I asked her: “When you’re dancing, do you try to think of anything or not?”

“I wish to think nothing, but it’s rather hard. Nothingness would be the best.”

“Do you feel?”

“I strive to feel nothing.”

Mr. Mikata had remarked to me that “Inoue the Fourth says that she does not think anything. Their sons, they’re professional, too. Her second son used to ask her why she could do what she did, and then she said, well, you just practice, practice and still practice, and there’s nothing that you need to think.”

Could this be all there is? If grace is indeed a performance, how can it be accomplished without thought? No beautiful woman has yet explained to me in detail how she expresses her beauty; probably the grace of the body lives in the body and therefore beyond words. I used to think that Zeami’s instructions on these matters tended to beg the question. “If the shite dances and acts with elegant speeches his carriage naturally becomes in elegant taste.” How did Zeami arrive at his determination of what was elegant? Who decided what and how to practice, practice and still practice? Or did this elegance, like a folktale, derive from the collective consciousness? For that matter, might not it be that dance also exists beyond words? (Danyu-san for her part said: “Because songs have words, I have to think.”) I never became sufficiently experienced to perceive much of geisha dance’s expressions. And the geishas gave me less guidance than had Mr. Umewaka. Perhaps they followed Zeami’s spirit, and kept secrets. (“Secrecy is the essential art of geisha,” says a Tokyo member of the profession; and a frequenter of geisha houses in Kyoto remarks that he has seen geisha making themselves up but prefers not to because “I don’t want to know their tricks; I don’t want to know their sad stories.”) Perhaps there was nothing that I needed to think.

But I frequently felt myself to be on the verge of learning quite specific matters. For instance, Konomi-san had said that her most significant challenge was this: “To turn the fans. Turning the fans you must do many other things at the same time.”¹¹ (Here again I remember Zeami’s dictum that whether an actor plays woman, warrior, demon or old man, “it should seem as though each were holding a branch of flowers in his hand.” The geisha’s branch of flowers is of course her fan.) And so I supposed that these many other things that she did could be itemized and categorized. After all, it had helped me to learn that an actor’s finger slid down the cheek of a Noh mask from the corner of the eye signifies tears. Just as in mai dance the Noh actor glides his fan up and down before his heart to represent joy, so the way that Konomi-san turns her two fans presumably means something. But the maiko did not seem inclined or perhaps able to tell me which other things she needed to accomplish when turning the fans; and when I asked Kofumi-san what I should do to prepare myself in advance to appreciate geisha dances, and how I could learn their vocabulary, she replied: “It’s a personal feeling. Isn’t it better that you don’t get anything in advance? It’s all up to the viewer.”

A translator of the thirteenth-century German Nibelungenlied remarks of its unknown author that “he did not reduce his characters to a mechanism, however refined… He has greater insight into human nature than he puts explicitly into words, and to find it we must read between the lines, adding nothing of our own. His characters’ actions are mostly so incisive that although we cannot always show their continuity we sense it and accept it.” When I read between the lines of, say, Kawabata, I sometimes feel confident to identify a specific motive or event which has not been spelled out; at other times I sense no more than a continuity not even of plot but simply of style or atmosphere. At such points I grow haunted, and do in fact add something of my own. What is the meaning of a certain silence between the old man and his daughter-in-law in The Sound of the Mountain? Does Komako in Snow Country truly believe her own assertions regarding the futility of her attachment? As Kofumi-san said, “it’s all up to the viewer.” And when feminine movement engages me, perhaps it does so only through continuity. What does a geisha dancer bring to my gaze? What does my perception add? What, indeed, constitutes understatement in a woman I desire? In part, it comes from the fact that she wears clothes. When I see her, I want to undress her. There is more to her than she allows my eyes to know. This restraint upon my gaze cannot be the thing of value in and of itself. After all, the erotic woodcuts of Utamaro, which depict genitalia in frank and sometimes even exaggerated detail, are far superior to most of Japan’s contemporary photographic pornography, which blacks out, white-encircles or else pixellates the clitoris, pubic hair, etcetera. In other words, if it is to enhance the aesthetic effect, the restraint must itself be beautiful, like Shun’e’s thirteeenth-century example of a curtain of mist which teases us with incomplete glimpses of the scarlet leaves of autumn. The titillations of keyhole voyeurism’s glowing jewel-like little image swimming in perfect darkness, and then again the spectator’s peculiar ease of vision — vision led or misled — when watching a Noh play, may both achieve a comparable impression, the first most likely unintentionally on the part of what is perceived, the second thanks to art. Dress, stockings, earrings, lingerie, all these make barriers, to be sure, but, like the robe and mask of a Noh actor, they ought to be beautiful in and of themselves. One American fashion star praises the erotic allure of her black high heels’ red soles. And in the case of a geisha dance, the greater elaboration of dress, completed with fan motions, and left still more unknowable to me than Noh’s arcana, makes for any number of beautiful mysteries. Just as when for the first time a man glimpses the skin below a woman’s neck he can envision her nakedness more plausibly but certainly not exactly (and, as I have mentioned, the W-shape of the unpainted skin on the back of a geisha’s neck — adjoining fangs — is said to represent the vulva), so when I see the edge of a geisha’s under-kimono I begin to imagine not her naked body necessarily, but the layers and layers of unknown colors, dances, thoughts, all the way down to the woman herself, whom I can never hope to know. One observer opines that a Noh mask is in fact more expressive than a geisha’s white-painted face, which nonetheless he calls “electrifying,” I suppose because it is simultaneously pristine and alien and because it understates. What might the geisha be expressing otherwise? There’s another mystery.

These enigmas may in fact have no solution; they may be meaningless. In “Black Hair,” which stillness or fan sequence of Kofumi-san’s specifically represents remembering the past? This might be asking the wrong question. Shostakovich insisted that the dissection of his great compositions into program music was spurious, as may be the case with “Black Hair.” Then again, it may not. Perhaps not even Kofumi-san knows the answer, which might have died with the original choreographer — or was never born.

Here the divergence from Noh felt most significant to me. When I asked Mr. Mikata how one learned and progressed as a Noh actor, he said: “Well, first you try to do your utmost, just try to shout loud, and move a lot, and these are the very basics so that you can get the sense. After that, if you work hard, then, you need some spiritual training. The body-sense and the mind-sense are also needed.” As for Mr. Umewaka, when he was a child his grandfather taught him to visualize the loveliness of imaginary cherry blossoms. The geishas never mentioned either visions or spiritual training, and their silence on that subject was appropriate, for their dances did not simultaneously express and distance themselves from attachment; they created it.

Some geisha performances resemble Noh less than they do kyogen. It is not uncommon for geisha singers to make fun of Noh; the Inoue School aside, many do not want to be too serious. The music may sound Noh-like; the flute is similar and the three kinds of drum, which may or may not appear, are all the same.

Kofumi-san did tell me this: “What my elders used to say was: You have to spend all your life carefully. If you live every day carefully, then you will flourish in your dance. They kept saying that. If you’re on stage, it’s as if you’re completely naked. A perfect artist needs the grace and dignity to exist in that situation. This advice will become even more important to me as I grow older. When you’re young, people will look at you no matter what.”

This of course was equivalent to what Zeami had written about the true and false flower.

I have already proposed, following the spirit of Zeami, to progressively forget a woman’s appearance, identity and soul in order to perceive her grace; what Zeami means by the last two categories is obviously quite different from what you or I would; otherwise how could such deep seeing be possible for a spectator as opposed to a lover? When I myself experience this sort of forgetting at, say, a symphony, I may be closer than I imagine to the people who fall happily asleep at Noh plays; but the way it feels is as if I have been taken beyond my path in an autumn forest, the brass instruments creating a ground of red, brown and yellow leaves, the flutes breezes, the piano something icy; I no longer know that I am listening to a specific composition, or that I am sitting in the dress circle, gazing down at the orchestra; I have forgotten the composition, the composer and my life; this must be the cliché called “reverie.” There were moments when I entered into a similar state when Kofumi-san danced for me. When I study the photographs of her I made, I see ever more distinctly the lovely decrepitudes of her cheek; I grow familiar with the texture of her painted lips; but when she danced her face became, as she wanted it to be, a mask; she herself became a performance of gorgeous movements. I never lost my sense of the transience of Konomi-san’s dance; while Kofumi-san, I suppose because she is the more experienced artist, can lead my perception into a place which is fuller than time, not a forest, exactly, but a realm of stillnesses and angular motions. What is her identity and what is her soul? How could I dare to say I ever knew them? But although I may be incapable of perceiving as Zeami might wish me to, I can say that this place or space, founded as it is upon Kofumi-san’s continued dancing, takes me away somewhere. Is what I feel then her grace? I cannot say. And (so I suspect) neither can she. — If only I had thought to ask about her three beings! — Zeami: “Genuine Perfect Fluency in fact has no connection with the actor’s conscious artistic intentions or with any outward manifestation of those intentions,” since he now transcends his training.

Thanks to Mr. Umewaka I have been privileged to see Yuya’s dancing, which is as pure as the leaf-breath of the Shoren-in, breath I have longed to breathe, and while there was a natural residuum of erotic desire in my longing, it was also peace that I longed for; the more I breathed, the more I craved to keep inhaling the purity of those afternoons beneath the camphor trees. Thanks to Kofumi-san I have lost myself in stillness, swirling, ruthlessly stylized flashing movement; and the sadness of her “Black Hair” dance, like the pathos of attachment in a Noh play, achieves neutral tranquility, in much the same way as the green segmented cylinder-towers of the Shoren-in’s bamboo grove grow grey as one falls into their shadow, silver-grey, not lead-grey; greyness becomes simply one more precious pigment in their light.

JEWELS IN THE LIGHT

At the end of the eighteenth century, Chobunsai Eishi’s grand courtesans come palefaced, serene as moons, escorted by their pairs of little girl attendants. Sometimes one can see them boating on the Sumida River. In Chokosai Eisho’s Kansei era woodcut “Two Beauties Holding a Lantern,” the white faces are especially delicate against the pale greyish wash of grass and faintly yellowed sky, each lower lip full as in a Noh mask, the black hair spiked with ornaments. And in the early twenty-first century I glimpse geishas; their hair was black and their faces were powdered ever so white, because a millenium before the Heian Emperor wished to watch court beauties from behind his screen; they were jewels in the darkness.

In that Gion bar owned by the retired geisha there was an unspeakably beautiful maiko whose client was an old gentleman; he was drinking little cups of whiskey and she was drinking tea. What can I say of her except that she was beautiful, so beautiful that I cannot remember more than the light her face cast upon me? When she left, she knelt and bowed to us with heartbreaking grace.

I lacked the funds to hire Kofumi-san again that year, so I went out, and rapidly reached the grounds of Yasaka Shrine, or Gion Shrine as it is also known. By day I sometimes saw distant reflections of gold things in the latticed windows; but the day had ended long ago. Once upon a time, a certain eight-headed snake, symbol of all evil, was defeated by the shrine’s god, the younger brother of the lovely Amaterasu; that had happened almost as long ago as today’s sunset. Around the beginning of the fourteenth century, Lady Nijo (who also visited the Shoren-in) made a one-thousand-day retreat here. Gion Festival, now twelve hundred years old, is centered around this shrine. Here the geishas still come to pray, so it is said. Although I have rarely seen anyone in geisha dress pass through these grounds, I am but a foreigner who perceives little; and it may be that some of the women who come here in early afternoon are geishas wearing the attire of this world.

It was a midnight of crickets, glowing white and orange lamps with red crests on them, and lightless stone lanterns. My desire for attachment did not circle round and round as at the Shoren-in, because this place was less a world behind walls than a compound of trees, or of wide flagstoned alleys with lamps and trees on either side. The main building with its lanterns and golden-tipped vermilion roof-beams was not the center of anything. Passing between islands of wooden darkness surrounded by glowing lamps, I felt lost. The tops of the wide steps glowed in the greenish lights. And just as the white, white face of a geisha can shine out of darkness like the moon itself, the ancient laurel moon of Prince Yuhara, so the labyrinthine void of Yasaka Shrine rose out of my expectations’ darkness; but it shone around me rather than at me. I remembered the maikos of Gion and Ponto-cho, whom I was occasionally lucky enough to glimpse as they flitted out of a gleaming black taxicab and into the teahouse where they had been called upon to dance; at those times they showed themselves to no more purpose than the moon did. In the few seconds allotted to me to gaze upon them, I was thrilled and fulfilled; afterward the memory became one of my treasures. And something of this came to me from the orange light which shone through the shrine’s latticework.

Her own training, Kofumi-san remarked twice, had been quite different from Konomi-san’s. “The people around me were good people but very strict.”

“It must have been very painful at times,” I said.

“The dancing was, yes. When you start learning to dance, you’re disciplined for how to bow, how to remove your footwear and everything, it’s true. I would just look at the senior maiko and copy her.”

As for the musician Danyu-san, she had begun when she was six. She looked young but might have been close to fifty. I asked whether she would have chosen her career of her own accord, and she said simply: “They make it so that the child realizes she cannot do anything else.” — And who is a woman? Perhaps her identity is founded on the realization that she can be no one else.

What is a woman? A twentieth-century American classical ballet dancer remarks upon how in nineteenth-century Vienna “a gentleman would place a handkerchief between his hand and his partner’s when he embraced her to dance, so that he wouldn’t touch her even with his gloved hand. Spiritually and aesthetically, a woman was untouchable, unobtainable, the dream for which he longed” — at which point the feminist critic who has just cited this reminds us to consider that period’s “gynecological ignorance” and the resulting suffering of women, in order for us to better “appreciate women’s enjoyment of this illusion.” What Kofumi-san suffered during her apprenticeship, and the choices Danyu-san never had, not to mention the sorrows of all those women who for centuries were sold into geishadom, their mercantile value fading year by year like the dyes of those woodblock prints of teahouse girls, overtower my imagination. I hope not to insult any of them with the false sympathy which derives from imagining myself in their situations, being all the while half-blinded by my own particular fantasies of self-actualization. Nor would I care to dismiss their “enjoyment,” such as it may be, of whichever femininities they must perform.

A modern-day Tokyo geisha informs us that most of her colleagues began very young and poor, and that they needed to find patrons “as early as eleven.” The translator of a rural geisha’s memoir of heartbreak, exploitation and abuse opines: “The romanticization of geisha life as dedicated principally to the pursuit of traditional arts ignores the poverty that drove many parents to indenture their daughters to geisha houses. Such romanticization also erases certain geisha from the collective memory and overlooks the bottom line of the whole geisha business,” which is, “of course, sex for money.”

Kofumi-san would, I suspect, be less than pleased if I dared to refer to her bottom line in any terms, let alone these. Of course she must survive; I hope that she profits. I have been privileged to witness her accomplishment of excellence. The relationship between us was formal, asexual, mercantile, aesthetic — much as when I bought a ticket to one of Mr. Umewaka’s performances. I proudly do romanticize my experiences of both of their performances. That is the greatest compliment I can pay them.

Once upon a time there lived a Noh actor named Takabayashi Ginji. In 1956 he was disbarred from the Kita School for the offense of “impertinence.” He seems to have offended his teacher’s son. He wrote: “I was a defendant who did not know his crime.” And once upon a time there was a Noh actor, or a geisha — come to think of it, there were thousands — who attempted the dance of feminine grace, and received “discipline,” shouts, beatings, punishments. They had not yet learned to imitate beauty with sufficient exactitude to make it their own. They could not glide while bearing an imaginary branch of flowers.

This book is about representations of feminine beauty. I hope that I never lose sight of the price that so many transvestites, transsexuals, Noh actors, onnagatas, prostitutes, courtesans, geishas, elegant women, women longing to be elegant, women who believe that they exist for men while men do not exist for them,¹ women keeping themselves “decent” or hoping against hope to look five years younger, lonely widows, ancient ladies who weep when they look in the mirror, desperate high school girls, careful executive women, and so many other expressers of femininity must pay. (Here again, and still without comment, I cite the onnagata Bando Tamasaburo: “When they are slightly uncomfortable, women are more erotic.”) To the extent that beauty and grace succeeds as performance, I fail to see behind the mask. What is a woman? Doubtless she may also be, among other things, someone who suffers. All the same, she must also be, at least sometimes, someone who actually does enjoy the illusion she projects, the power she commands.

My dear friend Shannon has sometimes expressed bitterness that she is not a man. She says that men are freer, more powerful. I once remarked that surely an attractive woman, for instance Shannon, can be envied for her ability to turn heads. She replied: “I’ll tell you how it actually is. You go downstairs in your high heels and you worry about tripping. You worry that your lipstick is smearing, and you need to find a restroom to check yourself in the mirror and there’s no restroom. You constantly repair yourself, and you have no time to be in the moment. When you’re young you don’t understand what little power you have, which means that you don’t have it; and once you start getting older you spend your time worrying.”

Disagreeing with her, Zeami wrote in 1428: “The actor will be able to discern clearly his strong and weak points and lessen his bad, thus becoming a peerless master in his particular art.” He “no longer needs to think out his performance, but can perform without artifice.”

But lessening one’s bad points requires continuing discipline, no question about it. Mishima Yukio, whose sexuality was ambiguous, spent the final years before his suicide “cultivating my orchard,” which is to say his body, “for all I was worth. For my purpose, I used sun and steel.” In short, he became a bodybuilder. Meanwhile, the glamor queen Molly Sims keeps a spoon in the fridge and touches it to each of her eyes for five minutes straight. She refrains from eating soy sauce at night in order not to look “puffy” in the morning; for the same reason, she sleeps with the heat low. As for the onnagata Shozo Sato, he makes it his habit for a full three hours before any Kabuki performance to abstain from drinking, in order to avoid ruining his face with perspiration.

Those who eschew or fall short of such professional constancy may fight more temporary campaigns against ugliness. As I write this, I wonder how many dedicated soldiers are presently engaged in the “Goodbye Cellulite, Hello Bikini Challenge,” which is “a four-week program designed to get you bikini-ready in four important areas”? Fortunately for them, a manufacturer of skin cream stands ready to furnish munitions for their arsenals.

Self-loathing complements discipline. “We’ve all been there — that feeling of not wanting anyone to look too closely at your face.” Thus runs an advertisement in Allure magazine. New Beauty wants us to know that some women are humiliated by “the appearance of their genitalia or enlarged labia,” not to mention vaginal looseness during intercourse. “Feel Feminine Again,” New Beauty invites us; and why not? “Vaginal rejuvenation” requires merely pain and money! Another procedure explicated in this same publication is called “balancing your ethnic features.” A self-dissatisfied woman can, for example, buy a rhinoplasty to overcome the frequent hump and sagging tip of the Mediterranean nose, or increase the prominence of the tip and bridge of the flat Asian nose, or narrow the nostrils and correct the “under-projected tip” of the African-American nose. Cost as of 2008: Up to fourteen thousand dollars. Breaking the nose “is not necessary in every case.”

Several women I know rip out their pubic hairs in globs of hot wax. “The child realizes she cannot do anything else.” Some subject themselves to breast augmentation operations, despite the twenty-four percent reoperation rate (for breast reconstruction, that figure is nearly forty-one percent). A friend of mine got breast reductions. Now she feels self-conscious about her two grinning red scars. There is a proven market for the buttocks lift, whose mildest form involves slicing into the small of the back, then pulling up the buttocks “like a pair of pants,” as one doctor describes it. The injection of botulism toxin into the face is almost commonplace among my middleaged female executive friends; the effects last only about four months. For women to whom the danger is a secondary consideration (or, more likely, unknown to them), Brazilian hair-straightening treatments will anoint them with the carcinogen formaldehyde.

Sometimes one part of the body gets transplanted to another. A commercial photographer who proposed to employ the “liquefy” option to digitally edit a picture of me explained that at my age (I was then forty-five) the flesh of the face has begun to ooze down the sides of the skull, so that one develops both hollows under the eyes and sagging jowls. Needless to say, surgeons offer a solution: fat grafting from the lower cheeks to around the eyes. Pulchritude’s technicians can also graft skin from the soles of a male-to-female transsexual’s feet to the walls of her new vagina, whose attempt to heal shut must then be excruciatingly frustrated three times a day through the insertion of a vaginal dilator; I think I would prefer laser lipolysis, which “literally melts away fat in trouble spots like your abdomen.” Meanwhile, how many ten-year-old girls are weeping at this moment while their mothers grip their faces and pop their blackheads?

“It’s no fun being a geisha,” complains the heroine of a Nagai Kafu story, to which her on-again-off-again lover replies: “It’s no fun being anything else either.”

A WISH FOR CHARLOTTE VON MAHLSDORF

“They make it so that the child realizes she cannot do anything else.” “It’s no fun being anything else either.” The efforts made to accomplish femininity may derive from exploitation, false consciousness, or what the actress may consider, or come to consider, as her very nature. “Ultimately, ours is a journey of anguish,” writes the transsexual woman Aleisha Brevard. A girl playing with makeup or an apprentice of Mr. Umewaka sets out, one hopes, on rather more pleasant excursions.

When I first met Mr. Mikata, within that temple in Kyoto, in a room of tatami mats and whose sliding partition showed a hint of shining floor beyond, he was giving a lessson to an older lady who knelt chanting from a text. He sang with his pale hands clasped in his lap, stern and a trifle severe, as a Noh teacher probably is expected to be. Or could he simply have been serious about the craft and his own duty to those who came to him? He was darkhaired, much younger than Mr. Umewaka, less naturally sunny. It seemed to me that he was singing from the bottom of his throat, frowning, closing his eyes, holding the syllables and lifting them upward like the corners of pagodas. His voice resonant, projecting, powerful. Nodding in time with the singing of his pupil, listening with closed eyes and downcast head to that timid old lady, he steered the lesson to its end. She bowed and thanked him.

