Noh is not simply an old form of theater. Through the words of Tomoyuki Takeda , a Kanze-school shite-kata Noh performer, what comes into view is its origin in prayer, the imagination that raises a world upon an empty stage, a bodily discipline in service of the space rather than the self, and the realities of transmission today. To encounter Noh may be, more than learning its stories, to encounter a way of turning oneself toward what cannot be seen.
shite-kata: Noh’s principal performing role category, distinct from other role types such as kyōgen.
When one enters a Noh stage, the first thing that comes into view is the pine at the front. But once one knows what that pine signifies, the stage begins to appear somewhat differently. Noh originally began as a performing art that offered prayers to gods and buddhas. Even now, it is said that in the pine painted on the kagami-ita, there remains a sense of being directed toward an unseen presence. Then the stillness of the stage, and the rigor of its movements, no longer appear merely formal, but begin to rise as a presence prepared in order to offer something forth.
kagami-ita: The rear panel of the Noh stage, traditionally painted with a pine tree.
What was striking in this interview was that Takeda spoke of Noh not as something to be “explained in an easy-to-understand way,” but first as the world in which he himself lives. The conversation begins with historical contexts such as the origin of Noh and the words of Zeami, and then quietly extends into the bodily sensation of standing on stage, the training he received from his father and the iemoto, the transmission to the next generation, and even the presence of the makers who support the shōzoku and fans. To know Noh is not only to know a form of stage art. It is also to know the time, discipline, and way of relating to what cannot be seen that run through it.
iemoto: The hereditary head of a school or tradition, responsible for transmission and lineage.
shōzoku: Formal Noh costumes and robes, supported by highly specialized makers and materials.
When we speak of Noh, we tend to understand it through the phrase “Japanese classical theater.” That is not wrong, of course. But listening to Takeda, one begins to feel that this point of entry alone does not yet reach the essence of Noh. Noh, he says, began not so much as something shown to someone, but as something offered toward gods and buddhas. Before understanding what happens on stage, perhaps one must first understand where this art is directed.
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes. There are various theories about the origin of Nohgaku, and depending on the standpoint from which one speaks, I think there are differences in the details. So the first thing I would like to say is that what I am about to share is the way of understanding it that I myself feel is important.
That said, I feel that if we look at Noh only as “an old form of theater,” something is still slightly missing. For me, the most important point is that Nohgaku originally began as a performing art that offered prayers to gods and buddhas for peace throughout the realm, peace and stability of the land, and abundant harvests. Before it became something that showed stories or followed the emotions of characters as it does now, there was first the direction of offering. If one keeps hold of that, I think the structure of the stage, and also the meaning of its stillness, begin to look quite different.
peace throughout the realm: A classical phrase expressing peace and order across the land.
peace and stability of the land: A traditional phrase referring to the safety and tranquility of the nation or land.
abundant harvests: A classical prayer for agricultural abundance and prosperity.
Toguri: A “performing art of offering” feels quite different from the theater we usually imagine today. In what kind of place did that sensibility take form?
Tomoyuki Takeda : It is not that the kind of Noh stage we know today existed from the beginning. It is said that our forebears offered sarugaku before pine trees.
sarugaku: A premodern performance tradition regarded as one of the historical roots of Noh.
A pine, especially an old pine, was regarded as something highly significant, as an evergreen tree that remains green even as it ages. So rather than simply being seen as a tree standing there, I think it was understood as something like a yorishiro for what one believed in, for gods and buddhas.
yorishiro: An object or site understood as a locus through which the sacred may be approached or manifested.
If we think of it that way, then to dance toward a pine is not simply to have nature as a background. It is to offer the art toward something unseen. I feel that this sensibility lies at the root of Noh.
What becomes visible here is that the origin of Noh is not only a matter of performance history, but also a matter of place, faith, and the orientation of the body. The pine was not stage decoration. It originally stood at the place toward which the art was offered. When one looks at the kagami-ita with that in mind, the pine at the front of the stage also begins to rise as something more than mere design.
Toguri: Then would you say that the pine painted on the kagami-ita of today’s Noh stage carries on that earlier sensibility?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes, I believe so.
There is a pine painted on the kagami-ita of the Noh stage. It is often seen, generally speaking, as part of the stage background, but for us it is not merely a background. We think that there, even now, are faintly reflected the presence of unseen gods and buddhas, or the presence of the pine tree to which the art was originally offered.
So while outwardly it appears that we are performing before a human audience, in reality the performing art is being offered toward something further beyond that. The people seated in front of the stage are human spectators, of course, but for the performer there is always another presence as well. I think that is one of the very distinctive qualities of the Noh stage.