I complimented his beautiful voice, and he dismissively said that he had a sore throat, thanks to the dry air.

Next came a lesson to a young man. I tried to interpret the golden flash of Mr. Mikata’s fan, which moved first in a circular motion parallel to the ground, then up, then down, every aspect of its journey very careful and exact. It rotated, then the foot stamped; he was singing all the while. I found it surprising to see the expressiveness of his face with the mask off, even his eyebrows moving dramatically as he sang, although perhaps this was to emphasize some point for his pupil.

It all seemed arduous, and to me tedious, like observing the practice of any musical instrument, but not unpleasant to the participants. Perhaps it even gratified them sometimes. As my best friend Ben remarks, “I can’t say I’m against it.”

Self-effacing repetitions of a dance, of a hammer-stroke or a particular calligraphic twist, not to mention the dilations of a transsexual’s neovagina by means of graduated plastic stents, may eventually bring the practitioner to a state of perfect accomplishment. This notion is called muga, selflessness. The strict discipline required to become an Inoue School geisha dancer (in contradistinction to the intoxication of a Greek maenad who throws back her marble head in ecstasy) evidently produces a similar result. Might the accomplishment of femininity, or its performance, sometimes be characterized by a state of being in which the woman realizes that she cannot (and hopefully would not) do anything else?

Such being entails continual becoming. Once upon a time there lived a young woman named Agnes, who did whatever she had to do to keep her boyfriend from discovering that she had a penis. When she finally told him, it still remained essential to conceal the fact that she had been raised as a boy. Eventually she succeeded in gaining permission from the Gender Identity Clinic to have the operation. What then? “A review of Agnes’s passing occasions and management devices may be used to argue how practiced and effective Agnes was in dissembling,” a researcher concludes; he also writes: “It would be incorrect of Agnes to say that she has passed. The active mode is needed; she is passing. Inadequate though this phrasing is, it summarizes Agnes’s troubles.”

In her apprenticeship, the famous Gion geisha Iwasaki Mineko was sometimes punished without cause — but of course with reason. One need not approve of this procedure to comprehend its possible effectiveness for inducing muga. She writes, much as Zeami did: “I believed that self-discipline was the key to beauty.”

What is a woman? Here comes a maiko. “More of a painted doll than a woman, her oval face is painted lustrous white,” writes one observer, bringing back to my mind any young-lady Noh mask with its depths of pure white oyster shell and hide glue before coloring. “At the nape of the neck, which Japanese men find especially provocative, is a lick of naked, unpainted flesh.” — But to me, she is a woman, a painted woman, not a painted doll. Her face and neck entice and sometimes awe me. Perhaps they provoke me. But her self remains fundamentally whatever it is, with or without her self-discipline; I believe that neither she nor I could be anyone else. To be sure, she could perform her geisha femininity more or less expertly, perfecting her imitations and then inhabiting them. In more than one of his treatises, Zeami quotes the proverb that “the truth and what looks like it are two different things.” This is why a beginner’s exactest imitation of any gesture made by a possessor of the true flower will not achieve that flowerhood.

But what is a woman? Unlike Hilary Nichols and “Sachiko,” the renowned Berlin transvestite Charlotte von Mahlsdorf believed herself to be a woman in her soul; her male sexual organs “meant nothing” to her. The compulsion to be a woman was so great that she dressed up, curled her hair, picked up her purse and went out with her similarly minded friend Christine — in the Third Reich, after curfew. Later, when the Russians arrived, she risked rape by continuing to appear in public as a female. Christine was in fact raped. Charlotte lived into old age, and was honored by her government — indeed, honored as a woman. I wish the same for Aleisha Brevard, for Konomi and Kofumi, for all achievers of femininity, in all degrees of pride, longing, suffering.

Early on a cold evening in Kanazawa, in a small square tatami room on the first floor of the ochaya, the young geisha Suzuka kneels before the mirror and seats herself neatly on her crossed heels, which of course are snow-white in their tabi. Her long hair hangs straight down her back. She is a very pretty girl, but not yet a jewel in the darkness.

Rapidly wiping the white foundation onto her face, she begins to pale. Now the second layer has already touched her left cheek. Its whiteness stands out against the first layer as much as that did against her natural skin. It has been reformulated, she answers me; it no longer contains lead, and (how sad!) may not have bush warbler droppings, either. To me it seems to be paste, not powder. In many light, expert dabs, rubs and pats of the little cloth, she makes her face snowier, whiter, then white on white. Her untouched ears take on a peculiar conspicuousness; they will be hidden beneath the wig.

She has agreed with her ochaya-san (who soon will be sitting cross-legged over a low table with my interpreter one sliding door away, first serving her tea, then accepting from her careful hands an envelope filled with the appropriate number of clean ten-thousand-yen notes) to show me how she prepares for the night; hence supposedly I can ask her whatever I like; she always replies, but her mind is quite properly focused more on her face than on me. To be honest, I cannot tell whether she is curt, absent, indifferent, hurried or simply shy in this slightly intimate situation. I kneel on the tatami floor well behind her; twice I request the interpreter to remind her that I will leave whenever she wishes. Most likely I am less an embarrassment than a moderately lucrative annoyance.¹ I ask her what defines a beautiful woman, and, tilting her face toward the mirror, she calmly says that a beautiful person must face the issues and make her best effort. Watching her resembles standing in reddish darkness above my developer tray, which I gently, ceaselessly rock while the lovely silver image begins to bloom forth from the snow white photographic paper; except that in Suzuka’s case it happens in reverse: her face is perfecting itself into something new, but this newness is ever lighter, more featureless and masklike. Now she is whitening her neck, which seems to lengthen into a swan’s. She pats the cloth upon her eyebrows; they fade; her lips whiten. What is she, this shining feminine being with white lips? I ask her how she feels when she looks into the mirror, and without much interest she replies: “It makes me feel that the atmosphere of my face is different.”

Her lips are snowy! I never could have imagined the resulting eerie gorgeousness.

The little round hand mirror and the squarish wall mirror give me three images of her, two from the front and one from her back. Carefully speeding round and round her eyes with a little brush dipped in red, she continues her construction of extrahuman femininity. The water-based red paste will stay on all night. The white foundation will need touching up, just as does the foundation which the Tokyo makeup artist Yukiko applies to her clients (male cross-dressers); like Yukiko, Suzuka uses the special paper from Kyoto to remove oil from the skin when those touchups occur.

Now Suzuka brushes a layer of black over the red. Each woman finds her own style, she says.

More slowly now the brush goes round and round. When she tilts her chin forward, her white face in the hand mirror shockingly resembles a Noh mask. This mirror she holds approximately at mouth level, looking down, brushing around her lashes. Her eyes are now more contrasty, the lids very black, standing out. Three long locks taper down the back of her neck.

Now she is brushing on her eyebrows, in broad arcs whose outer side continues down around the eye nearly twice as far as where they started. Rapidly, like a tongue stimulating a lover’s body near the point of climax, she goes over and over it. And suddenly the geisha face is there.

I step out for a moment. The ochaya-san helps her on with her kimono.²

Brushing the whiteness down her throat, which seems to lengthen like a swan’s, kneeling at the mirror as if at an altar, she now gives the sponge to the ochaya-san, who has been coming in and out of the room. The older woman pulls down the back collar of the kimono to brush semicircles of whiteness on the back of Suzuka’s neck. There will be no three legs of paint; those are for maikos, who exist only in Kyoto.

The ochaya-san, who made her debut at fifteen, used to be excellent at both dancing and drums; in those days one had to be accomplished at two things. She knew how to dance much younger than that, she says. I compliment her on how well she has trained Suzuka-san, and she says that the girl learned quickly; she herself had been very slow and stupid, she politely adds; I reply with my own stab at politeness that I will never believe the latter.

The obi-tier already sits in the next room watching television. He is a cheerful, burly man in late middle age who no longer possesses all his teeth. His main profession is the manufacture of shoji screens, but he has fallen into this other work because, he reasons modestly, he happens to live nearby. I tell him that he must be very skilled, and he laughs and said that nothing is required except for physical strength.

At the summons, he comes into Suzuka’s dressing room and yanks her obi tight. Together, he and the ochaya-san wind it round and round the girl until it seems to cut into her waist. Her hips protrude at first, but they commence stiffening her like the rings of bamboo in a paper lantern, the green kimono flowing out from her hips like a bell. The zoologist Desmond Morris believes that the ideal waist-to-hip ratios of men and women (nine to ten in the former, seven to ten in the latter) defy cultural differences; the protrusion of the breasts above renders female waist indentation still more of a gender signal.³ The obi-tying most definitely contradicts this. (Morris does admit: “The tightly laced young woman is forced to adopt a stiffly erect, vertical posture of a kind that gives her an air of graceful aloofness.” And Kenneth Clark praises the Capitoline Aphrodite, who half crouches with one hand under her breasts and the other almost shielding her crotch, as an exemplar of “compactness and stability. At no point is there a plane or an outline where the eye may wander undirected.” Thus, excepting her hairpicks, the form of a geisha.)

Now the ochaya-san stands behind her, tying the second strip of obi under the breast so as to pull in those wide, wide sleeves near the armpits; that way only the outer portions hang down like wings. From the rear, Suzuka-san looks ever more like a stylized angel.

Next comes the red sash, the man pulling it extremely tight across the back of the waist. Sudddenly the girl has become a confection of wraps and knots, the red sash going round and round, stiffening her further, thickening her from buttock to armpit.

Then the brocade strip goes on, the girl turning round and round as the other two spool her in. I see golden arcs and white flowers, golden fronds of grass, the man pulling tight, tight, with all his strength, the ochaya-san raising verticals, then tucking in, the young woman growing ever stiffer and straighter, so that a rectangle of brocade hangs down her back, almost reaching itself in its previous fold.

The ochaya-san takes a slender white cord and laces Suzuka in more, firmly pushing and rapping her hips and back.

Suzuka-san is tying a scarlet cord over her front. The obi-tier has departed. The ochaya-san goes out to make tea. Now it is time for the wig.

The wig box is an irregular hexagon whose three back sides meet at right angles. It is dark-colored and reaches to the girl’s waist.

The wig weighs a kilogram, Suzuka says. The wigmaker in Tokyo has told her that each head is different. When their careers begin, the geishas all visit him to have their measurements taken. Sometimes she must send it back to the wigmaker to have it redone. All this must be inconvenient, but at least, unlike Konomi-san and her sister maikos in Kyoto, Suzuka can remove her wig at the end of a night, so that she need not sleep on a wooden pillow.

Opening the box, and thereby exposing this concretion on the long white neck of its stand, she begins to spice it up with hairpicks from one of many drawers. She sticks in a long gold one bearing a gilded plum flower, emblem of this season (it is acceptable to symbolize a time a trifle too early, but never too late). Next she sinks a crescent-comb into the hair. The comb is red “because I’m young.” (You may recall that red is also a sign of youth in Noh kimonos.) At last comes the black barrette, much heavier than barrettes I normally see.

She crowns herself with the wig in one easy motion, then ties it on with a narrow green ribbon which goes round the back of the neck; her forefingers smooth the wig down around her ears. Now she is a true geisha right down to the heart shape in her forehead. Continuing to deploy the magnifying mirror, she touches up her mouth with a brush, carefully going over and over her red lips, making the upper lip into another heart, filling out the lower, then gently patting everything.⁴

There is time for me to take a photograph or two. The obi-tier seizes this chance to rush in with his own camera, gleefully snapping away. Then Suzuka goes to her taxi.

Yukiko’s salon is unmarked, naturally, and there is a discreet second-floor entrance. The street is quiet, at least for Tokyo; her clients must feel safe. The room is by my standards smallish — about the size of the chamber where Suzuka-san’s colleague geisha Kasami-san danced for me. While Yukiko makes tea, I go into the tiny lavatory to change into my new black dress.

Laying out three disks of foundation, Yukiko, who is thirtyish and very pretty, with long brown hair, shows me the corresponding pictures in the Japanese fashion magazines: One foundation looks best photographed and printed onto glossy paper; one is more appropriate to going out on the street; and the third is intermediate. I choose the second.

Gandhi advises us to do what we do without expecting results; and I entertain decidedly minuscule hopes of achieving maiko-esque beauty, especially since although I carefully shaved in my hotel less than two hours before, Yukiko sweetly, reproachfully inquires whether I have shaved.

She begins with a cream-type astringent: Clarins’s Lotion Tonique.¹ The base cream will be Diorskin 001 base de teint, which contains a hint of pearl, making it a trifle shiny. The purpose is to even the skin. One adds less of it in summer, more “where it needs it more.” Yukiko begins with the Diorskin by dabbing with her forefinger a spot on my forehead, an upper and lower spot on each cheek, and a spot between my mouth and my chin. On the forehead she works the stuff horizontally, elsewhere vertically. Then she addresses the zone beneath each eye, proceeding in descending arcs from the center of the underlid out to the cheek, her touch so firm that my flesh moves. Next she rubs it on the eyelids. All the while, I must keep my eyes open.

Now it is time for the number three cream foundation. Formerly, she says, Japanese women used to lighten their faces with foundation, but at the moment they prefer to slightly darken them, making them appear smaller. Firmly patting with the sponge (she always employs a new sponge for every step), smoothing around my eyes, she instructs me to look up while staying still. After two hours my skin oil will reappear, she says. She mentions a special paper from Kyoto which can absorb it (an easy procedure: simply pat and adjust); all the same, I am reminded how limited and ephemeral this is; and for a moment I nearly begin to comprehend the sacrificial hours paid by women at their mirrors and in beauty parlors and department stores and manicure-pedicure studios. Suzuka’s nightly effort is, as we have seen, significant — not to mention the long preparations of Mr. Umewaka in the mirror room before his Noh performances. And all of it must be done over again next time.

“You see,” says Yukiko, lightly touching my chin, “even now it is starting to show. Since your beard is not black it should be okay for a couple of hours.” As a result of such transience, her customers generally do no more than remain here with her, for about three hours. After a chat and tea, they return home to their families.

Next comes the concealer, in order to render the contour of my new age spot more vague. It is a stick cream, Anti-Cervier, Yves Saint-Laurent product number 41911-1. Yukiko also applies it to my wrinkles, and especially to the wedge of skin below and outside of each eye, using two fingers, always going up, not down, since we don’t want to show the sagging of my face.

In general, runs her diagnosis, my poor male flesh is afflicted with many red spots; her goal is to render it a uniform color. She works for quite awhile on the creases between the two wings of my nose and on the corners of my mouth. With special care she rubs concealer over the age-downturned corners of my lips.

“How old can a man become and still resemble a woman?”

“After age sixty it is quite difficult.”

Following the concealer comes the powdery foundation (a white substance, Anna Sui Face Powder 700), rubbed in, first on the wrinkles around my eyes. First touching me with her brush, then rubbing with a finger, always upward, in firm strokes that move flesh, beneath each eye she creates a downpointed right triangle whose inner side parallels my nose. Yukiko can render this undercoat (the equivalent of gesso on an oil painting) either glossy for a “cute” look or else more natural so that the client appears “classical.” Suspecting that cuteness lies beyond my power, I have elected for the classical look.

I ask Yukiko how I could best approximate all this at home, and she advises me to buy a magnifying mirror.

Now for an eyeshadow, which she smears gently in, selecting here and there from many different looks in the palettes, where it resembles vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream. “When you get older it gets darker under the eye, particularly for Japanese,” she informs me tactfully. “Then the eyeshadow will not appear nice.” This amelioration likewise lasts for about two hours. Using a special brush, she makes seven round trips across each eyelid “like a windshield wiper.” Where the brush first touches, there it will be thickest; those round trips smooth it out. Then she proceeds upward, afterward rubbing up and down with her finger in order to blur the contours.

She warns me to avoid allowing any eyeshadow to fall on my cheek, since it cannot easily be removed.

Again, the goal seems to be making the facial skin more uniform, disguising lines and color changes. If so, then the white mask-face of the geisha, or the literal mask-face of the Noh beauty, are simply farther along the continuum.

Now with her soft brush Yukiko mixes two kinds of purple Japanese powder. Then she bends over me, commencing beneath the center of each eye, following the cheekbone “to make it natural.” Her applications consist of circles proceeding down and away from the eye, then up back toward it. She continues until my skin appears just a trifle lighter in color than my cheeks.

Here come the many square pats of lipstick in Yukiko’s mirrored palette. She mixes a crimson and a pink. Obediently, I keep my mouth closed. With a brush she paints my lower lip larger. She seals her work with transparent gloss.

A slanted-tipped brush is good for the eyebrows. She opens the eyebrow palette.

First she brushes on powder-outlines, since mistakes can be removed without trouble; then she fills in with the eyebrow pencil. Carefully she graduates the edges. It is difficult not to make crooked eyebrows, but I must report that Yukiko has risen to the occasion.

She selects a wig. Then she invites me to study myself in the mirror; and it seems that a woman is looking back at me — not a beautiful woman, perhaps; but still, here is someone who came into the world just now and will exist more briefly than I, a woman who has feelings (my feelings); she wants to look her best. What is grace? I assuredly lack it. But I have become pleasing alien to myself; I am other just as distinctly as misted purple-grey mountains stand out from blindingly snowy ricefields.

What changed my appearance the most? — The wig and the lipstick, I would say; much of the other procedures simply diverted attention from the age of my skin. In this connection it is interesting to insert another claim by the zoologist Desmond Morris: Long hair and a hairless (or pale and uniform) face increase contrast, thereby making the woman more visible to potential mates. Puffed-out lips (and my made-up mouth does express the illusion of more voluminous lips) are more juvenile, hence indicative, I suppose, of fresher ova. — But then I wonder to what extent convention plays a part. Why wouldn’t Cro-Magnon men have let their hair grow as long as their women did? Besides, the Noh museum in Kanazawa displays a certain atsuita, a thick cloth robe mostly for male roles, which offers its audience a base of turtle-shell octagons, with embroidered patterns pertaining to each of the four seasons within cloud- or fan-shaped borders; it is beautiful, but why should it be male? — And so once again I feel myself to be, as I so often do when I try to comprehend the nuances of Noh, an ape in a cage. — In Yukiko’s studio, an ape in a wig stares back at me with sad blue eyes.

I pull the wig off as carefully as I can (for some other client will surely require it), and hand it to Yukiko, remembering that Sei Shonagon’s eleventh-century list of things that have lost their power includes a woman who has removed her wig in order to comb remnants of natural hair.

Now Yukiko makes me up another way, with her hands rubbing in the cold, pleasant-smelling cleanser (harder to apply; maybe it is this that makes my skin feel so tight later), rubbing its coldness in with her hands, going over me with cotton, putting on a liquid foundation, chatting and patting — how nice to be taken care of! — my face paling in the mirror; my eyes seem to glitter more.

Only about ten percent of her customers dare to go out. They often wear femme-executive or businesswoman outfits when they come to her; a few play with lingerie, but never here; some keep secret apartments furnished with their woman things, so that their families will never know. They tend to order clothes on the Internet, a circumstance which requires them to buy repeatedly before discovering a garment which actually fits; but anonymity remains infinitely more important to them than cost or convenience.

“Why do they do it?”

“Stress,” she replies. “And they have the pleasure of hiding something secret.”

Her clients (“twenty or thirty”) tend to be doctors, attorneys, etcetera, since she is so expensive — seven hundred dollars for three hours.

“Many of them are narcissistic,” she adds, perhaps with a touch of contempt, “so they just want to look into the mirror.”

“Do you think most men would do this if they could?”

She smiled. “Well, I believe that few men would like to do it. But some of those goodlooking young male singers who are handsome in an effeminate way, maybe they would like to be like them.”

“Would you date a cross-dresser?”

“Never.”

As she works on me, I fall into a drowse, enjoying the caress of the black brush, the sound of rain outside, Yukiko standing over me. I gaze up at her chin and lips, her brown hair, her tinted eyelids. Her eyes are far away, for she is gazing not at me, but at my face, which is now halfway feminized. She is painting my eyebrows on. I open myself to her soft fingers on my temple, the silver gleam of the brush, and her fingers on my eyebrows.

“What is the most serious obstacle faced by a man who wants to pass for a woman?”

“Coarse skin.”

Now that she has finished, it is time for the excitement of the new wig (style B02, color T/430; made in Korea), of wondering what it is going to make me look like. “This one is more becoming,” she says. The hair, reddish like the first wig, is longer, “more simple,” with short bangs. “Because it shows the eyebrows it looks more feminine,” she concludes, sliding it on.

Who am I? My reddish-gold hair spills down to my breasts, so soft and golden in its highlights, matching my new eyebrows. I have pearly-pale skin — no, actually, I seem to be a rather hard-skinned woman; the creases in my face show more and more; soon my stubble will overpower the concealer; at least I possess a bright glowing smile. (Thank goodness I recently got my teeth cleaned.)

But who is this lady? Her eyes seem somehow a darker blue than mine. Is she fake? Her soft red-purple lips smile back at me. I toss my head, and her hair changes to gold.²

For an instant, and with joy, I believe in her, all the while experiencing aware, the knowledge that this impossibility cannot be sustained. (The Vimalakirti Sutra, seventh century: “This body is like a flame born of longing and desire… This body is impure, crammed with defilement and evil… This body is like the abandoned well on the hillside, old age pressing in on it. This body has no fixity, but is destined for certain death.”) This session at Yukiko’s has strangely resembled a Noh performance, and lasted approximately the same length of time.

The best mask of my self (never mind my soul) may well be a chujo; my forehead will soon begin to wrinkle in a pattern like roots, and I often bear the sparse moustache, gaping mouth and blackened teeth of the loyal bewildered lieutenant; perhaps I belong to the Komparu School. What the artist inscribed on the back of my face I will never know, being unable to see myself objectively the way a professional Noh actor would. Most of the time I am a sturdy man who wears the same clothes often, preferring garments of lifelong reliability; I shave carelessly and shrug off my latest wrinkles, because anyhow I never possessed even a waki’s hope of being beautiful, nor felt the loss.

What is grace? — In the mirror room, Mr. Umewaka gazes at the lovely woman he will soon become; he sits white-wrapped like a man in an American barber shop, with the wig of long blue-black hair already crowning him, and in the mirror the woman of frozen-faced perfection, one of his several other selves, gazes back at him calmly and untouchably.

And on another cold Tokyo night at the Kabuki-za, where people can sit above the red and white lanterns, drinking beer and eating roasted eel as they watch the performance, the long stage curtain’s repeated vertical triads of green, black and orange rush away; we see the legs and feet of someone rushing within it, so that the long wide world of spectacle reveals itself: strings of white over a slanting roof, a blue stripe beneath, then bright red and yellow lattices, a man with a white, white face and triangular shoulders with small square devices on them, not unlike those of a Noh chorister’s robes. Through the red lattice we glimpse flashes of white hands playing the shamisen. Many geishas kneel within.

Across the stage bridge comes a white-faced onnagata. The bell sounds. The geishas sing. Thus begins “Sukeroku Yukari no Edo Zakura,” starring Nakamura Fukusuke as the first-ranking geisha Agemaki, and Ichikawa Danjuro as the warrior Sukeroku.

Instead of recounting the plot (only a portion of which was performed), let me tell you about the lovely strangeness of the feminine imitations, the opulence — for instance, of that geisha in high thick shining clogs; she is crowned with a spike-studded golden crescent, and her voice is wavering, breaking and almost whining, with falsetto cadences.

On the bridge, a whitefaced geisha in green stands beneath a tall parasol, her black katsura in golden spider-ribbon, a giant golden jewel on her speckled turquoise breast. As a little child sings in falsetto: “Eeeee!”, she undertakes slow fantastic steps in her clogs, which resemble towers.

Kabuki femininity expresses itself through the lovely wooden clopping as the lavender-clad courtesans run, not to mention the way an onnagata crosses her wrists, raises her hands, unfolds a scroll-letter from a lover, her voice resembling a pouting child’s, the low, majestic wiggle of the exaggerated buttocks of a lady with a rather squeaky, raspy voice. As for the breasts, those are created with a padded apron tied around under the waist.

A courtesan takes off her green mantle and shows red and gold long sleeves. She is very high-waisted (her waist comes almost up to her armpits, in fact). Long strings of jade beads spill down her front and make fringe between her widely spread legs. She resembles a queen in a deck of playing cards. Her lavender-hued attendants rush to kneel at her back to adjust her. Her square hips sway like panniers. Her female voice is rising and falling, often ending in a descending wail.

The feet mince up and down when a Kabuki lady passes through a doorway, her full buttocks swaying. How important is this person or that? Inspect her buttocks. Those of a great lady are stacked, sparkling half-doughnuts. Lesser goddesses wear less padded skirts.

Their kimono sleeves have been specially elongated in order to miniaturize their male hands, the hems lowered to partially conceal their feet. Sometimes they feel the need to wax the corners of the eyes and the eyebrows. (An older Kabuki actor may pull up his eyes by wrapping silken gauze around his forehead.) Their made-up faces are cruder but much more mobile than Noh masks. Their meowing voices sound weird, yet feminine. Exposing the backs of their necks much as geishas do, they accomplish, for instance, the semiformal female walk: slide the sole of one foot forward, then slide the other ahead almost on a parallel line; walk with the legs always together (for practice, the apprentice ties his knees together with silken thread, which must not break even when kneeling or standing).

A princess thrusts her shoulders back and keeps her body out; she has a low center of gravity. The next category, more feminine, weaves her face, shoulders, torso and buttocks in figure eights as she goes. A courtesan holds up her kimono with the left hand, an aristocratic lady, with the right. A “simple woman from next door” moves more rapidly.

The onnagata Mr. Ichikawa Shunen had been an actor for twenty years, and before that a student for two. He had an active fan club. When I met him, he was out of costume, but his face was so lovely and delicate, his hair so long and caressable on his neck, his lips so smoothly pink (by the way, he wore a little padlock around his throat), that I told him that I could see he would be a beautiful woman. He thanked me.

“Is there a difference between a man playing a woman and a woman being a woman?”

“Yes, I think it’s different. The strange aspect of being an onnagata is that we do not seek to be closest to the real woman.¹ Our training is otherwise. That’s what we call the onnagata skill. We have four hundred years of history. This skill is something we learn. My teacher said that onnagatas don’t have to be beautiful creatures from the beginning. However physically male a person might be, he can be a woman.”

“To what extent is femininity a matter of movement?”

“It’s close to the Noh feeling. The voice is a man’s, but you can see that compared to Noh, Kabuki is more visually real. We are closer to real women than Noh actors are. We learn that for this role you move this way. The angle of the neck, the hand movements, how one walks, depend on one’s age and rank as they would have been expressed in the Edo period. The Snake Princess’s movements will be different from a geisha’s.”

When I asked which roles he preferred, he said: “Rather than princesses, I like geiko-sans. I like a look that is witty and sophisticated and even flippant. Simply put, I like to be a bad girl. There are many such roles in Kabuki — sophisticated delinquents.”

His makeup began with the stick of “oil” (which might in fact have been some sort of oily wax) that a sumo wrestler uses for his hair. There are many consistencies, and the onnagata chooses the one most appropriate to his role. A different sort of oil hides the eyebrows. Then comes a brown cream foundation, followed by oshiroi paste thinned with water and applied with a hake brush. Sponge and pat. Next comes the pure white powder in two layers, “then pink gradation, depending on the person.” Some people use a stick of red oil first, then pink, making a kind of foundation. The red oil is also used as lipstick.²

The red applied to eyes (around the outer corners and the undersides) is called mehari. “Each onnagata uses his own way,” he said. “What I’m explaining is very basic. An onnagata does not use black around the eyes. Pink oshiroi may be applied after the white for some people.”

“This is the base,” he said. “Pink gradation is between the upper eye and the eyebrow, and also on the outer cheeks. Then the eyebrows are painted with oil mixed with charcoal.” Again, different onnagatas did it differently. “I use red dissolved in water without oil, but water when I mix the paint for my eyebrows.”

Regarding the eyebrows, those are supposed to have the same classical “bamboo-willow” shape that we have already encountered in the ancient poems of the Manyoshu.³

He said that there were “many variations” for the mouth, but that it was lipsticked very small; one shrank it down to two-thirds of its previous size.

It took him only a quarter-hour to make himself up, but of course he had been doing it for twenty years.

His wig was a custom-made solid copper plate, made and fitted, like Suzuka-san’s, by a wigmaker. “You apply it like a metal helmet,” he said. Over this went human hair upon a base of white silk and black cloth, the white to match the onnagata’s face and the black to border the hair, which by the way required a beautician to attach.

Customarily onnagatas worked twenty-five days a month, then redid their hair.

“Do men and women have different souls?”

“As a Kabuki actor, I don’t feel that my soul needs to play a woman’s soul,” he replied, perhaps a trifle offended. “Because the soul is the most important thing we show.”

I told him how different the person who looked at me from the mirror had seemed when Yukiko had made me up, and I asked how it was for him. “When you start doing this, it’s strange to become the role itself,” he agreed mildly. “That goes away.” I asked him at what point he actually became the role, when you put on the makeup or costume, or immediately before going on stage. “In my case,” he said, “it’s when I see myself in the mirror just after I make up. What I am feeling is not soul but appearance. But he” — he indicated the man who sat beside him — “is also an onnagata, and he feels differently. Immediately before I enter the stage, that is when I really switch.”

“Is it exhilarating, or just work?”

“Exhilarating. For example, if you have a high fever but cannot cancel the performance, then you do it, however sick you are. During such times I can be standing in front of an audience and physically my voice is not as good as usual, but mentally I totally forget that I am sick.”

My question had had to do with becoming female; his answer, it seemed, with performance in and of itself. He was, after all, a professional; and the essential difference between him and Yukiko’s clients who “just want to look into the mirror” was that after looking in the mirror he showed himself to others. Grace, as we keep seeing, is performance; and Zeami advises that instead of merely looking ahead of himself at the audience, a Noh master must “grasp the logic of the fact that the eyes cannot see themselves,” which means to “make still another effort in order to grasp his own internalized outer image… Once he obtains this, the actor and the spectator can share the same image.” The novice cross-dresser sees himself (one hopes) as he would like to be. The onnagata or Noh actor sees himself as he has made himself, remembers this after leaving the mirror, and deploys his grace accordingly.

Even I, the most gullible ape in the entire cage, sometimes suffer fits of skepticism about the profundity of Zeami’s secrets. How does the Noh actor’s envisioning of his internalized outer image differ from the way that a faded street prostitute on entering a bar will often gaze into the nearest mirror, so that without frightening anybody with her weird old hard-sell eyes she can discover who is staring at her shape? — Perhaps the answer is simply that if she and her audience do share the same image of her, it is not necessarily the image she would want to project.

“Born in an ordinary family,” Mr. Ichikawa had loved Kabuki ever since he was three years old. — I wonder if what first seduced him was the brilliant two-dimensionality of it all, especially the trees and walls, with checkered-robed samurai and geishas in their spectacularly crested kimonos somehow resembling animated playing cards? Was it the falling trapdoors, rushing curtains and folding walls? Was it all the murders and suicides happily observed by old ladies in the audience who sat sucking on molasses candies? Or did he already yearn to become as graceful as a marble-faced onnagata? — When he was five he saw his first live performance. Since he was an indifferent student, his parents would not permit him to train for Kabuki until had he proved himself by being accepted into a prestigious high school. He passed the entrance examination, quit school after a month, and immediately took the entrance examination to study Kabuki. He was then fifteen years old.

“Since beauty is performance, what do you do to stay beautiful?”

“My everyday life affects my performance, not the other way around. Because I am physically a man, I normally wear pants. It’s natural to sit this way, with my legs apart, or to hold a glass this way, but by doing that in everyday life I could harm my life on stage without knowing it. So to the extent I can, I sit with my legs closed. I try not to hold my fingers apart, in order to make my hands more womanly. Kabuki actors in the past used to wear women’s costume in everyday life. They were so lovely. Clothes have changed, of course. If I wore Western women’s clothes during the daytime, that would not affect my stance. But I always try to restrain myself.”

The book he had written for Japanese women advised them to wear kimonos so that they could be more feminine afterward, merely by remembering how they had been restrained. “By wearing kimonos, many movements you cannot make; your posture will be upright, and you will not be able to open your legs or recline or raise your arm very high.” — And I remembered the way that Japanese women so often sit in a kneeling-like fashion, with their feet tucked beneath their buttocks, while Japanese men may cross their legs, with each foot beneath the opposite thigh.

Tightening the obi thrusts out breasts and hips, and thereby enhances the performance of nubile femininity. Fetishistic tight-lacers are said to enjoy any or all of the following sensations: bodily support, muscle surrender, transmission of the sense of touch over a wider area (“any movement in the hips passes at once to their breast and vice versa”), pleasurable numbness, erotic heat. I have never presumed to ask a geisha, onnagata or Noh actor about such sensations; but one kimono-wearing Japanese woman whom I knew well enough to discuss such things with smiled, blushed a trifle, and allowed that perhaps she was not entirely unfamiliar with the joys of constriction.

Gesturing fluidly with the sides of his smooth small hands, parting his pale lips as he spoke, sipping from a straw, Mr. Ichikawa said: “For Japanese women, beauty is in the kimono.”

He agreed with Yukiko that one must be very careful about one’s skin…

Katy considered herself a gay man, and performed femininity primarily for purposes of attracting men; all the same, she preferred to be addressed and described with female pronouns. She worked in a restaurant in Los Angeles, wearing male clothes and her male birthname.

I met her in a certain bar not too far from Sunset Boulevard where the beautiful late night girls were laughing and kissing each other’s cheeks. I remember their long hair and smooth skin and smell of powder. Katy was the least shy and most patient of them. That night she wore silver bracelets and long silver earrings with her long long eyebrows.

After a couple of hours a blonde came in. — “Look!” said Katy. “She’s so beautiful. Looks just like a woman.”

Did Katy resemble a woman? Yes and no. She performed femininity with the rocklike gentleness of an ancient Kannon statue.

“Why do you wear a dress?”

“For me, there are some men who would like to see me that way. For some men it’s their fantasy, to be with a woman but also with a man. Some travesti cannot be beautiful like woman, and because they know the woman looks better, they hate the woman. I have one friend who likes the dress, but hate the woman. I have another friend who wear the dress and never go out, just wear the dress. Some men tell me, why do you do this? But I like it. People wanna wear a dress, then wear a dress. I talking, looking like a woman, everyone tell me.”

She believed that the souls of man and woman were the same. And here she interjected: “Some people tell me God doesn’t hear me, because I’m gay. But I pray, and I think God hears me.”

The next night was Halloween, so I went over to her apartment.

She was sitting at the illuminated triple mirror in her black and red dressing gown, deploying stick foundation on her tired male face. She had hoped to sell me some of her clothes, but they didn’t fit me.

“Why are some women more beautiful than others?”

“Because when you put some makeup on, it’s a different face. And how you like it, it’s a different face. There’s no ugly lady face, only ugly makeup.”

Then she bowed over the mirror again.

First came foundation, then powder, then blush, then more white pancake to fill in the cracks of her man’s face.

Her housemate Jennifer wore smooth young skin, soft cleavage, a bared navel, a smooth face, young tight hair and perhaps a faint moustache as she sat on the sofa in bra and jeans and sandals, her toenails painted a dark red. I believe she had recently begun to take hormones.

And Katy, who once upon a time had been a cowboy in Guatemala, sat squat and wide in her dark black bathrobe with the red cuffs.

I was there with my G-girl,¹ and Katy and Jennifer tried to figure me out. On the one hand, I was interested in T-girls² and makeup, so perhaps this G-girl might simply be my close friend from whom I was learning how to act feminine. On the other hand…

And I was trying to figure them out. This is what I saw:

Katy applied Duo eyelash glue over her natural eyebrows, since they were very black. That way she could paint foundation or other cosmetics over them, and build her T-girl eyebrows in liberty. And now indeed the eyebrows grew long and dark on the Kabuki-like face, although the brown pockmarks still remained on the sides of that male nose.

“The most time is the eye,” she said.

Elongating the eyebrows still more so that they curved down over her nose, she proudly remarked that this makeup would endure for twelve hours. Sometimes she drank too much and fell asleep with her paint on. When she woke up it was still there. It helped that she did not sweat much.

She applied a big brush around her chin and neck, contouring brown so that these male features seemed to recede. Then came the mascara, whose progress she earnestly controlled through the mirror, her mouth open, like a small girl who is surprised by what she has been told. (What did she see? The photographer Hans Bellmer writes of incidents of “congruence” when the universe seems to become “a double of the super ego.” If I were Katy, I would rather have it become a double of my id.) After that it came time for the cheek blush, brushing up and up.

The makeup box was as big as a picnic cooler, the tripartite mirror’s bulbs shining like church candles, and there was a treasury of white, silver and gold high heels heaped like jawbones on the grubby carpet as the two transvestites sat adjusting their hair.

As Nakamura Mitsue said to me about the Noh masks she carved: “When I feel some existence there I feel happy.” I remembered watching a block of wood getting first cut into faces like a diamond, then its faces smoothed away in the correct planes; that was where the art came in.

In the sixth century it was written that dharmas (objects of perceptions) “are never created or annihilated by themselves, but come into being because they are created by illusion and imagination and exist without real existence.” — If so, all the better, perhaps. Katy and Jennifer wished to go out into the world as women. If their femininity were created by illusion, then which “reality” could presume to annihilate it?

And so what is a woman? The long history of Noh has been described as the alteration of an “entertainment enacted by a loosely defined occupation into a classical art performed by a closed profession dominated by a select elite.” Meanwhile, in various cultures at varying times, the tale of femininity expresses the exact reverse: The select elite, biological females, makes room for the loosely defined occupations of those who call themselves female.

And once again I wonder about the possible genderlessness of the soul, whose most appropriate reification might then be that ancient Hungarian figurine whose shape was of an erection with testicles but whose glans was a woman’s face and whose long neck bore hard-nippled little breasts almost halfway down; the scrotum was a woman’s buttocks. — I want to reject this androgynous conception and until now always did, having been socialized into a conception of maleness which in part defined itself as the antipode to that exotic, desirable thing called femininity. — To be sure, what I want makes small difference. Herewith, my prejudices. They will seem absurd far sooner than I can suppose, and it embarrasses me a trifle to lay them out even now. But reticence is cowardice, and irony would be fatal to any discussion of beauty; so all that remains to me is sincerity:

I resist the idea that the soul is genderless; I want my soul to be masculine and a woman’s to be feminine. It may be that I do not love myself; accordingly, to the extent that a woman might partake of my nature I would find her less perfect. — And why would I want her to be perfect? (Well, why do I watch Noh plays?) Shortly before his suicide in 1942, Stefan Zweig, born in Vienna before the end of the nineteeth century, looks back upon the sartorial expressions of gender in what he calls the world of yesterday — the hats, beards and stiff collars of the men, the corsets, bell-skirts and towering hair of the women — with astonishment, disgust and pity, the latter especially for the women, whom prudery confined in ignorance, timidity, unhealthiness and, worst of all, “pitiful” dependency. But he continues: “By this unnatural differentiation in external habits the inner tension between the poles, the erotic, was necessarily strengthened.” And so it might be equally likely that selfishness, not self-loathing, impels my obedience to the notion of a gender abyss. Or am I simply a thoroughly conditioned product of my own world of yesterday?

In any event, I desire a feminine grace to remain uncontaminated by masculinity. And I refuse to relinquish the beauty and nobility of attachment. I would rather be an anguished ghost.

It may well be, in spite of my own Zeami-esque prescription at the end of “What Is Grace?”, that a woman’s grace actually prevents me from seeing who she is. But the grace of the women I already know derives from their voice and their scents, the way they sleep beside me, the way that in quarrels they hurt me and are hurt by me.

The Buddhist subtexts of Noh assert that because desire can never be satisfied, I should discipline myself into renouncing desire. A sense of freedom may well steal upon me when I die, and all my love will fade gratefully away with the rest of my consciousness. But the suffering that feminine grace inflicts on me by the very virtue of my impossible craving to drink it in, why is that bad or wrong? And when the flower, be it false or true, scatters its petals in the dirt, should I turn away from it on that account? Like so many shites, I would rather defy time.

In about 1793 we find the renowned Yoshiwara geisha Tomimoto Toyohina (she is a natori, meaning that she is sufficiently skilled to have received a name), posing between the teashop beauty Naniwaya Kita and a certain rice cake store proprietor’s eldest daughter, Takashima Chobei,¹ who happened to be one of the two most popular beauties of the time. I admit that since then their funeral-smoke has blackened the leaves of trees now long dead, but Utamaro made a woodblock print of them, and it remains ours to dream over. I pore over the image, and experience joy, so why not keep this book safe from as many pyres as I can?

What is a woman, if not an ukiyo-e courtesan or teahouse beauty performing femininity by means of a face in repose, a cheek which refuses to widen like a ko-omote’s, tiny pale vermilion lips parted in both directions, every aspect of her stylized through understatement? Does she in fact require the overstated narrowing from waist to legs of a Chalandrian type Cycladic figurine — flat, with nipples and arms in relief, and the pubic hair-dots pecked out?

In Kyoto at a certain Takigi-Noh performance graced by a very slow, mellow, sad style of singing, different from anything I had heard up to then, I saw a stately firelit woman slowly rotating by supernatural power. She was so lovely, half dreaming. Black-and-green tree-darknesses and forests of bamboo drumbeats kept rising around her, her eyeslits of female darkness sometimes drooping as if with sadness while she gazed down through me. Presently the flute blew, and she slowly outstretched her golden sleeve, then locked the fingers of both hands together, slowly, slowly, so that each flame had time to alter its shape an infinity of times. Her kimono was patterned with might have been boulders and gem-crystals (how can I say for sure? She was far away from me, up high on the stage on that summer’s night). How did she accomplish her womanliness? Was it the way that her sleeves spread, her fan opened like fingers, the flames strained toward her alien glossy face, and her vermilion skirts hung down? Half a decade later I remain happily haunted by that tranquilly changing face, the fan pointing up at the smoke which passed through the trees, the sleeves sweeping apart decisively yet slowly, the white face often in the midst of a dark space between foliage even as fire played sunnily on the kimono — and again I need to tell you that that mask seemed so far away in this night that it could almost be a rocket ship — why not? It had a crew, the wide-eyed, kneeling chorus; and Ground Control handlers such as the man who crept deftly in to hand up a prop or straighten a robe; all the while, the mask continued to sing. Who was this woman? What was she? How could I tell you?