Toguri: Does that sense that “there is another presence” also affect the discipline of the stage and its movements?
Tomoyuki Takeda : I think it does.
For example, the Noh stage has long been regarded as a highly set-apart place, and for that reason we shite-kata go onto the stage only in white tabi. Of course, there are various differences of origin and from school to school, but including all of that, one’s mind begins to be composed even before stepping onto the stage.
white tabi: Split-toe white footwear traditionally worn in formal Japanese performance contexts.
Noh is not something in which something suddenly begins only after one stands on stage. The preparation before that, the state of mind in entering the space, the discipline of the feet — all of these too are part of one art. The word “prayer” may sound abstract, but I think it still lives today in such small gestures and forms of discipline.
To understand Noh, the entry point is not only explanation of plot or knowledge of repertory. Listening to Takeda, one understands that what is first necessary is to know where this art is directed. The perspective opened by the word “prayer” continues directly into what follows: ma, and the question of not foregrounding the self.
Those who see Noh for the first time are often unsettled by its stillness. There are no large stage sets, no dramatic scene changes, and even the movement can seem minimal. But as one follows Takeda’s words, one begins to understand that this “smallness” is not a lack. Rather, it is a condition by which Noh comes into being. Not showing too much. Not placing too much. Within that margin, room emerges for the audience to bring its own imagination into play. The Noh stage is not closed within the performer alone. It also raises a world within the viewer.
Toguri: People who are not used to watching Noh, especially those from overseas, may feel that “there is very little movement” or that it is “too quiet.” What does that stillness mean?
Tomoyuki Takeda : As a basic premise, the Noh stage uses very few large props. For those accustomed to contemporary stage arts or visual media, it may appear to contain astonishingly little information.
But that does not mean something is lacking. By intentionally not placing too much, room is created for the audience’s imagination to enter. In a play such as Takasago, for example, two people may simply sit facing one another and chant, and after walking a few steps it becomes, “We have arrived at Takasago.” Or one may say, “the cherry blossoms of Yoshino are in full bloom,” and yet what actually appears is only a single artificial cherry tree, functioning as a setting that invites the audience to imagine a whole scene of cherry trees in full bloom.
Takasago: A canonical Noh play often cited when discussing minimal staging and the audience’s role in imagination.
the cherry blossoms of Yoshino: Yoshino is one of Japan’s most celebrated sites for cherry blossoms and often evokes an iconic spring landscape.
In other words, not everything is prepared on the stage itself. It comes into being by asking the audience to imagine what is not shown. I think that is one of the very significant characteristics of Noh.
Toguri: So in a sense, that means a kind of participation is also asked of the viewer.
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes, exactly.
Of course, even when one knows nothing beforehand, there are things one can receive through the sound, the movement, and the atmosphere. But if one is to encounter it more deeply, then the audience’s imagination is necessary. The cherry blossoms do not appear, and yet one is asked to feel them. If a place is said to have changed, then one is asked to receive even the air of that place and the flow of time there.
Noh is not an art that explains everything completely. Rather, it entrusts a little to the audience. So rather than merely watching, it may be closer, in a sense, to completing the stage together. The audience’s imagination is also part of Noh.
Listening to this, one begins to feel that Noh is not “difficult,” but rather a performing art that trusts its audience in a way different from many contemporary forms of expression. Precisely because it believes that things can be received without showing everything, the stage has been pared down this far.
Toguri: In that case, does the often-mentioned sense of ma also become very important?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes. But it is very difficult to define ma in a single phrase.
ma: Not simply a pause, but a charged interval of time and space in which presence, tension, and imagination gather.
Still, in moments when no one is moving, when nothing appears to be happening, when it is so quiet that one can hear the rustle of clothing, there is a great deal that is entrusted to the audience’s imagination. I think that too is one form of Noh’s ma.
It is not merely that everything has stopped. There is a presence within that stillness. If even the slightest movement occurs, the air changes. And though nothing seems to be happening, there is in fact considerable tension. I think that density of time is one of the great attractions of Noh.
Toguri: For contemporary audiences, that stillness may also become part of the difficulty. But at the same time, it seems to offer an experience available nowhere else.
Tomoyuki Takeda : I think that is exactly right.
This is an age of abundant information, and whether on stage or in visual media, clear stimuli are given one after another. In that context, to place oneself within a space where there is almost nothing, and where sound is also sparse, and to activate one’s own senses there — that may not be something people often do in daily life.