From the standpoint of the other who sees her, is a woman simply someone who looks or acts in a certain way? If so, her defining expressions may indeed, as an unsympathetic French psychoanalyst insists, uphold “sexual stereotypes, with a view to maintaining women in the conventional, subordinate role from which they were on the point of freeing themselves. Transsexuals’ image of women is wholly conformist…” After all, how far the onnagata or the transgender woman can go toward “passing” depends substantially, as we have seen, on femininity’s performance aspect, and to be recognized as feminine that performance must express ritualism or at least familiarity: Touch one’s hair, face and jewelry often. (In the manga comics, and in the coffee shops of my own country, ones so often sees the hands of heroines fluttering inward together against their breasts and throats.) When walking, especially in high heels, place one’s weight on the back foot, keeping the front foot free to tap down, then click lightly forward in one’s high heels, swinging arms from the elbows and brushing the thighs together. Roll back hips and shoulders. Navigate stairs at a constant diagonal, and sit the same way, on the edge of the chair, with the knees together, and the feet behind them. “Bright colors on the eye look feminine,” says a makeup artist (who this season recommends peacock blue and tangerine). But the aspect of body makeup remains. That blonde in the black metallic miniskirt I see in the fashion magazine, how many men who wanted to be her double actually could? And how many women? After all, Keisei sends us the following monitory pearl in A Companion in Solitude (ca. 1222): “A woman’s nature is such that whether of high rank or low birth, she pins her hopes on all sorts of things, but in the end is unable to realize her expectations.”

The following description of what can only be called failed femininity comes from an American novel published in 1934. Can a born member of a given gender express that gender deficiently? Can a person who was born with a vagina and considers herself female be somehow less female than other vagina-bearers? The omniscient narrator thinks so:

Watching her, Cynthia ached with sympathy. Amelia was so tall and gaunt and flat-chested. She was not really a woman at all. She did not have a woman’s body, with a woman’s breasts and full shoulders, a woman’s firm round arms and legs. The lines of her mouth were tight, as a man’s sometimes is. Except for this there was nothing masculine about her — nothing strong, nothing alive. This was neither a woman’s body nor a man’s, but something in between and less than either — something gray which women become when desire dies out in them, for lack of cherishing, when no child takes shape within them.

Well, in my time Amelia could have donned breast forms, makeup, a mask! Why not select one’s heart’s desire from the varying plumpnesses of girl-masks’ white cheeks? Even round arms would have come to her, had she only stopped being anorexic. What about her tight mouth? — Use concealer over the lip line you were born with if you wish to reshape it. Then apply lip pencil and lip brush; blot and repeat the lip brush. — But then she might not have been Amelia. Who was she and who should she have been? Was anything wrong with her aside from loneliness? When Danyu-san said of her career, “they make it so that the child realizes she cannot do anything else,” did that touch upon some wider and perhaps even inescapable assertion about gender which condemned her to some sort of deficiency? Do gender roles, like capitalism, require there to be winners and losers? Very likely, Katy’s performance of womanhood would have been as depressing to Sei Shonagon as seeing in the third or fourth month the red plum-blossom dress appropriate to the eleventh or twelfth month; and in 2009 in California I found myself sharing my usual bus stop with a ghetto prostitute on her way home from the weekly visit to her parole officer; she hated the police, who were “packing heat and offing people,” but across the street three police officers stood like a helpful audience around a young man with a shaved head for whom the prostitute had no sympathy because “he’s a faggot! Just look at how he moves them arms! Oh, it makes me sick! I wanna see them hit ’im in the face.”

In a novel by the novelist Heinrich Böll, whose Nobel Prize was in my opinion otherwise deserved, one encounters the rather Lamarckian assertion that one’s sexual behavior actually alters one’s appearance, so that a heterosexual male can be literally unmanned by a homosexual act whether or not it happened of his own volition, and another man can recognize his gender-corruption on extremely short acquaintance.

Now all at once he realized what the repulsive aura was which emanated from this man who at one time, when his eyes were still clear, must have been handsome, fair and slender with well-bred hands. So that’s it, thought Andreas. “Yes,” said the blond fellow very quietly, “that’s it…”

A sergeant major had “seduced” him more or less at gunpoint. Now he bears the mark of Cain. He can never pass again.

Moreover, we are not infrequently instructed that somebody’s attempt to pass as a member of the opposite sex comprises a general social or religious pollution, a contagion. “No doubt you have heard,” writes Cicero to Atticus in 61 B.C., “that when the sacrifice was taking place in Caesar’s house, a man in woman’s clothes got in”; and that after the Vestal Virgins had performed the sacrifice afresh, the matter was mentioned in no less august a place than the Roman Senate. The Vestals and the priests decided that a sacrilege had been committed, and the matter had to go to trial. As that prostitute said to me: “Oh, it makes me sick!”

What would the young man have needed to do to make her pity his arrest? Simply refrain from moving his arms like that. Or instead he could have passed.

(The noses of tsuki style Noh masks are canted slightly leftward. If a right-leaning yuki mask were employed by a brash actor whose colleagues would have used the tsuki for that part, would he fail to pass? Would the audience ever know? If they did, what would they say?)

From the year 1232, we meet the understated anguish of a young woman whose soul has been inhabited (and constructed) by a male poet aged seventy. Knowing full well that any rendezvous is but separation, she gives herself to the man, “unconscious of approaching dawn.” But after all, this empathy with the feminine which the translators marvel at is no more than the expression of what any lover male or female might experience. Should we then say that Teika passed?

Vanesa Lorena Ledesma, born Miguel Angel Ledesma, aged forty-seven at death (by police torture, evidently), lies with her head slumped down. Her face is gaunt. Her eyelids are dark. Her lips are full. Her cheeks are drawn in. She appears to be a poor woman in late middle age. A white cloth, perhaps the shroud, frames her black, black hair.

Mattilda, also known as Matt Bernstein Sycamore, wrote: “If we eliminate the pressure to pass, what delicious and devastating opportunities for transformation might we create?” Perhaps there might come into being a world in which Amelia’s “in between” was no longer considered a deficit, like some Kabuki drama involving a retainer arrayed in armor, riding a prancing black horse which has four human legs. I look at a collection of mid-twentieth-century snapshots taken in and around a house in upstate New York whose hostess entertained many guests over the years, guests in dresses, some of them more womanly-looking than others; on occasion they might sit at the kitchen table smoking the odd cigarette, or show off their legs and red shoes; they might smile sweetly with their white gloves on, with their handbags in their lap, or they could squint their mascara’d eyes when they blew out birthday candles. Often their jawlines were square and their brows projected; sometimes (and this would not have surprised Yukiko) their skins were coarse. But they looked happy. It did not seem to matter that some could not have passed.

After all, even a Noh actor does not seek to pass, only to perform feminine grace. That seems difficult enough. — How did Mr. Kanze do it? — Edwin Denby on Nijinsky’s dance poses: “One might say that the grace of them is not derived from avoiding strain, as a layman might think, but from the heightened intelligibility of the plastic relationships.”

Regarding these relationships, Zeami (who believes that almost nobody expresses them all at the highest level) offers for our consideration three basic elements: bone, or inborn strength (which is to say heart; breathing technique); flesh, or the effect of chant and dance (sound; melodic interest; this will make an actor’s art seem inexhaustible even when frequently seen, and so I think of a beautiful woman, or a lovely Noh mask, whom one loves to look at); finally, skin, “a manner of ease and beauty in performance” as a result of appropriate flesh and bone (sight; beauty of a voice).

Meanwhile, in an ancient Egyptian tale, King Snefru commands: “Let there be brought to me twenty women, the most beautiful in form, with firm breasts, with hair well braided, not yet having opened up to give birth.” Their task will be to row naked for his entertainment. This list of beautiful attributes is brief; were it not for the nakedness part, any number of onnagatas could appear to satisfy it to some degree. If they could, and if any number of geishas could dance “Black Hair” without a flaw, what would we say? One famous geisha’s instructor informed her: “All I am able to do is teach you the form. The dance you dance on stage is yours alone.”

Yes, some forms of grace can be taught. For instance, “a fan must be carried,” one handbook explains. “It should be of gold or silver with bones of black lacquer or ivory.” And any gender-actress can paint her toenails to coordinate with her lipstick; this look I happen to prefer to the appearance of geishas’ tabi socks, but of course it would be harder to dance barefoot. Then what? Kanze Kiyokazu’s father used to say of a certain seventeenth-century waka-onna: “This is a higher-level mask with strength, but it is rather difficult to use. Depending on where you see it from, it can appear as if it is slightly smiling, or as it is commonly called ‘lonely young woman,’² it can easily be made to show a sad look, with changing expressions.” How many toenail-painters can do that? And the way a model’s long nude leg, which one often sees frozen in motion, matches her collarbone, can depilation and estrogen reliably duplicate that? In the ferry terminal at Niigata, a young woman in a yellow kimono with copper-red bangs and plump lips painted to match wears a yellow paper chrysanthemum in the side of her hair, probably for her twentieth-year ceremony. How much of her success derives from bone or skin or flesh, how much from the false flower which I accept as true? — Another model wears a long black spangly gown that outlines hip, buttock and breast while introducing nudity from below the collarbone upward and then in tiny peekaboo triangles between the breasts; the yellow dress whose creases radiate crisply down and out from the bust bares nearly the same area. How much does the gown help her pull it off? — In the Genji Picture-Scrolls, beautiful women are not much more than their clothes. Unfortunately, I read that “many, if not most women are the wrong shape for most women’s clothes.” — Well, then, by all means remove clothes from consideration! The oval-faced kore from the Acropolis with braided marble hair, how much of her could be copied into a male representation with no gender-sniffer the wiser?

The American magazines inform me that the ideal woman is X-shaped; wide bust and hips, narrow waist; one can wear clothes to approach that impression — or a corset to enforce it. Puffed-up hair and satin blue ballet slippers, how analogous are such props to a ko-omote mask and wig? The model’s expression in today’s magazines (who knows about tomorrow’s?) is neutral, not unlike a Noh actor’s, the eyes wide open, but in concentration, lips parted or not, but rarely smiling. Turning the page, I find the actress Katie Holmes with a rather schoolgirlish look, serious yet saucy, in a short skirt, and hair in thick dark waves down to her chin. In her linen designer dress she could almost be a girl out of a photo from the 1940s. Her eyes are underlined, her brows painted down the sides of the nose to a point level with the lowest part of her upper eyelid. How much of the allure is her makeup and dress, how much is diet and discipline, how much the young, lovely female body she was given? The French psychoanalyst just quoted is sure that “sexual difference, which owes much to symbolic dualisms, belongs to the register of the real. It constitutes an insuperable barrier…” But perhaps all it takes to overcome this barrier and resemble Katie Holmes is the latest trick: eyeshadow like bruise, “a smoldering smoky eye.”

You use nice color,” the mask carver Mr. Otsuka had said, “and then on top of it you put something else to make it look more subdued, so it doesn’t look too shallow. After fifty or a hundred years, if you’ve used something unsubtle, it’s really going to show; it’ll start looking worse and worse.” Thus again the ancient aesthetic of Chun’e with his “autumn hills half-concealed by a curtain of mist” — not to mention the secret teachings of Zeami, which are in and of themselves, so some have said, no more important than the fact that they are secret. — What if I simply can’t understand them? I remember Mr. Umewaka telling me that he prohibited his apprentices from perusing those treatises during their first years of study, since “unless you master Noh to some extent, you interpret the instructions incorrectly.” Moreover, I confess that whenever I decline to track the numbers and paths of telltale hair-strands, a waka-onna, fushikizo and manbi seen all together can scarcely be distinguished from each other; perhaps their mouth-darknesses vary a trifle, but it could also be the angle at which I view each one. And on a certain afternoon of shining black rivers in Snow Country, when the train rushed me through a blizzard, I lost track of the various watercourses, and occasionally even wondered what I was seeing — an experience also offered by the dreamy, blurry translucency of Renoir nudes, in which everything reveals itself only through a very thin membrane, the light puddling and gently oozing, the pastel flesh modeled, not reticulated as a gum bichromate print would be, but simply melded, blurred. — Why shouldn’t it be? Don’t makeup artists so often blend powder eyeshadow with blush? — In this spirit, Zeami alludes to snow in a silver bowl.

And in self-defense, the reliably sour Eric C. Rath refers to the unfathomableness of “Okina” and of those secret manuscripts as “empowering interpreters with expertise while facilitating the disenfranchisement of those who could not claim to possess such intimate knowledge.” — I accordingly wonder: Is disenfranchisement necessarily a bad thing? The wall which disenfranchises me from a full view of the garden behind it, the lingerie (or ballroom gown) which prohibits much, but by no means all, of my gaze’s access to the woman who performs femininity within it, these two cases produce respectively, as we know, the beauty of miekakure and likewise of iki: allure softened and hidden, like the metonymic gestures of a multiply wrapped dancing geisha. The fact that I will never fully understand “Okina” makes it all the more haunting to me. — “Okina is not a pine tree spirit,” replied a Noh expert to my first attempt at definition. “Just what Okina represents is as much a theological problem as a literary one. Some people claim he is the Sun, and there are Buddhist connections as well. I’d stay away from this one if I were you.”

The proverb goes that it is better to love than to be loved; perhaps I am lucky to be an ape in a cage.

The withholding of a thing invests it with desirability; to the extent that it grows (or remains) opaque to the gaze, resistant to the will, it draws us toward itself. In his unfinished essay on the poetry of Chinese ideograms, Fenollosa asserts that “poetry is finer than prose because it gives us more concrete truth in the same compass of words,” and again, “poetic thought works by suggestion, crowding maximum meaning into the single phrase pregnant, charged, and luminous from within.” In part (one hopes), this luminosity is accomplished through brilliant selections and arrangements of words, multiple under-kimonos, makeup; but the metonymic compulsion placed upon that single phrase, the representation of Genji’s dying wife by means of a folded robe on the Noh stage, or that hint of red on the sole of the woman’s high heels, requiring it to do duty for a dozen other phrases any of which could have served equally or nearly as well, catalyzes the impregnation and the charging of the thing. Hence the tale of the tea-master Sen no Rikyu, who at around the turn of the seventeenth century built a garden on a hill overlooking the waves; within the garden hedges utterly shut out the world, but at the entrance, above the stone water-basin where guests bent to purify themselves, a hole had been bored through the hedge; there and only there one could spy the sea.

In around 1794 we see one of Utamaro’s yuujo fanning herself. Her hair is tied back with the string called motoyui, and she wears a red slip, white underwear and a thin black summer garment. Her ankle entices us through the black dress.

Do such procedures best teach me to appreciate ankles and ocean views? Mr. Mikata once said to me (and I wish I understood him completely; the enigmatic quality of the word “capacity” surely derives from my interpreter’s choice of words): “The right capacity is where you can see with your eyes and then you can hear with your voice. If you need light to see, then you cannot really appreciate the depth of Noh.” — His sentiment felt strange to me, since under such conditions I could not possibly distinguish a ko-omote from a waka-onna, but by that very token it increased the understatement, bringing the Noh farther beyond perception and discrimination, so that it might as well have been infinite. Could it be that if I subjected myself stringently and sincerely to such conditions, I would learn to recognize those two masks at a glance? Would it improve my aesthetic sense? Or would I merely accomplish my own Rathian disenfranchisement? Is it the Emperor’s new clothes?

But as this book so frequently and perhaps wearisomely repeats, understatement need not accomplish itself only through reduction; stylization will also serve its turn, as in, for instance, the simplified visages of the ladies and their courtiers in the Genji Picture-Scrolls, or Utamaro’s round-cheeked white geisha faces standing out from yellowish mica grounds, their stiff black hair-waves bristling with golden hairpicks, some of which sport floral decorations; the red lips and black eyes are always tiny in the plump white features; they preen themselves or bow snowily over love-letters; their expressions are nearly identical, like the lines used to compose them: the nose is two curves, each eye a pointed-cornered ellipse, the mouth two simple droplet-shapes joined on the pointed side.

Again, please consider the way that Matisse’s drawings of women offer a combination of spontaneity and economy, a right breast, for instance, being represented by an arc akin to a backward L, with the nipple a tick inscribed in a tight little circle; the woman’s face is often no more than a wide U, closed at the top by a few squiggles of hair, and within, the brows and nose generally receive one line apiece, the mouth two or three, like each eye. A woman stands nude, clasping her wrists in a curvy arch above her head. Her contours twist smoothly and simply down. These few lines are so carefree, yet so convincing in their placement, that the woman, sleek and rounded, has been caught forever in an instant of her moving grace. Another woman wears a necklace, her bowed head almost classically Greek; Matisse has not troubled to connect her left shoulder to her neck, and it makes no difference. A woman’s face is half-smiling at me, her lips full, her eyes squinting sleepily and sensually; counting the earring, hair-ribbon, necklace and all, this drawing cannot comprise more than twenty-five lines. And here a wide-hipped woman sprawls on her side, her uppermost thigh an inviting white blankness, with a pretty little pubic squiggle for a decoration; it reminds me of her sister’s hair-ribbon. What is grace? A naked woman plays beside a bowl of goldfish. A woman on her knees arches her back and stretches, with her face not more than a single line; her genitals, made of line-twirls and a few cross-hatches, are the least blank part of this drawing, which is not saying much; for Matisse’s women, like atoms, consist primarily of empty space. Another woman touches herself above the right breast, staring at me seriously and perhaps a trifle sadly. Who can rival her complexion, which is smooth white paper? I close the book, and all these women seem to hover before me on my bed’s white sheets, in a single understated assemblage of black line. I glimpse them as I would the ocean through that hedge-hole in Sen no Rikyu’s garden.

But what if I could teach myself to see and understand more than I have ever done so far? Might I not want to roll back Chun’e’s curtain of mist in order to admire every last scarlet leaf? Why not strive to perceive the thing unwithheld, the naked thing? (Matisse’s nudes are not naked; they conceal their pores.) Again, if the goal is to embrace the ineffable, would not a greater goal be to render it effable? If this is impossible, is it because there is a divine principle which cannot be bound or limited by human expression, or simply because nobody has yet figured out how to do it? Must my perceptions remain ever slightly faded, like the colors of Edo silk?

For some reason, most women on Earth wear clothes in my presence. Am I disenfranchised, then? (Sade insisted that true social freedom would occur only when all of us had complete access to each other’s bodies at all times. And an Egyptian papyrus advises: “The waste of a woman is in not knowing her carnally.”)

Understatement is as smooth as an onnagata’s skin when it is seen from a distance. Would I persevere in my appreciation if I saw his face up close?

An enthusiastic scholar of corsetry advises us:

The ‘fetish-object’ in the history of courtly love is a surrogate, and decreases in value as the loved one is present or appears more attainable. Similarly, the true tight-lacing fetishist does not wish to possess (or masturbate with) the corset itself, but to apply it possessively upon the beloved, so that it, his desire and her body become one… The fetish-object serves both as a symbol of union and a symbolic obstacle.

“You want a relationship without boundaries,” a sweetheart once complained, and I proudly assented. I resist the notion that either the fetish-object or the utterly accessible lover must decline in value. I wish to believe that if the beautiful object of my desire revealed itself or herself to me unstintingly, perpetually, any resulting failure of my appreciation would result from my own imperfections of love, concentration, etcetera. But in the British Museum there is a Babylonian clay plaque from circa 1800 B.C., catalogued as the Queen of the Night; and this roundfaced, necklaced, highbreasted, nude goddess, whose pupilless eyes offer me the hollow darknesses of mask-holes and whose taloned feet rest upon a pair of reclining lions, raises both her hands to me, holding ringed scepters; she wears a headdress shaped like pairs of bull’s horns and her wings flare out to her thighs; and she is all pale clay on clay, so that I am drawn into a realm almost as flat, despite its three-dimensionality, as it is erotic. Her lions goggle at me, and so do the two owls who bookmark them. I would not hesitate to call her pure, ethereal. But the Museum has digitally reconstructed her as she must have been when she was painted; and striking as those hues certainly are, they define and thereby limit her; what stylized her before I now experience as crudity, or, more precisely, the shallow color which Mr. Otsuka warned against.

Or again, understated clothing and breast forms sometimes protect the male bodies of transgender women from being recognized.¹ Is this treachery or something else?

A transgender woman writes: “The one thing that women share is that we are all perceived as women and treated accordingly… the most important differences between women and men in our society are the different meanings that we place onto one another’s bodies.” — Since a Noh woman is more likely than not to be a man, what gender does that make her? The brilliant black zebra-stripes of a Kabuki geisha’s kimono, the delicious clatter of her clogs upon the wooden stage, they titillate my belief — in what? And since I who watch the performance and am allured, knowing all the while that between her legs she has what I have, does that mean simply, as I used to believe, that the mask, costume, acting and choreography achieve — as of course they do — such artistic perfection that their beauty itself allures me? What is her story or any other to me at all?

In Mr. Otsuka’s studio, orange-cinnabar pigment gets softened with oyster shell into a flesh-blush on a Noh mask for “Dojoji.” Is that understatement or actuality?

Actuality reifies itself within those Upper Paleolithic and Neolithic figurines which archaeologists jocularly call “Venuses”: faceless, grossly breasted and buttocked, incised with what deserves to be called by that frank Anglo-Saxon word, a cunt; what is hidden here, what understated? — Only the individuality of any woman. — My intimacy with my own body, and with the bodies of women I have loved, allows me to feel an instant comprehension of these stylized miniatures, which must in part be spurious, since their context is conjectural, their fecundity idealized, sometimes beyond the final extremes of human femininity; all the same, there is no longer any wall between me and the garden; the cunt is here. The slit between Venus’s thighs is as bright as the lips upon a geisha’s white-painted face. Miekakure and iki are in the eye of the beholder; I could for instance project my longings upon the Venuses’ haunting facelessness; but there is a sharp distinction, nearly an opposition, between a Venus and Yuya. It is the same distinction that one can make between Proust and Kawabata, David and Rothko, laws and mores, exposition and suggestion.

The American fashion magazines of my time create their own partial Venuses. Their approach is to employ something vibrant, often gaudy, new, more often than not unsubdued, hence, so Mr. Otsuka would say, “shallow.” — Is it or isn’t it? Is a Venus-slit vulgar or revelatory? — Only you can say. In any event, here is Allure magazine: “In punchy shades of purple, green and blue, eyeliner shifts out of neutral and into high gear.” The reason that Allure’s projection of femininity remains not entirely Venusian is that, after all the glaring lipstick and dramatic eyeshadow, the skin itself remains; and what woman does not wish to conceal her pores, lines and blemishes beneath a curtain of mist? Yukiko spent most of her effort with me attempting to achieve precisely this objective on my face. — Chun’e’s autumn hills would still look pretty without the mist; my face would not. Keats’s famous assertion that truth equals beauty is valid only some of the time. — The onnagata conceals his hands, the Noh actor masks himself, the geisha whitens her face, for much the same reason. Sometimes the wall conceals a garden’s blightedness — another reason that disenfranchisement may be cause for gratitude.

But when I start down this path, I remember with pain the man who declined to see unpainted geishas because “I don’t want to know their tricks; I don’t want to know their sad stories.”² Understatement is evil when it facilitates our dismissal of the suffering of those who are beautiful. To take pleasure in the bound feet of a Chinese concubine might have been permissible; why make her feel that her years of agony had been in vain? But to take pleasure without respecting that agony, never!

On the Noh stage, Matsukaze and her sister-ghost Murasame mime dipping sea-brine, gracefully. “Although they are peasants,” a scholar writes, “they embody the refinement of a centuries-old courtly aesthetic…” And so our gaze is pleased. How would it be if they truly had to dip brine all their lives and afterward?

Mist lies on the autumn hills. That can mean so many things.

And because understatement is so enigmatic a quantity (understating even itself), I propose to seek it in ever widening hunting-swathes, beginning in ancient Scandinavia.

The genius of the sagas and Eddas lies almost entirely in their action. Feminine beauty is represented not, as in English poetry, through comparison and description, nor, as in Noh, through a controlled neutrality of stylized demeanor; in both of those cases, Beauty dances before us as a reified Subject; whereas in Norse poetry and prose, Beauty reveals herself through her effects on her objects. My Anglo-American heritage happens to be expository, and from this point of view, both Japanese and Norse wordcraft is understated, all the more so to me since I can evaluate them only through the smoked glass of translation. This befits my situation. An astronomer dares to gaze upon the sun only through a filter of almost leaden opacity. And in The Saga of the Volsungs we find this sentence: “They saw a large band of shield-maidens,” meaning Valkyries; “it was like looking into a fire.” Great beauty can be unbearable to look upon.

HER MAGICAL WHITE ARMS

Begin with the most fundamental and alien of all Norse literary artifacts, the Elder Edda. This group of poems stands richer by far in descriptions of men, battles, weather and ships than of women. Consider the Lay of Volund, whose eponymous hero marries a Valkyrie; it is on her restlessness that the action turns. Who is she? Well, we are informed that she comes of “fair southron maids.” What constitutes her hold on him? After all, “for the white-armed woman he waited long.” We learn nothing else about her appearance, but this whiteness of her arms gets mentioned twice. Her beauty is less directly manifested by means of the loveliness of the seven hundred ornaments he forges in hopes of winning her home; these in turn express their own irresistibility through the misfortunes they cause: Volund will be kidnapped and maimed for their sake.

Taking all the Elder Eddas together, the lovely Norsewoman,¹ and presumably her various supernatural sisters, is slender, and snow-white or sun-bright like a sword. Indeed, it is through her whiteness that she is most often reified. Why might that be so? The white-painted figure on a Greek terra cotta vessel is somebody dead. The white-skinned Scandinavian lady, I suppose, has simply avoided outdoor labor. At any rate, in this category her fair brow and breast get singled out, as does her neck. Surprisingly, her eyes and lips never get described at all. (In erotic ukiyo-e prints the revealed bodies of women tend to be whiter than the pinkish-beige bodies of the men who are penetrating them. In American fashion magazines, the advertisements often depict a woman with very very white skin, white teeth, eyes of muted brilliance — for instance, bluish-grey — hair which does not unduly contrast with the skin — blonde, or reddish, or very pale brunette — but then red, red lips!) She is ornamented with gold or silver — very likely arm-rings such as Volund made. She may wear a blue shirt, or a brooch. Contradicting a twentieth-century “zoologist’s portrait, celebrating women as they appear in the real world,” which asserts that “the arms are the least erotic part of the female body,” her most notable claim to beauty is her arms, for in the Eddas they receive more frequent mention — eleven times in total² — than any other feminine attribute. Usually (seven times) the female arm is simply white, twice it is soft, once shining and once gleaming. This last, which occurs in “Skírnismál,” renders eerie praise to the giant-maiden Gerth, whose “arms did gleam,” so that “their glamor filled all the sea and the air.” (In the Younger Edda’s retelling, “when she lifted her arms and opened the door…, light was shed from her arms over both sea and sky, and all worlds were made bright by her.”) The kiss takes a prominent place in my own culture’s erotic and romantic narratives, and this must be one reason why Hollywood actresses (like geishas) so often accentuate the redness and moistness of their lips. I suppose that the embrace plays an equivalent role in Eddic poetry; hence the female arm’s irresistible powers of beguilement. Odin himself warns: “In a witch’s arms beware of sleeping, / linking thy limbs with hers” because she will bewitch a man into isolation and sorrow. The same point gets made in the Lay of Svipdag, which is essentially a love tale. The glamor of its heroine, Mengloth, gets expressed most of all by the eerie journey required to claim her, with the necessity to call up the hero’s dead mother in her grave for protective witchcraft, the wall of flame around the heroine, then the happy outcome, like a jewel of gold glowing all the more in darkness. Like Volund’s wife, Mengloth is twice described as soft-armed. As for the hero’s stepmother who forced him to undertake the adventure, how did she gain her ability to rule him? This anti-heroine, who is evidently as dangerous as the ghost of a Christian woman, is presented to us as “the crafty woman / in her arms who folded my father.” It is as if the father were helpless.

So much is the female associated with her white arms that when Loki, who is insulting everyone in Valhalla, arrives at the goddesss Ithun, he cannot forbear from pro forma praise of her most lovely feature: “for thy shining arms on the shoulders lay / of thy brother’s banesman.”

THE POWER OF THEIR BECKONING

To be sure, fair-browed Brynhild, white-armed Guthrún and the various other swan-white ladies become as de-individualized and stylized as Lady Murasaki’s blackhaired Japanese beauties. But the power of feminine beauty grows all the more uncanny for its mechanistic invariability. The Valkyrie Sigrdrífa counsels her hero-bridegroom: “Though fair women, / and brow-white, sit on bench: / let the silver-dight one not steal thy sleep.” What about them is so dangerously alluring? Doubtless their white foreheads and silver rings contribute. But it may be the stylized invitation itself that comprises the thrilling peril. In the Greenlandish Lay of Atli, a doomed warrior’s wife, vainly counseling him not to accept the invitation of the man who will kill him, relates the following dream: “Methought in the darkness came dead women hitherward… beckoned and bade thee… to their benches forthwith.” Who knows whether in death they remain fair and brow-white? The wife fears the power of their beckoning just the same.

Indeed, the beauty of a Norsewoman can be likened to a sort of doom inflicted upon the men who suddenly find themselves in love or in lust with her.³ In The Saga of the Volsungs, a certain Sinfjotli simply “saw a lovely woman and strongly desired to have her.” That suffices. In Eyrbyggja Saga, two berserks are lured into a rage and consequent fatal exhaustion by the mockingly silent presence of a woman described only as “gold-adorned.” We know that she is dressed in her best and lifts her head high. We know her name, which is Asdis. That is all. And yet this saga, like so many others, does not withhold detailed descriptions of the second most beautiful category in the world, namely, weapons such as the sword of Steinthor whose silver hilt shines and whose grip is wound around with gold-threaded silver wire. Why then should gold-adorned Asdis remain a cipher, unless such was the saga writer’s choice? The eponymous hero of the thirteenth-century “Ivar’s Story” breaks his heart over a woman named Oddny Jonsdottir, and although his grief and its remedy — receiving permission to talk about Oddny day after day with the King of Norway — comprise the point of the tale, Oddny herself is not described in any way. It is as if she were an earthquake. Among the romantic motifs in Norse myths and fairytales we encounter love instantaneously induced through sight of the beloved in a picture or magic mirror, love caused by a glimpse of an unknown princess’s hair, and, of course, the love that comes from seeing a woman’s white arms. If I could see Oddny in a magic mirror, could I resist her? Would the shining of her arms suffice to enthrall me forever, or would I need a glimpse of her magic hair? In The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue, a warrior-poet sings his subjection to Helga the Fair: “The woman was born to bring war / between men…”⁴ He praises her as “the ring-land’s light-Valkyrie,” meaning “the land’s rings’ goddess,” which signifies simply and hauntingly woman. All this seems in keeping with the appearance of the old Scandinavian figurines of Valkyries or disir: longhaired, silhouetted from the side, almost blank of facial features, stylized, nearly inhuman.

Helga Testorf, or her painted semblance, gazes down into the dark earth. An ominous grove almost silhouettes itself upon the high horizon. The world is wall and grave-core, crooked block of almost-night. Against this darkness, far more richly than the pale scrap of sky, Helga’s hair is shining, gold in a serpent’s hoard, flickering fire. Although the painter once remarked that he was striving for the “frozen motion” in Rembrandt, wherein “time is holding its breath for an instant — and for eternity,” he also said: “I would like to paint so nothing is at rest in my work. Nothing is frozen. I would like people to sense even in those paintings with brilliant passages of sunlight, that the sunlight is not really still but that you can really see the passage of the sun.” And indeed, light of some kind (probably more supernatural than the sun) alters upon the back of her head. Each hair is a wire amalgamated from slightly different proportions of gold and copper than its neighbor. Helga’s braids shine alternately light and dark. A sliver of reddish-orange collar ends her pale neck. And all around her, the earth has been worked like a dark wool coat. It seems to be made of fibers. The Deputy Director of the National Gallery of Art sees in this painter’s textures “a similarity of stroke and surface applied alternatively to field grasses, animal fur, and human skin and hair.”

Helga Testorf stands gazing into the weave of the earth, where all of us must go. What does she see? When the shite of “Izutsu” stares down into the well, she discovers that her reflection has changed into her lover’s. He and she are long dead, of course; perhaps each is the other’s opposite. Life looks down into the weave of the earth and sees, I imagine, death. In this painting called “Farm Road,” Helga Testorf, bright goddess of the serpent’s bed, spies death, or love, or herself, or some other entity — possibly the tuber of the true flower; call it the Unknown. As Kofumi-san replied when I asked what this or that dance-gesture meant, “It’s a personal feeling. Isn’t it better that you don’t get anything in advance? It’s all up to the viewer.” Autumn blazes nakedly, and so the artist veils it by painting in a mist.

Even nowadays I still hope somehow to go “deeper” into art, as if by staring at the reverse side of my reproduction of “Farm Road” I could discover a more chthonic slice of earth. Were I a trifle more intelligent, could I interpret beauty instead of merely describing it, then no doubt I would “learn” or “realize” increasingly, in much the same way that a maiko’s crimson collar gets embroidered with ever more silver thread, until it comes time for her to give up her youth and become a geiko…

Well, I will now try to go deeper just the same.

Do you remember what Zeami said about the expression of demonic roles? Even then the actor should appear to be holding a branch of flowers. And the man who painted Helga so faithfully and secretly is nothing if not a flowery demon. The biographer Meryman sees a connection, as do I, between that famous portrait Wyeth did of his friend and neighbor Karl Kuerner — a sad, absent, hard yet tender-lipped face inspecting us sidelong from beneath two meathooks — and the artist’s following admission: “There’s grace in my work like spring flowers. But there’s some harshness, too. I’m a coarse man, really. I’m a strange combination of delicacy — fragile, in another world — and brutality.”

When he first began to notice Helga, she was taking care of Karl, who was dying from leukemia. Her English was accented; and she and Karl sometimes sang German songs together.

“Nobody knows her,” Wyeth described her. “She’s an enigma. She hovers over the land she lives on.”

And he took precautions (at least so runs the legend) that not even his wife knew her — for fifteen years.

In “Letting Her Hair Down,” the first Helga nude, which has been described (wrongly in my opinion) as comparable to the nudes of the fourteen-year-old Finnish girl Siri Erickson (“the same slight coarseness” — I see no coarseness at all — “the same strength, the same defiance, but diluted by a feeling of come-hither”), Helga sits against a dark wall which is constituted of the thick woolen fibers which make up Wyeth’s earth, and her skin exists somewhere between youth and early middle age; it seems to be altering even as we see it, recapitulating the transience of a Kawabata heroine. She gazes to our left, not quite grimly almost-smiling, perhaps shy or amused. The milky light on her upper breasts gives meaning to the yellow-white blankness of the open window. A solar medallion hangs on a dark ribbon just over her collarbone. Her left breast protrudes freely, while the wristbone of her right arm, folded across the left, cuts into the right breast beneath the nipple. Her hair is a stunning stiffness of yellow and whitish-yellow wires of light. Returning to her face, I now see on it a softer expression of patience and sweetness; her rather thick lips appear to be smiling more — an illusion which perhaps only I experience, unlike the viewer of a Noh mask which changes angle. What caused this impression? First, like most human beings, I sought out the human gaze, which Wyeth has slightly withheld from me. Then the softness of Helga’s form gradually made my aquaintance, like the softness of the barn-darkness itself; and so my judgment of Helga’s expression was altered.

As for Helga, she said: ”I became alive. It shows in the pictures. I became young overnight. I’ve never done anything more worthwhile.”

As for the artist, he recalled: “And now I meet this girl and can right get up to her crotch and really look at it and draw it. With no feeling of, oh, you can’t do that.”

And again: “She was an image I couldn’t get out of my mind.”

When Helga undressed for “Overflow,” Wyeth “felt the country, the house, Germany, the dreamy, moist, rich female smell — the whole thing.”

What is the whole thing? Just as paper-thin stage panels painted with flowers sometimes retract, revealing Kabuki dancers arrayed as flowers, so my understanding of female grace may at times draw away, with the same stunning rapidity that a Kabuki dancer’s costume can change from green to red or gold before the audience’s eyes, from what I think I understand now. And how much might that be? — As Wyeth said of Helga: “Whoever she is to us, we cannot know her infinite other identities.”

I cannot imagine any of the geishas and Noh actors whom I have interviewed saying of any aspect of their craft what Wyeth once said about drybrush: “If I control it, it’s no good.”

Perhaps that was why her identities were infinite to him.

In the painting called “Braids,” the black background has grown so rich as to be almost blood-red, and Helga, gorgeously imperfect in the manner of G. M. Hopkins’s poem “Pied Beauty,” gazes down and to the left, hollow-cheeked, with creases at the inward corners of her eyes, and a full nose with a knife-sharp bridge. Her reddish-blonde eyelashes are sufficiently delicate to die for; her braids shine reddish and goldish with lights on them as they twist neatly down her high-collared sweater, vanishing as they approach her sweet breasts; and speaking of sweet, the face of Helga is a mixture of sweetness and severity, unlike her counterpart, the fukai mask, which merely dreams down into the darkness; Helga similarly projects herself into someplace beyond us, but her femininity has been embodied, by her own corporeality and by Andrew Wyeth.

He altered “Braids” after Helga related a certain sexual experience. “I’d painted those braids beautifully coming to the fine end, the fluffy blondness of the hair. I thought, fuck it. This is not it.” He sawed off the bottom of the portrait.

There came the year when he was done with Helga, so that it was time to prepare his exhibition to finally show Betsy. “Taking the lids off the boxes… they had the odor of the girl, they had the whole — I knew they were not just pretty pictures.”

What were they then? “Night Shadow,” according to our authorized biographer, “is Wyeth’s memory of his father in the coffin, the moment he bent down to kiss the forehead, feeling the cold waxiness on his lips.” But what we see is Helga, whose face is paler and softer than we usually encounter it in the corpus of Helga Pictures (“Night Shadow” does not belong to this suite, because Betsy Wyeth kept it and two other Helga paintings), and her familiar half-smile is more of a smile than ever, but her eyes are shut as she lies there on her back, her hair barely surviving the darkness around her, hair braids black, white and honey-gold; a weakish shadow bisects her face below the bridge of the nose, so that she is bright — excepting her left shoulder and the narrow dark ribbon around her throat — below her lovely cream-and-peaches breasts, at which point darkness jaggedly breaks her off. I imagine her as Sigrún in Helgi’s howe, with her dead lover bending over her. But that is merely what Helga means to me. If I were writing a book about Noh, I might try to refer to fog, jade, water; to Nara’s ancient camphorwood statues dim in the rainy darkness. And who knows what Helga would say? For these paintings and drawings of her partake of that mysterious effect based on understated description, yugen. What did the ends of her braids look like before Wyeth sawed them off, and what would it have been like to hold them in my hand? If Wyeth’s father could see from beyond the grave, which if any aspect of himself would he perceive in “Night Shadow”? As for the artist’s wife, when the Helga Suite was first revealed to her, her reaction was: “Who the fuck is this woman? Boy, she looks tough as nails in that one — and she’s as soft as velvet in that one, and who is she and what’s going on here?” John Wilmerding, Deputy Director of the National Gallery, emoted in a more consonant spirit: “Now her sturdy features and sober demeanor, reflective of her northern European background, match the somber browns and enduring contours of this Pennsylvania terrain.” Wyeth himself said, specifically regarding “Night Shadow”: “It’s not just anybody lying there. It’s that momentary thing — something you’ll never see again… That’s my relationship with Helga. Timeless.” He continued, and the past tense made his honesty crueler still, for Helga was (so I’ve read) bereft once he finished with her: “She epitomized all my German background — all imaginative things embodied in her. I used her for a stepping-stone.”

GIRL IN A BOX

To repeat the words of Kanze Hisao: “It is highly detrimental to a mask to be treated like a piece of antique art, to be shut up in a box or shown only in a glass case. It is only on the stage that it continues to maintain its vitality.”

But let me mention a reproduction of a certain ko-omote carved for the Kanzes by Deme Yasuhisa — it is a near-perfect copy of one of Tatsuemon’s masterpieces, which was once referred to by Zeami himself — and this mask, whose underside has been inscribed in gold and red, lives in a box additionally inscribed. “And thus, this mask is known as a hako-iri-musume (girl in a box, meaning a girl brought up with tender care).”

The box opens, offering us a girl’s face sleek with baby fat; her U-shaped double chin mimics the curve of her lower lip. As the mask turns rightward it takes on a shy smile of tenderness or perhaps of pride in receiving some compliment from father, husband, suitor, lord; facing left with its chin a trifle higher, its expression becomes bolder, although no less serene; it could be dreaming of an attachment or contemplating the peace which that attachment’s death will bring. Vertical streaks of light now gild its eyelids. On the left cheek and above the upcurving right corner of the upper lips, birthmarks or timemarks live their quiet lives. The left eyebrow is a wider cloud of black than the left. Darkness shines out at us from the half-smile beneath the black teeth.

The description continues: “A copy of the Honmen of Konparu. The nose tilted to the right and the flesh on top of the cheekbones are superb. Blemish, beauty mark, cracks, and even the damage on the tip of her nose is accurately copied. The colors are quite unique. It is made from the Japanese cinnamon tree¹ like the Honmen, and on the back, the nose, eyes, vertical lines from the lower lip to the chin, and the double horizontal cut with a round chisel which interrupts them, are all exactly the same as on the Honmen.”

Too old to be represented by a ko-omote, Helga would be better portrayed by a fukai. Time’s damage to her face deserves to be accurately copied; and although I have never met Helga, I believe in her; the flesh is superb; the perfection of her particularity is as fragrant as a cinnamon tree.

Helga is a girl in a box. I keep my book about her pictures carefully on the shelf. When I open it, I turn the pages as gently as I can.

“There’s no general beauty in the world,” Mr. Kanze Hideo had said to me, and Helga’s loveliness is certainly not general. — But what is any ko-omote, even this famous girl in a box, but a stylized, hence at least partially generalized representation? How much of its subtle individuality can an audience see as a difference? — Or is this question as ingenuous as an inquiry into whether all women who possess two eyes are more or less the same?

Who is this inside the box? Wyeth must have “known” what he had made, but he lacked the noun to describe it. “Taking the lids off the boxes… they had the odor of the girl, they had the whole — I knew they were not just pretty pictures.”

She remains on her side of the abyss, her paintings relentlessly immobile and two-dimensional — understated, in short; fascinating and inexhaustible.

“THE GROWTH AND DEPTH OF MY EMOTION”

Noh actors and Inoue School geishas repeat that they strive to feel nothing when performing their roles. Zeami insists that the Perfect Fluency “has no connection… with the actor’s conscious artistic intentions or with any outward manifestation of those intentions.” Meanwhile, here is Andrew Wyeth: “To me, it is simply the question of whether or not I can find the thing that expresses the way I feel at a particular time about my own life and my own emotion. The only thing that I want to search for is the growth and depth of my emotion toward a given object.”

Perhaps defensively, he remarked to Thomas Hoving that the Helga pictures were “too real for some people. You have to feel deeply to do this kind of thing.”