But that is precisely why it is interesting. Because there is so little sound, the rustle of clothing is heard more strongly. Because there is so little movement, even a slight change in gesture becomes more distinct. Because there is so little explanation, one must raise scenery and emotion within oneself. If one watches Noh as a time in which the senses open in that way, then it does not end simply with the thought, “It is quiet.”
Takeda’s account of “stillness” does not mean merely that there is little information. It is a stillness that allows the senses to work more deeply. An empty stage, paradoxically, opens a richer world. Once one understands that structure, the “smallness” of Noh turns suddenly into one of its attractions. An art that began as prayer is still completed by the audience’s imagination. In that sense, Noh may remain an art that is still very open today.
In order to raise a world on stage, what exactly is the performer doing there? One thing that remained striking again and again in Takeda’s account was the sense of not foregrounding the self. In many contemporary forms of expression, “individuality” and “selfhood” are often emphasized. But in Noh, what is first required is not to push one’s own ego or personality too far to the front. This is not self-erasure. Rather, it seemed to be an attitude of composing oneself into a state appropriate to the stage, and of serving the piece and its atmosphere.
Here the point is not self-erasure, but refraining from imposing one’s private self over the role, work, or atmosphere of the stage.
Toguri: On the Noh stage, one rarely sees large facial expression or emotion shown through the eyes. Why is it restrained to that extent?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Even within Noh, there is a considerable difference between kyōgen and we shite-kata. In kyōgen, one may show joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure through the face, or move the eyes. But for us shite-kata, even when we appear with the bare face, we stand on stage, in a sense, as if always wearing an omote.
omote: A Noh mask, understood not merely as a prop but as something approached with reverence.
So we do not act with the face. We do not explain with the eyes. We do not let the gaze wander. I think that is very significant. It does not mean there are no emotions. It means that they are not made outwardly legible in an easy way through the face.
Instead, one is seen through the way the body as a whole is held, the resonance of the voice, the handling of ma, and the atmosphere that is made. That is why even a slight looseness or excess movement becomes very noticeable. Precisely because one does not rely on the face, the precision of the whole body and the precision of the stage are tested.
Toguri: Within that, what is the most important thing for you when you stand on stage?
Tomoyuki Takeda : The biggest thing, I think, is not to let my own self — the ordinary human being Tomoyuki Takeda — come forward too strongly.
From the moment I enter the stage until I leave it, I try not to bring in too much of my private mood that day, my personal habits, or other excess elements. Of course, I am only human, so it is impossible to remove them completely. But in any case I remain conscious not to push myself too far to the front.
In the present day, there are many situations in which “showing one’s individuality” is valued. But in Noh, what matters first is not pushing oneself outward, but composing oneself into a state appropriate to the stage and the piece. Noh is not an art in which it is enough that I stand out. What comes first is that the atmosphere of the stage as a whole, and the world of the work itself, should rise.
To compose oneself into a state appropriate to the stage: to prepare and regulate oneself so that one fits the demands, tone, and order of the stage.
This phrase, “not foregrounding the self,” resonates less as an ascetic teaching than as a theory of expression proper to Noh itself. Precisely because one does not push oneself outward strongly through the face or the gaze, the relation between body and stage is sharpened. What is required there may be less self-assertion than self-composure.
Toguri: Does that sensibility also connect to the gesture of wearing the Noh mask?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes, I think it does.
We do not often say that we simply “put on” the mask. We say we kakeru it. And when we receive the mask, we first bow and then wear it. Whether that bow is respect toward the mask itself, or respect toward those who came before, I was not taught in a strictly defined way. But I think either is acceptable. In any case, that gesture itself helps one’s mind to settle into place.
In this context, the verb matters: practitioners say “to kakeru” rather than simply “to put on,” reflecting a more reverential and formal relation to the mask.
And when one kakeru the mask, one’s field of vision becomes quite restricted, and even one’s own angle becomes difficult to know. So it feels less like something completed by oneself alone, and more like entering the stage within a relation to those around one. To kakeru the mask may not be simply to hide the face. It may be to place oneself within another order. I do have that sense.
Toguri: Is there a saying of Zeami that you especially value?
Tomoyuki Takeda : The most famous, of course, is shoshin wasuru bekarazu.
shoshin wasuru bekarazu: Often rendered as “Do not forget the beginner’s mind,” but in Zeami it carries a broader sense of ongoing humility and continued learning.