For years I hoped to meet Andrew Wyeth to ask him how deep into the earth his emotion was growing, toward what; but as I finished this book, at the beginning of 2009, he was freshly dead, his feeling’s constellation of image-object as motionless as a lord’s retainers in an old Kabuki play. Helga Testorf, so I imagine, gazes down into the place where he has gone. She sees it better than I. When the shite of “Izutsu” stares down into the well, when Zeami envisions snow in a silver bowl, and when Suzuka-san meets her own snow-white geisha face in the makeup mirror, are their visions somehow equivalent?

In Kanazawa I have looked down at the Ishakawon Gate, discovering snow on the roofs, the forest silver behind it, as if I have lost myself in an old Genji Picture-Scroll. Ishakawon’s gangling walls, gabled roofs, complex of ponds and walks invite enumeration, however unsuccessful such a procedure might be. In “Farm Road” it would be impossible, unless one so far misconstrued coherence as to inspect Wyeth’s brush-strokes through a hand lens.

Had I been lucky enough to meet Andrew Wyeth, what holes under the tree-roots might he have shown me? One visitor from 1965 perceived the artist’s identity to be “fluid and fluctuating… You can feel it changing and altering in a constant play while you talk to him. This makes you think you have got behind the mask, but when you leave you don’t know whether you have.”

What then; where then? If on a summer’s night in Kyoto you watch the mask just when the actor turns away from the torchlight, will you learn where the face goes?

And when Mr. Umewaka dances Yoroboshi at Yasukuni Shrine, his mask grows dreamily downturned, inward-turned into a true blind face; then when he raises the mask it seems startled, attentive to some distant sound. Slowly he swirls his almost closed fan before him as he turns. A gash of light catches on his chin like a tear. He turns, more tear-light kissing his mask just under his blind eye; then a circlet of light crowns his forehead. Presently the fan comes before his face, becomes a knife-edge, then slowly cleaves the air. Later he will fling out his sleeve, collapsing when the voices slow. Then the waki comes to face him, but Yoroboshi stares at the ground. The waki spreads his golden fan in what I can only inanely describe as “a very dignified gesture,” after which absolute silence follows. Mr. Umewaka at a wide remove from the waki glides down the bridge, with time itself breaking between them.

Does Helga see what the blind man did? If I could succeed in seeing through darkness, would my vision be one certain and secret thing, or could it be any number of things? When a Noh actor or geisha considers nothingness, what if anything lies beyond this, glowing like a jewel within the earth?

Noh’s overt answer to this might recapitulate the Genjo Koan of 1231: “The individual self striving to realize all things is delusion; all things striving to realize the individual self is awakening. Those who awake to delusion are Buddhas, while those who are deluded about awakening are humanity.” But this is not what I wish to believe. I want to kiss the mask, and when I put my lips against its wooden emptiness, I want to feel a woman’s tongue in my mouth.

And when aestheticians refer to the slow rising of a Noh actor’s hand as “the gateway to something beyond… a symbol not of any one object or conception but of an eternal region, an eternal silence,” I can never avoid wondering whether they have been tricked by the Emperor’s nakedness. But when I experience the yugen of the geisha, or of “Farm Road,” or when the woman I love slowly raises her hand to her hair, then I do believe that there is something beyond.

To look at something far away, the Noh actor shades his eyes, and the cognoscenti know. When he outstretches his sleeve with his fan angled outward, the fan becomes a cup; he is scooping up water. But when Helga gestures, what does it mean? Does grace without allusiveness fall into its own category?

“It’s not just anybody lying there. It’s that momentary thing — something you’ll never see again…” — Genji might have felt something of this sort when Murasaki died. And so it is anybody, and everybody, and all of us who have existed on one or the other side of an alluring mask. I cannot tell you what Helga sees when she stares down into the earth; but I imagine that I can when I am in Kanazawa, at the point of passing through the many stone arches of an ancient castle gate.

On the grounds of old Nagoya Castle, attended by fountain and moat, the rainbow curtain tucks itself up and a heavy figure in turquoise glides out, on its shoulders a bundle of white, in its hands a basket. It stops almost onstage and turns to face another figure, a sprite garbed in the colors of earth, whose hands rest at its breast, the foregrounded sleeve falling below in a long earthern triangle from elbow and wrist. Its face is a honey-colored wig and a Noh mask of something staring and old. This entity begins to chant, and the drums, flute and chorus accompany its song, not a word of which I understand. Then it and the figure in turquoise begin to sing loudly and resonantly to one another from across the bridge.

I could remind you of the functions of the two figures who enter from the little stage door, crossing the mirror-board to kneel at the rear, partially occluding the pine tree. I could explain the plot to you, pretending that even if Mr. Umewaka had refrained from summarizing it for me at the end I would have comprehended the Emperor’s command. If I had educated myself more during my interviews with mask-carvers I surely could have dissected for you the illusion by means of which the sprite’s gape becomes more and more thoughtful when seen from the side. The chanting and music speeds up and deepens, the flute shudders. Only the sprite moves, and he finally lays down his wand, removes a fan; then throughout a long bout of chanting, he stays still, the light glistening on his level mask, and faces the golden envoy across the stage. Never mind who is the Willow Tree Water Goddess. This performance being mediated by my untrained, incoherent perceptions, I can only serve you up with bits of things. I remember a kimono’s white and silver arrows, and a mask thatched with hair and offering us all its gruesomely grimacing wooden lips. Why does the crown have flames on it? The advances and retreats of this being, its dim movements especially, which are as delicately exquisite as horses in an Assyrian hunting relief, its creeping, twirling and stamping, the waving of its fan, the fact that on the bridge it casts a sleeve over its crown and the way its head flickers with ghastly liveliness, have all been choreographed; but even if I were no longer an ape in a cage, and could tell you the significance of each step and syllable, I still could not peer within “the gateway to something beyond”; in fact, I might remain farther away from it, like a darkroom technician whose very skill prevents him from composing interesting photographs. At least, so I reassure myself.

Why Helga is beautiful, whom we are meant to think of when we see a certain pregnant Cycladic marble with a nose like a knife, pointed breasts and a wide flat pubis; why I am bewitched by this geisha’s perfect white face which glows in the darkness as softly as a paper lamp (who is she to me? I think of the Jungian concept of the anima, the projection of the feminine within me, but that can’t be much of it, because she is alien), to these questions the eternal beyondness of understatement gives some answer, to be sure, but if I knew more I could know more. In the Nara National Museum there is an eighth-century scroll of the Flower Garland Sutra: silver-dust characters evenly spaced on night-blue paper; call it a celestial blueprint. I “appreciate its beauty.” But I cannot read it. There is too much in this world for me to know. As the shite says in the madwoman play “Miidera” (literal translation): “Thinking heart is saddened.”

What is grace? The lap drummer cries out; the three golden fans slowly flash.

And because femininity has no one true face, because it is modish, living, and hence at every moment ageing, because my loving or lustful or worshipful gaze must itself die, because my male attraction to the female is attachment, which even if it could last would eventually (whether or not I believe it) become torment, it is good for me to think again and again on Zeami’s third highest level of beauty: “The art of the flower of tranquility. Piling up snow in a silver bowl.” The Sanskrit poet Jayadeva celebrates Radha’s liquidly moving doe eyes, her black braid, her red berry-lips and perfectly circular breasts; her earlobe is the bowstring of desire and fragrance comes from her lotus mouth. Where is Radha now? The grace of a woman is a snow image; and then the sun comes out from faraway Silla, and there is only water in the silver bowl.

In Hokusai’s sketch, high-eyebrowed Komachi stands in a regal bow-like arc of kimono and haughtiness. So many men seek her — unimaginable the future when she will be expelled from the palace! This artist also portrays her in old age, clutching a disk whose upper rim bursts into leaf. And in the ninth of his illustrations to the renowned Hundred Poets anthology, in the midst of late spring, an old crone in a pale blue kimono and a red obi grips a cane, her white fist wilting down from its sagging red sleeve; and there she leans, staring at a cherry tree’s cloud-white blossoms, which do indeed resemble two-dimensional, multi-lobed clouds clinging to the tree’s crooked red arms and fingers. We see her only from the rear. Facing her, and looking at her either not at all or else only out of the corner of his eye, one of Hokusai’s typical balding, wry-faced workers sweeps the white path; white blossoms cling to the red bristles of his broom. The poem accompanying this image may be her most famous, the one that puns on rain and senescence; it begins: Hana no iro wa / Utsuri ni keri na… — “The flower’s color / has already gone…”

We have looked in on Zeami writing almost obsessively about the various ages in a Noh actor’s life, always emphasizing what he should aspire to create. At the age of twenty-four or twenty-five, when both voice and carriage have matured even as the body continues to be youthful, “this is a very dangerous moment for him. This flower is not the true flower… Due to his inexperience, he does not realize that this premature flower will fade soon. He must ponder this fact over and over again.”

In his effort to explain the meaning of “elegance beyond maturity,” Zeami quotes this proverb:

The flower of a lover’s mind

The grace of a woman is indeed a snow image. A snow-faced onnagata gazes sadly out at this floating world from the corners of her eyes, whose over-and-underlining thickens as it departs the nose, so that their inward edges are points and the outward ones rounded like raindrops; her crimson heartshaped little mouth takes on all the more beauty above her sky-blue collar and below her purple-black wig and eyebrows; with long white fingers she holds her striped robe just open or just closed at the breast, showing off the milky river-patterns on her slate-blue obi. Within a few hours at most she will be washing off her paint.

Katy might fall asleep with her makeup on, but tomorrow she too must slough off her female skin.

A Noh actor plays Komachi. Then in the mirror room an uba mask goes back into its box, and an old man goes home.

Once upon a time, Urashima of Mizunoé married the Sea-God’s daughter and lived immortally with her amidst the octopi until he foolishly decided to visit his parents, who of course had long since risen up in funeral-smoke; so, standing alone on the shore, he opened the casket she’d warned him never to open, and out came a white cloud that returned to the Sea-God’s palace without him; he immediately died of old age.

The grace of Noh is one more snow image, and likewise Kabuki, in which the faded block prints and paper screens of the past are reborn into stunning brightness. How easy it is to live delusionally beyond time, until the performance ends, the beautiful face returns to its box, and I swirl out of mine, joining the effervescence of salarymen in dark suits who march along with me all the way to Shinagawa Station, their heads high, only a few of them yawning, most of them resolute even when they bear dark hollows under their eyes, almost all proceeding in one direction, which is the same taken by the shoals of miniskirted high heeled schoolgirls in uniforms which vary the sailor suit theme; these people are concentrating sometimes on some intermediate point ahead of them in the night, sometimes on something within their skulls, or on the screen of an illuminated cellphone held at arm’s length, but hardly ever on each other; they resemble a school of fish, wide-eyed and together forward, passing solitary from womb to grave. As it gets later, the clothing grows more varied, the faces less resolute; one even spies grubby people. But every now and then a lovely face streaks across my horizon, always rightward, and, like all the others, rounds the corner and passes through the ticket gate. I reach my coffin hotel. It is time to hang up my wilted suit. The crowd continues on toward the Sea-God’s palace. I brush my teeth and say goodnight to my ageing face.¹

That ageing isn’t all bad I know from the time-scarred buttocks of various marble Aphrodites, not to mention those lovingly used Noh masks. Besides, as my late grandfather always used to say, in evident disagreement with Komachi, “well, Bill, it’s better than the alternative.” One such alternative is conveyed by this letter from Oda Nobunaga to Murai Sadakatsu, 1575, with vermilion seal: “The town of Fuchu is nothing but corpses… I’d like to show it to you! Today I shall search every mountain and every valley, and I shall kill them all.” Accordingly, just for today I will permit myself to get a trifle older, being not quite ready to choose death, as Mishima did. And next time I go to Kyoto and ask Kofumi-san to dance for me, the lines at the corners of her mouth will have lengthened. She will be no less beautiful to me for that, and perhaps more so: Sabi not merely enriches but defines the open fields painted by Andrew Wyeth, who called their implied loneliness “natural for me.” In Snow Country, that master of aware, Kawabata, takes note of a certain woman as follows: “It was such a beautiful voice that it struck one as sad.” This may well be the most characteristic sentence in his oeuvre. (Did this man not write a book called Beauty and Sadness?) The sadness, for him at least, comes from transience. Whenever his artistic gaze met schoolgirls in blue uniforms, green lanterns, red walls, necklaces of wisteria spilling down the tree-trellis, it was as if he remembered rather than perceived them. Mishima’s consciousness for its part would have sniffed them all anxiously for indications of decomposition. Urashima preferred to avoid them, and dwell — at least until his guilt or yearning prevented him — in a changeless place which I only imagine that I can imagine because it must be very old, and even if the gems remain in their sockets, the black calligraphy still frozen in rainstrings superimposed on the greyish cloud-shapes and grass-shapes of the palace screens, all the same, black must have flecked out of the courtiers’ hair, their faces decayed and flaked half away, their sea-flowers long since scattered and devoured by snails — unless, of course, Zeami is incorrect, and the true flower can in fact endure forever, like some precious mineral concretion in an E. T. A. Hoffmann fairytale.

The Sea-God’s daughter must have been perfect; her mouth must have been as cool as a mosquitoey afternoon exhaling from a moss garden in Kyoto. Beneath the cold waves on edge of which the saltmakers of Suma gathered seaweed to burn, the palace might have presented, like so many of Kyoto’s old temples, a curving roof of wavelike tiles, beneath which white panel walls and fragile wooden pillars stood multiply open to reveal a grid of paneled walls and tatami floors. Perhaps black snails kept them clean. And I imagine an open vermilion structure with silver-white rails from which Urashima and his wife could gaze down from the crest of a hill of tea-green shrubs — really more seaweed, but after his first thousand years of residence he might have forgotten the appearance of terrestrial plants, whose flowerings false and true would have been as lost to him as the changes of the moon.

Like most novelists, Mishima writes principally about himself. In each volume of his Sea of Fertility tetralogy, which shines ever more obviously as one of the great works of the last century, the protagonist appears to have been reincarnated into a different body. First he is Kiyoaki, a sensitively self-destructive young dreamer who falls in love with the one woman he has been expressly prohibited from loving, and from that love he catches his death at age twenty. Next we see him as a kendo athlete with “a face like new-fallen snow, unaware of what lies ahead,” who matures into a rightwing suicide terrorist. In the third novel he’s reborn as a Thai princess who also dies young, of a snakebite; in the last, as a handsome, cruel young lighthouse keeper. The reincarnated person can always be identified by a certain birthmark, and the identification gets accomplished by the other protagonist, Shigekuni Honda, who is a judge — perfect profession for a soul whose task it is in the tetralogy to decide what might or might not be true, and what existence means. In the first novel, he muses about Kiyoaki: “Up until now I thought it best as his friend to pretend not to notice even if he were in his death agonies, out of respect for that elegance of his.” Certainly Honda never suceeds in preventing anybody’s death agonies. Scrupulous, empathetic, intelligent, aching to understand, and ultimately impotent, Honda might as well be — a novelist.

In effect, then, there are two main characters in this long work, the observer and the observed. Is the observed really one soul who comes to life four times, or, as the final volume hints, has Honda deluded himself (as I perhaps would) out of yearning for supernatural coherence?

Mishima was both Honda and Kiyoaki, the one and the myriad. As an artist, he could create, but creation can never substitute for action. Action, on the other hand, may be powerful but cannot transcend ephemerality. Action dies as does Kiyoaki, and as did ultimately Mishima himself, whose carefully politicized, aestheticized suicide was not only rabidly absurd, but a failure on its own terms: The troops refused to rally to his call for Emperor worship. At least Isao, the kendo athlete of the second book, succeeds in assassinating somebody before he cuts his belly open. Mishima was ultimately more like Honda than like Isao, which is hardly a terrible thing: while he may be sterile in the sense that he will not bring about any “great event” (he will not murder any ministers), his empathy will endure. Honda’s seeking, his sincerity, his fidelity to that not necessarily well founded belief in Kiyoaki’s reincarnations, here are the strands of perception, conceptualization and devotion which sustain patterns of recurrence into something permanent and precious. Without Honda, the four young men and one young woman who share nothing but a certain birthmark and a predilection to secret self-absorptions would not have added up to any collective thing. Thanks to him, they embody a sacred mystery. That is why Honda can be likened to the immense display case in the Mishima Yukio Literary Museum, where our author’s books shine as colorfully frozen as any collection of immaculate butterflies.

So Honda is Mishima; and the butterflies, the various versions of Kiyoaki, are also Mishima, whose strangely plastic features — and this is a quality more often pertaining to women, because more of them know how to dress the part and put on makeup — seem capable of forming themselves into any number of vastly dissimilar faces. Sometimes in the photographs his very head appears elongated, as though he were Cambodian or Vietnamese; at other times it’s rounder, like the clay head of some Assyrian idol; that frequently very sensitive and delicate face, Kiyoaki-face, can on occasion appear bleached and bleak like an ageing prisoner’s, or harden into the stereotyped clay vulgarity which I have seen in the attitudes of tattooed Yakuza gangsters posing for my press camera (this, perhaps, was an attempt to embody himself as Isao the suicide-terrorist). We have Mishima the suit and tie man, Mishima the flashy dancer (caught from above and grainily, à la Weegee), Mishima the artful poser in the dark kimono polka-dotted with light, and they are all his expressions of self, his legitimate incarnations, but only the Mishima called Honda sits down to the desk on which the bronze or brass letter-opener surmounted with the medallion of a Caucasian’s head (a certain Emperor Napoleon, I believe) lies beside a miniature sword; two very Japanese looking metal fishes and a metal lizard bask eternally by a golden Parker pen; it is none other than Honda who, perhaps wishing that he could be Isao, writes at the end of Runaway Horses: “The instant that the blade tore open his flesh, the bright disk of the sun soared up and exploded behind his eyelids.”

This defines Mishima’s agony. As he writes in his eerie confession Sun and Steel,

In the average person, I imagine, the body precedes language. In my case, words came first of all; then… came the flesh. It was already… sadly wasted by words. First comes the pillar of white wood, then the white ants that feed on it. But for me, the white ants were there from the start, and the pillar of plain wood emerged tardily, already half eaten away.

Regarding Ono no Komachi one sees the white ants in retrospect. But in her heyday, no doubt, one saw only the white wood of her perfect flesh, the white arms, black teeth, black hair.

Kiyoaki has the body, of course, and Honda the words. And the words despise themselves, knowing that their own fulfillment necessarily spoils the body with sedentariness. But without the words to define and cohere, the body lapses into its own separate incarnations; and even its most dramatic self-expressions, its mutilations and orgasms, cannot win to the understanding which words make possible and which will keep the body’s consciousness whole. For all his athletic poses toward the end, the mere existence of the Mishima Yukio Literary Museum suffices to prove that the body was not enough for our novelist, that like Kiyoaki he became too restless to stay in one body, that he wanted to be the man of a thousand faces even if the close-cropped hair, the half-smoked cigarette failed to remove him as much as he thought it did from kinship with any small boy who dresses up as a sailor. Yes, incarnation is restless, and so in some photographs, Mishima, whom my Japanese translator thinks of as “definitely gifted, but somehow not really sure how to cope with the ‘gift,’ ” wears a radiant if at times hysterically radiant smile, the white teeth tight together; in other images he’s trying to look stern. In the body-builder portraits, Mishima appears rounded and drawn in on himself, transformed into clay, a stolid corporeality which expresses itself more loudly than the inner spirit; but I suspect that the spirit, which accentuated that corporeality because it loathes itself, feels tormented by that loudness and dares not confess it. Could that be one reason that Mishima chose death?

About that death, or at least about its supposed inevitability, a little more should be said. In Sun and Steel he bitterly complains about the fact that men cannot objectify themelves, and from the context it’s evident that he means objectify their bodies as women can. I ask his ghost: What about the spectacularly objectified feminine beauty of the male Noh actor? Not answering, Mishima hurries on: “He can only be objectified through the supreme action — which is, I suppose, the moment of death, the moment when, even without being seen, the fiction of being seen and the beauty of the object are permitted. Of such is the beauty of the suicide squad.” Mishima wrote those words in that languorously white house of his, which might be considered a little peculiar for the abode of a Japanese nationalist given those white urns, Greekish statues and European horoscope mosaic, that house which serenely bides and forebodes behind its high white wall; if anything, it makes me think of the residence of the minister Kurihara in Runaway Horses, whom Isao stabs to death in punishment for the crime of sacrilege. Kurihara is, among other things, another Honda. The body hates the words (so, at least, the self-hating words say). The body freely, guiltlessly kills and copulates, marches, overthrows, dances, allures, inspires, makes history. It can do everything. But what’s it made of? The white ants are already eating it. When Mishima, naked but for his loincloth, sits on the tatami mat for yet another photograph (if you knew him by only this image, you wouldn’t suspect that he lives amidst French engravings of nineteenth-century experimental balloons), when Mishima leans on the staff of his sheathed sword, his face, which to others, including himself, may evince resolution, to me betrays resignation, even vacancy, as if it cannot escape its own clay.

And yet that house with its erotic luxury and hallmarks of foreign possibilities, that cosmopolitan palace which Isao would have hated, what a perfect womb for a creative mind! To be sure, he could have become soft and fat living in that house (and suddenly I think with more sympathy of Urashima, immortal so far, dwelling endlessly underwater with the Sea-God’s daughter). In his study stand Japanese brushes in a lacquerware cylinder, an elegantly slender calligraphy box, a block of scarlet ink for what I think is a stamp or seal; with those objects perhaps he could have incarnated himself into a living exemplar of the Japanese tradition which he imagined that he had to die for. He might have chosen any number of fates. And it may be significant that the tense, gruesome Runaway Horses, whose hero kills himself more or less with Mishima’s method, is not the final novel of the tetralogy, but the second. What if Mishima, like the ghost-shite of many a Noh play, had outlived his own death? Honda himself is condemned to outlive Isao’s seppuku for two more volumes in which nothing nearly as dramatic will occur. In the third volume, The Temple of Dawn, he witnesses what he believes is Kiyoaki’s reincarnation in the person of a beautiful, mysterious Thai princess. Mishima’s mood becomes richly tropical here, and the discourses into Buddhist theology, which irritate some readers, to me evince a last flowering of intellectual excitement on Honda’s part as he continues to attempt to find, and Mishima to convey, perhaps to feel, the meaning of existence. But halfway through this novel, the famous aridity has already set in. Lovesickness, ideological rapture, and divine mysteries are done. The final book, The Decay of the Angel, exudes a suffocatingly existential quality. It’s all about waiting for death — not the joyfully fanatical death of Runaway Horses, which Mishima tried unjoyfully to die, but the death of the white ants. Unable to move forward to oblivion, the shite chants out nausea and putrefaction. Reading The Temple of Dawn always makes me feel that the tetralogy’s end, and Mishima’s corresponding finish, were not preordained.¹ The enigmatic little Thai princess offers the prospect of something different, something not only almost as erotic as suicide, but perhaps more elusive, something worthwhile enough to warrant not killing oneself while one tries to uncover it. Very possibly, if The Temple of Dawn is any indication, this something could have been religion or philosophy. I wonder how feverishly Mishima hunted for it in his wood-clad study with the bookshelved walls.² He failed to find it, and that is why every year on 25 November, the white-clad Shinto priests lay down their prayer-streamers on the altar, which resembles a tabletop model of a round-towered castle, and the blood-red disk of the Hinomaru flag hangs above them in the darkness beside Mishima’s portrait.

MISHIMA’S KOMACHI

In the shade of his sensational end, Mishima’s Noh plays often go overlooked.

Of the five which I have been able to read in translation, three fall considerably short of their originals. Only his “Hanjo” is clearly superior. All of them gleefully defy Zeami’s edict that “one must not copy the vulgar manners of common people.”

In shocking contradistinction to the classical Noh aesthetic of yugen, Mishima begins his “Sotoba Komachi” as follows: “THE SET is in extremely vulgar and commonplace taste, rather in the matter of sets used in operettas.” In other words, “the white ants were there from the start.” One of Mishima’s hallmarks, like Poe’s, is nastiness.

In the original, as in the sister Noh plays, Komachi is a pathetic character whose echoes of her past beauty and arrogance render her grandly pitiable — and more, for having outlived the false flower of her youth she may win through to enlightened non-attachment. But in Mishima’s version she becomes, as women so often do in his work, an impure devourer whose weapons include ambiguity and hypocrisy. Mishima’s hero-protagonists are resolute. His heroines are the enemies of resolution.

One could write a diverse catalogue of the little avarices which occur when poverty marries old age. But when this ant-eaten Komachi of his counts over her hoard of cigarette butts, this seems not only appropriate to an aged beggar, but germane to the younger Komachi whose absence shines from behind the rainbow curtain — for didn’t she collect from Fukakusa her utmost toll of those hundred fatal nights? Mishima recapitulates her tale on a gruesomely petty scale. I, glorifier of my attachments, reject to my utmost power Noh’s assertion that clinging to whatever moves becomes torture — but Mishima’s Komachi is a horridly convincing argument against me. What makes her horrid is that he has stolen her grace away.³ In this anti-Noh of his, the Poet who stands in for Fukakusa insists: “The park, the lovers, the lampposts, do you think I’d use such vulgar material?” Mishima uses it with glee; Komachi embodies it, all the while assuring us that nothing was not vulgar once. The Poet, who himself lacks any sweetheart, loves lovers because they seem to each other more beautiful than they are. To this Komachi replies that those who keep such illusions are actually dead: Boredom and disgust prove that one has come back to life.

Here is an example of Mishima’s typically morbid version of aware. Komachi looks around her at the loving couples in the park and remarks: “They’re petting on their graves. Look, how deathly pale their faces look in the greenish street light that comes through the leaves.”

And presently one even finds a tiny bit of yugen, although it reminds me of some grim voyage to Hel in the Norse Eddas: “Shadows are moving over the windows, and the windows grow light and dark by turns with the shadows of the dance. So wonderfully peaceful — like the shadows cast by flames.”

Mishima continually implies that the beauty of femininity’s mask is not merely delusory, but dangerous, distracting, voracious: the ruination of male energy. (As it happens, he forgives the loveliness of the onnagata who gazes demurely down while the red-painted outer corners of her eyes curve impossibly up.)

Did Fukakusa no Shoso die a worthwhile death? In Spring Snow, Kiyoaki fruitlessly visits again and again the woman who, her virginity stolen by him, has been led to take the tonsure and renounce him forever. Like Komachi’s lover, he dies at last of exposure. There is, to my mind at least, an element of self-destructive stupidity in Kiyoaki’s doings; but what I interpret as the author’s accomplished irony may be something else, given how he ended his life (how horrible if he had felt “ironic” even then!). And Captain Fukakusa in Mishima’s “Sotoba Komachi” has certainly been warned by the old witch herself not to let himself be allured. He seems to inflict the spell upon himself, and therefore to be more self-aware, profounder, than his exemplar in the traditional texts. As for Komachi, like so many Mishima heroines (although certainly not all of them), she is not much more than evil, and therefore far inferior to her original. When Mr. Kanze portrayed Komachi in her old age I could almost see the white triangles of snow in the joints of the bamboo-grove at the Shoren-in, or the way that in late spring the moss of the Shoren-in mottled and marbled with fallen cherry blossoms;⁴ whereas Mishima’s Komachi is simply an ogress — or is she? The rule is this: Call her beautiful and you die. She sportingly warns the Poet of this again and again even as she entices him to dance. But is he perhaps already dead? He promises to meet her here in a hundred years, when she will have grown old as he will not. So could he be the ghost of Fukakusa? Tonight has dreamily become the hundredth night, so Komachi must give herself to the Poet, at which prospect he feels simultaneously happy and disheartened. But then he says: “If I think something is beautiful, I must say it’s beautiful even if I die for it.” And so he dies, and Komachi calmly sits counting up her cigarette butts.

As a matter of fact, Fukakusa’s character is hardly otherwise in the traditional Noh plays. In “Kayoi Komachi” the waki comes to the grass to pray for the release of her moaning skull. Fukakusa no Shoso’s spirit also exists here; but he at first refuses to accept the Law of Buddha and be enlightened. Clinging to his love and resentment, he goes so far as to menace the priest. Presently, however, he finds himself, in the accustomed pathetic fashion of ghosts, reenacting the hundredth night, on the verge of winning of Komachi’s favors, and this somehow enables him to reach the better consummation of enlightenment.

I see Komachi young and alone in a certain snowy landscape, at the bottom of a narrow vertical ukiyo-e painting, one branch of a leafless tree poised over her head, then far above her the scribbly rain of calligraphy. With her pale, stylized face she could have been anyone. I feel a trace of boredom; trapped in the Sea-God’s palace, I find myself preferring Mishima’s Komachi — but only for an instant, because what ruined Urashima was that his attachment became a trap, and Mishima’s tale ends no better; his attachment merely happened to be to death itself.

When I compared him to Poe, I was thinking precisely of the horror which stained their separate but not dissimilar thanatophilia. In Mishima’s fantasies, seppuku may come voluptuously, and the man’s corpse may allure other men, but there is no branch of flowers. In any good Noh performance of “Aoi-no-Ue” the goldenfaced horned monster of hatred and jealously lowers its mask-face, glowering and grinning, horrible, advancing upon the exorcist, yellow-eyed and almost cheerful but also dead and rotting, the reincarnation of the lovely woman who did not know how envious she was; whenever it lowers its head, it seems to be snarling and cowering like a dog; when it raises it, it embodies evil on the verge of triumph; and still it is beautiful with the severe beauty of a marble Artemis who has scarcely aged.

Meanwhile, Mishima’s Komachi scrounges cigarette butts. This act of vandalism refreshes me; it brings me out of the Sea-God’s palace; but then the decay I see in her brings me only grief. I feel in Mishima’s Noh plays the violence of a man who attacked his tradition because he hated himself.

The black cracks and wrinkles in even a Kamakura Buddha’s goldskinned face can certainly inspire any number of unhappy sensations, but there do remain to us three strategies for overcoming such feelings. The first is to make decay into something piquant, as I have done when making love with extremely aged women. The second is to obscure those signs of deficiency, as the Urashimas among us strive insistently to do (or, as Mishima does, to insist on them, which is almost the same thing). The third is to project and animate the material shell in such a way that its beautiful essence claims our immediate perception. Naturally this requires distance and deception. Or perhaps it simply requires understatement. We need not state the wrinkles to state the Buddha. In any event, it requires transient life to animate the mask.

What Kawabata says in opposition to Mishima, and many Noh texts also imply this, is that a recollected attachment can outlive the decay of the lovers, like the violet blossoms blooming reclusively on the ancient maple tree at the beginning of Kawabata’s novel The Old Capital. “As time passed,” he writes in Beauty and Sadness, “the memory of their embrace was gradually becoming purified within Otoko, changing from physical to spiritual… When she recalled what he had taught her, and imitated it in making love to Keiko,” her lesbian protégée, “she feared that the sacred vision might be stained,” as it always is in Mishima’s pages. “But it remained inviolate.”

The white pillar lists and rots; white ants attack it; they are as snowskinned as an image of a dancing courtesan on gilded paper. Mishima feels no sabi, or at least denies that he does. But neither does Komachi herself. Like him, she is less a teller than a protagonist of the tragedy. It is not that his art is any less “true” than Zeami’s. It is merely less neutral, “unattached” and self-observed. The Heian court poets might have best understood it in relation to ushin, conviction of feeling.

In the photographs of him he always appears “sensitive,” sometimes clearly on purpose, sometimes, as in the body building portraits, in spite of him. His lower lip frequently protrudes a trifle, like that of a ko-omote. His pale face is narrow, his handsome mouth occasionally a trifle twisted. Who is this person?

Mishima fears the white ants, and fears to fear (also fearing boredom), and so he offers himself to them. The result is a combination of bravery and cynicism: “To wash oneself clean of one sin that was permeated with sacrilege, one must commit another. In the end, the two would cancel each other out…” This is what I love Mishima for most of all. If he can only screw up his courage in this childish and twisted way, still, he dares; he strives to be “realistic.” Attachment without grace! How the Heians would have blanched! — And yet, Noh’s spiritual emphasis may be summed up by none other than the following sentence in Runaway Horses: “He was always thinking of death, and this had so refined him that the physical seemed to fall away, freeing him from the pull of earth and enabling him to walk about some distance above its surface.” Rereading this sentence, I seem to see Mr. Kanze gliding in beautiful agony across the bridge toward the rainbow curtain.

In Silla at the dead of night, the sun shines brightly.” Thus Zeami describes the highest of his nine levels of beauty. This is the flower of peerless charm. “The meaning of the phrase Peerless Charm surpasses any explanation in words and lies beyond the workings of consciousness… the Grace of the greatest performers in our art… gives rise to the moment of Feeling that Transcends Cognition, and to an art that lies beyond any level that the artist may have consciously attained.”

What Silla “means,” therefore, even Zeami could not say. Sillan sunshine, which I imagine to be as still and white as a geisha’s face powder, may in fact be less visible than snow in a silver bowl, or even pine trees ornamented with balls of snow. In the words of the eighteenth-century aphorist Lichtenberg: “The metaphor is much more subtle than its inventor, and so are many things. Everything has its depths. He who has eyes sees all in everything.” — And so I propose that Silla, that far away monarchy whose dominion over Korea’s Three Kingdoms collapsed more than four centuries before Zeami was born, is the place where the objects of our attachment live, and therefore the place where we can never go.

The Romantic poet Novalis wrote a novel whose protagonist wondered: “Do I not feel as I did in that dream when I saw the blue flower? What strange connection is there between Mathilda and that flower?” We know what Mishima would have replied: “That’s easy. They both equal death!” But how that connection would have played out we will never know, for Novalis died two years after Lichtenberg, with Henry von Ofterdingen unfinished. Meanwhile, Rodin’s “Psyche” waits for nothing, veiled by her own half-formlessness in the marble, the vagueness of her stone features haunting, almost shocking because what we can in fact see of her is perfect. The subtlety of that matter might have been likewise saved by the death of the inventor. I myself could hardly hope to rescue Psyche with a chisel, nor to definitively diagram Mathilda’s relation to flowerhood.

In the Noh play “Hagoromo” a man goes in quest of his vanished celestial wife. In such a situation, how high should be my expectations of success?¹ Wandering between Kyoto’s tall and narrow severally-decked pagodas, I encounter merely one more industrial sunset whose concrete-walled stage becomes blue in the fading light.

In the Tokyo National Museum, Kannon prays for me, her plump face all gold, her slender, tapering fingers pressed together at her chest, ever so many smaller jointed arms at her sides; she is the lobster or crab of mercy, holding many small bottles and other objects in her hands, perhaps charms or medicines. Can even she help me find the gold at the end of the rainbow, the place to which the metaphor points? The rainbow curtain goes up by itself; the bridge faintly creaks beneath a kyogen actor’s unusually rapid step.

But perhaps Silla awaits even in tonight’s dead of night! From the fifteenth century, in his “Errant Cloud Collection,” Ikkyu Sojun reports upon the arhat, or Buddhist saint who has expunged himself of the passions:

In this polluted world an arhat dwells far from Buddhaland;

A single visit to a brothel, however, will arouse his great wisdom.

Then again, an evening at the Noh theater might do just as well. A flame flickers at Yasukuni Shrine and the chanting goes on, each chorister’s mouth a square when he chants; and Yoroboshi, who is Mr. Umewaka, comes slowly, slowly creeping, his stick ahead of him at the perfect angle, because he’s blind; he’s chosen yellow-beige to wear and his mask is paler than anything which has ever existed. He sings, his long, long hair spilling down in two thin waves upon his breast. Slowly he turns, his voice so resonant and tuneful; and a cold mist of rain comes down on us and the drum begins to tap as the blind figure extends itself. The waki puts the golden fan over his head. Silla is the stately immobility of Mr. Umewaka, and the ethereal way in which he turns, his blind man’s cane never varying in angle, his hair tapering precisely down his back, cherry blossoms glinting in the torchlight and chorus-voices swelling into dreams.

I remember an eyeless Noh mask like a pupil-less marble Aphrodite; and the snowy-faced concentration of the ukiyo-e lady who with tilted head scissors away the stalk of a flower in just the right place to fit it into a formal blossom arrangement. I recall the overwhemingly beautiful curtains at the Kabuki-za glowing from behind like lantern slides; I especially remember one of that theater’s stage: Mount Fuji peaks above the clouds, accompanied by a blood-red sun; the light simmered behind it as if the sky were going overcast. These inspire me with visions of the Sillan sun, which, granted, I can discover only indirectly, as when I realize that in Wyeth’s paintings Helga is so often looking at something that I can never see, sometimes something between trees but more frequently something in the darkness.

In the British Museum I have seen many-grooved silvergolden bracelets from Silla. Who wore them I lack the education to imagine. Did those long-dead princesses shine in the dead of night as sun-brightly as Valkyries? — Since I cannot quite envision such a shining, please permit me to call it peerless charm.

Floating in a cracked and mottled heaven of gold, a certain Roman Muse touches her wreathed head while raising up the oversized and gaping mask of Tragedy, whose eyesockets are as melting craters. If I got too close to those (not to mention the mouth), I would fall into nothingness. I cannot believe in this fresco’s verisimilitude; but if it were true, I’d be better off keeping my distance. Anyhow, I can’t go there; I’m here in the noodle shop which is so narrow that when the sliding glass door closes there barely remains room to sit on the three little stools between it and the counter where the hoarse-voiced woman in black and her mother and husband make udon whose noodles are as thick as fingers with broth beautiful yellow from raw egg yolk. (They laughed with white teeth and clapped their hands when I said it was the best eel in Osaka.)

What is grace? — Two geishas view plum blossoms in the snow. Everything is pinkish, as in the sunset-infused winterscapes of Kawabata’s Snow Country — and against this “everything,” the snowy branches and the geishas’ skins stand out. How otherworldly, how Noh-like the way the ladies turn away from each other, each admiring her own chosen blossom! Their long, brocaded robes almost touch the snow. — This ukiyo-e print by Torii Kiyonaga (1752–1815) exemplifies the true flower. Those geishas, if they ever actually existed, departed beyond the rainbow curtain centuries ago. And yet here they continue their shining, like the sun from the night of Silla. — Needless to say, for me at my long remove of ignorance, the Edo era itself, from which ukiyo-e was meant to be a semi-fantastic escape, has become a province of Silla; for I can see it only as the prints show it to me: as a time and place when everybody was melonfaced and wore robes of yellow and of lead-vermilion faded almost to yellow, and everyone was rushing, bearing burdens, buying and selling, seducing, sitting folded-kneed on bamboo porches, flirting in doorways, paying mouth obeisance to the samurai while dreaming of Kabuki evenings, new silk kimonos, visits to the pleasure quarter. Which sun do you suppose shines there at night? Here is an early-eighteenth-century black-and-white ukiyo-e print of a plump courtesan with a maple leaf hairpin who is raising up her many-crested surcoat with her little hand in order to step toward the righthand edge; we can see one miniature foot, and we can tell that she is gazing at something through her sleepy little eyes, but to find out just what, we will have to board a discreet boat to Yoshiwara. And since all such boats have rotted, burned or sunk, what shall I do but listen to snow in a silver bowl, or, if I lack the wit to do that, watch a Noh performance?

Isuien Garden in Nara is a rolling Arctic moss-scape whose pools tease the gaze, going in and out of view. I remember an islet made of a single rock whose shape resembles a tortoise shell; its moss-spots, which possess the brilliant pallor of green tea, shine against the darker green of that rock-ringed pool whose reflections of sculpted pines seem to grow downward like roots; really there is no down; each reflection lies across the surface, which can be crossed by an irregular array of stone cylinders whose tops are almost level with the water; what does it mean to go from here to there across the water? What could be more simple? On that mossy islet-rock is a single feather. What does that mean? The stone steps are still; the water moves ceaselessly, so gently that ripples but rarely mar its representation of the green, green world of upside trees; but a water-strider, having rested, suddenly kicks its back left leg and sends concentric circles across the jade-tinted reflection of a cloud. Beyond that insect, the trembling reflections of the many leaves comprise a complexity whose magnitude, like that of a Noh kimono’s brocade design, overwhelms perception-all-at-once, and thereby achieves at least one order of infinity. By “perception-all-at-once” I mean the opposite of consciousness’s systematic trolling: the data banks of a corporation, or the memories of a lifetime, may add up to any number of items; this leaf, that leaf and any number of others may be brought back into consideration; an artist may carefully represent each leaf in the reflection, but when all’s said and done, the result is more than we can take in all at once. Meanwhile, thanks to the breeze on the water, that totality alters at every instant, which increases infinity by another order. And all this is but a semblance acted out upon the skin of the water: the relationship between the reflected and the so-called “real” add another order of infinity, what goes on beneath the surface of the water, what stories the ancient carp enact, there’s another order; and beyond this vaguely heart-shaped pool, whose shape can almost be recorded by perception-all-at-once, lies “the world.” Never mind all that. Cross the stepping-stones from here to there and perhaps you are in the other world. In that case, what does the island signify?

The silhouette of a carp slides by and vanishes behind or under the green-gold reflection of that pine tree. Just then the wind blows, and the reflection breaks up into myriad prismatic ovals of light green and white, pine needles duplicated, replicated, distorted.

Grace is under the water, or reflected on the water. I can see it; why can’t I touch it?

In an anonymous fan created sometime during the middle Tokugawa period (1742–91), pine trees express their peerless charm as ovoid needle-clouds in a sky of pure gold, rent along the fan-curve by two crimson irregularities studded with gold leaves and insects, and also by a very stylized blue shard of water with green lilypads. The pines offer Japanese asymmetry in all its grace. Their needle-clusters have been embellished into fans of rays within each cloud-lobe, and eyelashes-like constructions along the edges. The Noh actor who employs this fan represents a shrine priest. What could be more appropriate to his station? After all, the pine remains evergreen. In defiance of my epoch’s botanists, Zeami asserts that pine blossoms appear every thousand years, ten times in all — a span which for humans practically equals eternity. “So, awaiting this occasion, the branches of the pine / Bear leaves of poetry, shining with dewdrop gems.” — This marriage of the eternal with the transient expresses much of lies within Noh’s mysterious heart. The old man transforming himself into the young female, the stillness that frames passion and delusion and violence, the constant endeavor to neutralize opposites, all these can be expressed in the trope of the flowering pine. No wonder Zeami writes that the Noh actor who successfully impersonates an old man becomes “like blossoms on an ancient tree!”

It would not be going too far to ascribe divinity to the pine. When I asked the Noh actor Mr. Mikata Shizuka what it signifies on the Noh stage, he began with the surprising information that “before the Edo period, we didn’t have that pine tree,” I suppose because in the past the plays were usually performed outside;¹ then he said: “The god has to come to something, and it is to a pine tree where the god comes. Toward the tree we dedicate our art.”

TAKASAGO

One of the best known Noh plays is called “Takasago,” and indeed the fan just described was fashioned for use in this very drama, which portrays two pine trees. Zeami informs us that they “grew up together,” although their residences, Sumiyoshi and eponymous Takasago, lie three days’ journeying apart. The enigma solves itself when we learn (as the play’s original audience knew quite well) that they are god and goddess.

Hokusai offers us a simple line-image of this old couple, the man with a rake over his shoulder, the woman with a broom below and behind her. This is how we first see them in the play, in the typical Noh mode of unassuming mortal disguise. It is, after all, as exemplars for humans that they are best known. The song beginning “O Takasago!” is still sung at most Japanese weddings, which would please Zeami the populist entertainer. And apparently this song or a similar one once opened the year’s Noh repertory. Fenollosa’s notes inform us: “And while the cup of the Shogun is poured out three times, Kanze sings the ‘Shikai-nami’ passage from the play of Takasago, still bowing.” The play is a lovely evocation of conjugal fidelity,² and its last lines are especially beautiful: “The pines that grew together dance in the wind, / resounding with the rustling voice of joy.”

I myself, a product of skeptical individualism, have never been impressed by “Takasago’s” pieties, which must have been cliché’d before Zeami was born. In the late tenth century, we find the author of The Gossamer Journal penning such poems as

The pine-clad mountain

And so constancy is attachment, which condemns us shites to mistake perishable manifestations of this floating world for our already perished fellow ghosts with whose beautiful heart-flowers we remain enthralled, anguished — but in some Noh plays, as in life, constancy to a principle requires us to detach ourselves from people we love. Unfortunately, even then, unless we withdraw from the world as monks and nuns, our principled constancy merely resolves into another form of attachment. For instance, bushido, the way of the warrior, which requires the utmost loyalty, self-discipline, uprightness, courage, endurance of pain, will still, as Mr. Umewaka has told us,¹ consign a man to hell for having taken life. All the same, the plays assert that steadfast defense of the lord, or of honor itself, remains equivalent to faithful love; and they honor it accordingly. Noh’s critique of attachment is far more ambiguous than it pretends. And how could matters be otherwise? A seventeenth-century treatise explains that “the Way of Heaven has no love for” the fighting man, “yet has to make use of him.”

Once in Nara when I saw the play “Ebira,” which means quiver, Kofuku-ji’s white-clothed priests came clicking onstage in their wooden clogs; one bore a sword in a red lacquered scabbard; and presently the shite was extending his fan of many metallic colors as the musicians played faster; his kimono consisted of filigreed golden diamonds upon blackness; his soul was a bearded, moustached mask which wore a white headband and an immense black axehead of hair, the rest of its locks spilling almost to the navel and down the middle of the back. With its immensely wide golden legs and arms it sometimes seemed inhuman, especially when it flashed fan and sword so fiercely. What I felt resembled my sensations on seeing my own era’s soldiers on the rubble-stage of this half-ruined world; they patrol from one burnt pine tree to the next, wearing wide-flaring helmets, swollen-shouldered uniforms, cartridge belts and heavy guns. — Who are they? What have they done? — “Mission accomplished!” crows the President.

In his eponymous play, the exiled, senescent warrior Kagekiyo rejects his daughter’s care: “The end is near: go to your home; pray for my gone soul.” We are informed that love of woman scarcely ever prevented the Japanese warrior from doing his duty as he saw it; and even though he calls her “candle to my darkness, bridge to salvation,” this man, like other warriors defiled by blood and death, can hardly expect his daughter to save him from hell. Perhaps he is truly better off alone. Did the affections of Matsukaze and Murasame do them any good? Their pine tree fidelity reminds me of the old poem by Ariie about being in one’s rainy garden, one’s sleeves wet from pine tree wind so that one almost wonders whether tears from some secret grief have dampened them — or, still more to the point, the nightmare image in an equally ancient Shunzei poem of a dead wife lying eternally under the moss, listening to the pine-winds of midnight.

But what about what would have been best for Kagekiyo’s daughter? Well, never mind her.

“What should he have done?” I once asked Mr. Mikata, who replied: “The pride of a Japanese man at that time was this: When you were a strong warrior you should not think about any woman or girl. But this Kagekiyo has humane sentiment, and when the Heike declined, he did not want to see the Genji’s prosperity, so he damaged his own eyes, became a beggar and relied on local people, living in a shabby hut. There at this time, his daughter visited him. Of course he wanted to see her. But his pride that remained in his bone said that this is not my daughter.”²

In the play itself, the chorus sings that this once great man who hosted multitudes now feels shame at exposing to her his wretchedness; moreover, he wishes to spare his “flower so delicately tended,” his girl in a box, the humiliation of being known as a beggar’s daughter. And so poor Hitomaru, who voyaged all the way from Kyoto, only to be dismissed, literally pushed toward the bridge and the rainbow curtain, departs with “no remembrance other” between them than his “I stay” and her “I go.”

No matter how attachment incarnates itself, says Noh, the finite will continue hatefully toward infinitude; the soul will be unable to die. Like erotic attachment, the love between parent and child must also be dissected by death or separation, and then what? Every human bond is a trap.

In the Noh play “Michimori,” we watch the eponymous Heike hero (played by Mr. Mikata) drinking with his wife for the last time, and then the Genji attack increases; so he must leave for war, all the while thinking of his wife, but fighting hopelessly until the end. We see the actor slowly, darkly gliding in a middle distance between the lamps and the void where the audience sits, his golden fan a subdued flash in the darkness. He seems to rise up to an immense height, then to shrink down to the level of the chorus, folding away his fan. Later I will remember how the yellow cylindrical torch-lamps, two open flames, made the stage a soft golden beige. Then came silence, all still except for the flickering of the two flames… and suddenly sang the flute, followed by the first beat of the hollow drum.

What could Michimori have expected? — Nothing but death. — Did he put his wife out of his mind, then? — I hope not; in fact, I hope that he loved her as he died, leaving her with understanding.

Accordingly, Michimori, like the Inoue geisha, had better “prepare a mind of mirrorlike emptiness.” Indeed, it has been said that “the hieratic calm and simplicity” of Noh is “in absolute harmony with the bushi ethos, the life of a samurai swinging like a pendulum between sudden and violent action and quiet, contemplative repose.”

DEAD WHITE LIGHT

Noh’s violence has most often to do with severance of ties.

The typically loss-centered Noh play “Semimaru” portrays two cast-off Emperor’s children, the sister having been expelled because she is mad, the brother because he is blind. A functionary shaves the brother’s head and makes him a priest. He consoles himself that his life in either a palace or a hut would be short-lived in any case. He tries to believe that in abandoning him to this wilderness, his father is helping him to atone for whichever sin from his former life made him blind. His sister Sakagami meets him accidentally, hearing the Imperial beauty of his lute-playing. It is never explained why it is that she must leave again, but she does, and both weep at their parting.

Semimaru may never have existed, but if he did, his hut would have overlooked Lake Biwa, in the borderpoint called Otsu, which receives two mentions in The Taiheiki. Meanwhile, on the south shore of Lake Biwa, Choan-ji is the site of “Seki-dera Komachi.” Otsu is not called Otsu anymore, but if you go there you will find a Semimaru Shrine proclaiming itself by means of a grimy torus on the far side of the railroad tracks, followed by a curtain of worn and flaking moss, the remnants of a fence with roof-tiles on them all in an ugly heap, a rusty shed, stone lanterns, a small platform, probably for dancing, the central room or honden with its pallid bell-pull and its latticed windows, to which written wishes are attached (help my son pass his exams; help my aunt recover from her illness), written on the shingle-like pieces of wood called ema (literally, picture-tablets). Around all four sides of the honden runs a roofed walkway. It is dank and dark. Within the honden stands another platform with “paper hair” hanging for purification and a curious table which in shape and position resembles an altar.

In a Hokusai drawing, which was never colored and printed as a woodcut, we see the blind man as strong and youthful, with long black hair and a black moustache and beard. His biwa projects from behind his back as if he were carrying a living turtle. Travellers come and go on the road before him that he cannot see. He leans backward, resting on his stick, dreaming and perhaps even smiling, with his hut lushly thatched behind him and a tree in leaf as a doorpost.

But in the Noh play, Semimaru wears such a glossy white dead masked face!³ He stands in a pale yellow robe and a longer blue-crested underrobe, gazing down through the audience’s feet into blindness. Two attendants follow behind, holding a slanted framework box over his face, a red square in the middle of it. It must represent a palanquin.

What is there to say about his mask? It is dead white light itself. But I think this only because I know it represents a blind man. If it were a ko-omote I would enthuse about its milk-white beauty. It is beautiful, and delicate.

The two men vanish with the litter-frame. No one will convey him anymore.

The green-clad old messenger in the tall hat kneels before Semimaru, who stands still, listening.

Two members of the chorus strip off his whitish-yellow cloak, revealing the greyish undercloak. Then they place a poor man’s pointed hood on his head, while the messenger stares sadly into space.

Semimaru stares straight ahead, while the chorus gazes at his hands. Now comes the melodiously sorrowful, slightly wobbling male singing of Semimaru in dialogue with the equally sad and deeper bass of the messenger, who presently advances to bestow upon him the wide conical hat of priesthood. Semimaru feels this object, then sets it gently onto the stage; and the messenger brings him a slender staff of blindness, at which the hip drummer begins to chant “Whooh!” and taps his drum. Presently the chorus begins to sing together, magnificently grieving, while the hip drummer chants, “Whooh! Whooh!” and the two protagonists face each other.

In that archetypal Japanese romance, Taketori Monogatari, a lovely moon maiden, sent down to our unworthy realm to atone for some unnamed sin (and simultaneously to help her adoptive father, the meritorious old bamboo cutter), gets recalled at last to the place where she belongs. The Emperor himself cannot prevent her departure. Upon the arrival of the radiant moon entities, his two thousand guardsmen lose all will to shoot their arrows. Her foster parents grow pitiable with grief, but the moon entities disdain their uncleanliness. Against her will, Kaguyahime must take leave of them. And so one of the lunar attendants dresses her in a celestial robe of feathers. “No longer did the maiden consider the old man pitiful or pathetic, for one who dons such a robe is emancipated from sorrow. She entered the carriage and soared into the heavens, escorted by one hundred heavenly beings.”

She might as well have put on a Noh robe.

In “Hanjo,” the prostitute Hanago, crazed by attachment to her absent lover, quotes the old proverb that “a jewel is stitched in our robes,” meaning that enlightenment lies nearer to us than we imagine, “but the sting of love makes us forget.” Kaguyahime pulled the stinger out. She donned better garments. Then she remembered who she was.

Once upon a time a certain woman loved me, and my faith in our mutual attachment resembled my belief in the immortality of that ecstatic moment when the actor in the Noh mask glides out of nothingness, moving more slowly than a geisha although more rapidly than his colleague Mr. Umewaka. When Kofumi-san dances for me in that teahouse in Gion, she gazes into my eyes, so that I feel, in part deludedly, that she sees me; and this woman who loved me said that she saw me, truly; her face used to descend by sweet degrees onto mine as we lay together in the darkness. One morning she arose and went away. Once I comprehended that she was emancipating herself from me I entreated her to open her heart, but she had become enlightened, which must be why it is that my memory of her face has now become like my vision of that Noh actor’s mask turning slowly like a hanged man in the wind, shite of a ghost, lovely mask of a woman offering herself to be looked at, naked in the same sense as Kofumi-san is when she dances, yet singing with a man’s voice. What do I possess now but my memory of the last slow angling of Kaguyahime’s face? She has returned to her native place. And Kofumi-san and Konomi-san have both gone home; they’ve washed away their white paint, which is called shironuri. As for that Noh mask turning almost imperceptibly through various jewel-degrees, hasn’t that gone back to bed in its dark box?

But I remember when the mask was still vital. It was during Mr. Mikata’s chamber production of “Michimori,” performed in a certain temple in Kyoto. The doomed Heike warrior enters slowly, bearing the white skeleton of a boat about his waist; he sets it down on the floor within the glimmer of firelight, and the righthand torch flickers over the chorus. The woman with the man’s voice is his wife, with whom of course he must soon exchange the last cup of parting, for the Genji are pressing the attack, which is to say that this is our life: Some of us die; others, stung by love, mourn them, then soon or late must follow them. The warrior now stands beside his wife within the boat. Everything is wan in the torchlight; the face of the lady in the audience beside me has grown as ivory as a Noh mask. The man stands frozen; the fan swoops; all goes grim; then the woman slowly begins to rotate and diminish. The man also kneels. He wears a gorgeous checked costume the tail of whose white sash hangs down; and in the dimness there appear to be four chrysanthemums on it. His long queue is very dark and glossy. They sit together in profile, he and she, utterly still, bloodless but for the low, trembling chants which recapitulate the sound of wind blowing across wide-mouthed earthen jars; these wind-songs are issuing from the two masks.

In time they rise. She raises her hand and he his, at the same place and rhythm.¹ What is she now, but a pale mothlike figure? What is he, but her morbid memory? They both pivot and freeze, with their elbows extended at the same angle. They draw apart, each one isolated in the light of a single flame.

A chilly night-exhalation has crept in, pushing out the sickening smell of ginkgo trees. The flames twist up brighter, the long silences between chants punctuated by the flickering of flamelight. Soon Michimori will enter on his fate more rapidly, and the bamboo quality of the drums will grow somehow more pronounced. The darkness will deepen behind him as he slowly pivots to face his wife from far away. The music will increase in pitch, volume and rhythm.

A mask gazes sideways at me, narrower than the head and wig it parasitizes, the flame behind it imparting the flicker of life to its hard flesh. The warrior mask gazes down, very pale against its crest of dark hair; and from the side its mouth is almost sad and almost cunning. Then it advances toward wife and flame, the closed fan thrust before it like a lance. According to Mr. Mikata, a fan conveys no directional meaning whatsoever. It can be a whip; open and extended it can become a sake cup, and there exists a stylized gesture for pouring the sake, but the figure that a fan-gesture makes defies deconstruction into any element but beauty itself. What then is Michimori doing with his fan? Shall we just say that he is reaching toward the one he loves while sternly pushing her away?

When the tempo increases, he must gaze away from her. She gazes after him from her flame, and then he has departed. He has set out for the capital.

The chants swell almost into shouts; the flute is now frenzied, the drumbeats as rapid as battle itself; soon it will be time to sink into Michimori’s death when the chant slows and the flute blows. Then they will all go to a place I do not know. This place, like the face of a geisha, of a ko-omote, or of the woman who used to love me, excites my desire in part because I cannot attain it.

(Kawabata, 1934: “For me, love, more than anything else, is my lifeline. But I have the feeling that I have never taken a woman’s hand in mine with romantic intentions.” And perhaps the same is true of life itself, he continues; perhaps he has never taken life by the hand.)

In the Tales of Ise, that nameless courtier-poet whom we think of as Narihira weeps for the capital, and for his beloved there — who may be one or many women. Whenever he woos rural beauties, he condescends (in the archaic sense of the word) to bestow on them the same exquisite courtesies as he would have done for a lady in Kyoto. “Even in the provinces,” the narrator enthuses, “this man did not depart from his customary behavior.” There shines one more indication that someday he will return to the capital. Then all the country maidens he seduced will pine eternally, like Matsukaze and Murasame. As for him, I hope that he will achieve some measure of Kaguyahime’s emancipation from sorrow — although, being a Heian noble, he would surely not forgo that bittersweet, poetic melancholy called aware.

As a spectator of Noh, which is to say a man of the provinces who loves beautiful women (which category includes all women), I am a backwater sort on whom grace has been occasionally bestowed. I want to hold onto my life but cannot. Year by year, it flies away up to the moon. Disobedient to my plans and wishes, my hair has gone grey. I want to keep my loves in my heart’s treasure-box, but those likewise dissolve into moonbeams, either through losses and endings or through familiarity, which is of course a gain as well as a loss, but most definitely a loss! I want to understand every Noh gesture, to recognize each Chinese box of nested textual allusion; but, as I so often complain to you, I will never know either the language or the canon. Even if I could, I could never follow the shite behind the rainbow curtain at the end of the final act. He goes home to the moon, the capital, long lost Kyoto.

What is the capital? For Kawabata it can be signified by red weeping cherry trees, not to mention schoolgirls and maikos. For the lovely concubine in “Yuya” it must be the home of her dying mother. For a certain poet in the Manyoshu, it is youth itself; the sight of it, so he pretends, would restore his best years. For me, so I infer, it is all the women whose love I have lost, and the woman whom I love now and with whom I wish to merge utterly, but cannot, thanks to the abyss between man and woman, soul and soul. Lady Nijo and Lady Sarashina expressed kindred formulations. For Mishima the capital can be reached by means of a homoerotic violent death. For Ono no Komachi, home is youth regained. And now the capital moves to Edo, where pagoda-compounds peer out between golden clouds of ink, and Fuji lords it over the horizon across the bridge all along the avenues of booths and houses, and peering between the shoulder-poles of palanquin-bearers I covetously spy all the many inkstained woodblocks hanging in Edo’s bookshops; lovely ladies sport katsuyama hairdos; I see the heartstopping dark blues of ukiyo-e skies, the courtesans of Yoshiwara; in one theater I am gladdened by the red-outlined eyes of a pale-faced Kabuki beauty; in the next, by a Noh actor in a white and gorgeous mask and a silver-turquoise kimono with gold embroidery; and then another figure, even more fantastic, comes down the bridge in a higher, narrower golden crown, like the first wearing both long dark hair and a golden fan, but its kimono is dark purple and its undergarment is yellow-gold. — Each of us who is the shite perceives the capital in terms of his own attachment. Never mind that; as we glide about within our world’s polished wood, with a stylized pine tree as the backdrop, the chorus will remind you, our audience, what forms our particular delusions take. Here they sit, a half-dozen men, with sharp grey shoulder-winged vests over their black kimonos, and pale medallions over their breasts. In deep, stern, mournful voices, in chorus thrillingly inhuman, they sing a Shinto song.

In exile at Suma, Genji tells his best friend of his fear that he will never glimpse the capital again. As Mr. Mikata once said to me, “Suma’s image is loneliness.” The woman he seduces and impregnates there (she will become one of his less distinguished concubines) torments herself thus: “Born at Akashi! What a hideous thought!”

I was born at Akashi. I will never go to the capital.

Worse yet, I do not want to. When I learn that the Kokin Shu anthology, which first appeared in about 905, walled in for centuries the entire permissible vocabulary of poetic diction, I feel sad and stifled. I would not care to express that sadness only in whichever gestures Noh approves. Were I a woman, I would never choose to be constrained in the garments and gestures of a geisha. I prefer what Mr. Umewaka would call the easy choice.

But the idea of the capital as a heavenly home allures me as much as the fantasy embodied by a maiko or a man in a woman’s mask.

Whenever we seek to peer into our own lives and those of others, we place ourselves in a neutrally perfect imaginary place: the capital. Only there can we discern attachments accurately.

In the ancient times of the Genji Picture-Scrolls there were the fukinuke yatai, the roofless houses, so that we could look in and see in stylized drawings Heian aristocrats diverting themselves. In the seventeenth-century woodblocks made to accompany Saikaku’s tales we could spy on, for instance, the courtesan-turned-letter-writer, who has nearly completed her first column of calligraphy, kneeling beside her customer on the tatami mat while the maid brings a single cup of tea in her left hand. We saw their lives; they could not perceive us; we existed while they were but fictions; they were provincials, and we, residents of the capital.

Or am I dead wrong? We, the audience in the Noh theater, may possess a certain knowingness about the story, which pretends to occur uniquely but which to us may be familiar and more; we may even feel superior to the waki, who fails to recognize the shite in his first humble contemporary manifestation. All the same, we who watch are here to receive and be moved, to be, as the cliché goes, elevated. If anyone is perfect, it is Yuya or Matsukaze, not us. The mask slowly, slowly turns, beautiful, ancient and virginal. It is of the capital, and I am of Akashi. The stage radiates vital superiority in the costumes, gestures, etcetera that it bears. Some of its interest derives simply from its availability to the gaze. From a dark wooden-floored brasserie in Paris I look past the shiny brass railing which is dabbed milk-white with fingerprints, and into the stage beneath the dripping awnings — a street with ripples in the puddles on the white crosswalk, and across it, another red-awning’d café much like the place in which I sit; I see old men gesticulating, married couples slowly eating, pretty girls crossing their long white legs, and I want to watch everything. That girl in the hooded black raincoat paces in the foreground, her pale hand clenched against her ear; she must be talking on her cell phone. She finishes, deposits her hand in her pocket and goes away. Where is the privileged place? My voyeurism makes me forget that the world is in fact not a stage. But the Noh stage is truly a world set apart from mine, an island world in a moat of white stones. And that bridge over which this higher order of beings comes and goes leads not to Akashi, but to that unknown realm behind the rainbow curtain.

Is it the capital or is it something else? The antique treatise of Pound and Fenollosa informs me that the three pine trees besetting that wooden bridge from stage to curtain symbolize, in increasing order of distance, heaven, humankind and earth. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Why can’t this ape understand?

I sit in a private room in the ochaya, and at last the geisha comes to me. She is so lovely I can hardly describe her. She dances for me until I begin to worry about being able to pay. I thank her; she goes; I return to Akashi. That private room, like the Noh stage, was a way station, a temporary representation of the capital.

The woman I love comes to me. She promises to be with me forever. She says that no one can see her as I do, that she sees me. Then her love departs. We leave one another. I know where she lives; I used to sleep there in her arms. No matter. I have also seen Mr. Umewaka in the mirror room behind the rainbow curtain. The far side of the painted curtain is dull. Then, from behind its dimmed down colors — I remember this from the Omi Noh Theater in Kyoto — a gap between fabric and doorway shows the crowd, the people from Akashi: the audience now waits. But that is merely what I have seen; I have failed to see the unseeable. And that woman who used to love me, I could visit her house, but would never find her there, merely her semblance; she has departed for the capital.

Clutching this transient life