But I do not think of it as a mere slogan. Zeami also writes tokidoki no shoshin wasuru bekarazu and rōgo no shoshin wasuru bekarazu. So I think what matters is not only not forgetting the aspiration one had when young, but continuing to hold the humility that, at each age and each stage, one is still not yet done learning.
tokidoki no shoshin wasuru bekarazu: A reminder not to forget the “beginner’s mind” appropriate to each stage or age of one’s life and training.
rōgo no shoshin wasuru bekarazu: Even in old age, one must retain humility and continue learning as if beginning anew.
Also, shūjin aikyō and jufuku zōchō are very important words. Noh must be something that is loved, and something that gives vitality to the mind and body of those who watch or chant it. It is certainly an art with strong tension, but it must not close itself off. That matters very much to me.
shūjin aikyō: A Zeami phrase suggesting that the art should remain open enough to invite the affection or goodwill of people.
jufuku zōchō: A classical phrase associated with the increase of well-being, good fortune, and vitality.
Toguri: I think this may also be close to what you said earlier about not foregrounding the self, but how do you understand riken no ken?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Put simply, it means seeing from an objective vantage.
riken no ken: Zeami’s idea of seeing oneself objectively, as if from an outside vantage, especially in performance.
It is to look objectively, at all times, at how one stands on stage, how one dances, and how one chants. One’s own back can never be seen directly in one’s lifetime, and yet one must still imagine how one appears there.
I do not think this applies only to the stage. To view oneself objectively — how one appears, how one sounds — is extremely important in education and work today as well. Zeami’s words are old, but there is actually a great deal in them that still speaks to the present. That is why they are read by many people, not only within Noh.
What is spoken of in this section is more than technique. It is the kind of human disposition Noh asks for: not erasing the self, but not handling it roughly either, and continuing to prepare it toward a form appropriate to the stage. The stillness of Noh may rest upon that unceasing work of self-composure.
When we hear the word “tradition,” our attention easily turns toward what continues unchanged. But what emerges from Takeda’s account is that transmission is not the act of repeating the same thing unchanged. What is passed on is not only form and technique. It is also one’s orientation toward the stage, one’s tension, what cannot easily be put into words, and even the ways of teaching suited to the present age. Transmission is relearned each time, in each generation.
Toguri: What kind of environment were you raised in as you entered the path of Noh?
Tomoyuki Takeda : My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all Noh performers, and I was born into a house in which I was the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son. So standing on stage began for me as something entirely natural. My first performance was at the age of three, though to be honest I remember almost nothing of it.
Still, what remains strongly in my memory from childhood is not so much that the stage was enjoyable, but that it was severe. Don’t do anything unnecessary. Don’t move. Don’t change your face. Project your voice. That is how I was raised. By today’s standards it would probably seem very strict, and in truth it was strict.
But I also think that there were things in that era that entered the body in precisely that way. Rather than having one’s attitude explained through logic, one learned bodily, in any case, not to do anything unnecessary on the stage.
Toguri: When did you begin to think seriously about living your life on this path?
Tomoyuki Takeda : By the time I was in high school, I had begun to think properly about this work. Even so, when I look back now, I feel that rather than being able to choose anything freely for myself, I moved naturally in that direction because of the environment in which I had been raised.
After that, there was a period when I lived in the home of the iemoto and trained there. During that time, it was not enough simply to dance and chant. One learned within the entirety of life there: cooking, washing, cleaning, driving, preparing and repairing shōzoku, and observing the lessons of one’s seniors.
So I do not think that Noh training is something in which technique alone can be isolated and learned. It is a matter of placing one’s body within the very life-world that makes the art possible, including what lies outside the stage as well. Only there, I feel, do the tension of the stage and the meaning of its gestures begin to come into view.
the very life-world that makes the art possible: not only technique, but the entire lived order that sustains and makes the art possible.
Listening to Takeda, one understands that transmission is less the handing over of knowledge than the bodily learning of the very life-world that makes the art possible. And yet at the same time, the way of passing it on is now changing little by little.
Toguri: Do you feel that the way this transmission happens has changed in your generation?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes, I do think it has changed.
I have not raised my son in exactly the same way that I was raised. My way differs from my father’s, and I have never laid a hand on him. But even so, I believe that the tension with which one faces the stage must never be made lighter.
So while I have said to him, “If you truly do not wish to do this, you may stop,” I have also spoken very consciously about the need to think for oneself, choose for oneself, and take responsibility for that choice. This is no longer an age in which inheritance is simply assumed. The person himself must choose it anew.
But to choose freely is not the same as treating it lightly. That distinction matters very much to me. Once one decides to pursue Noh, it is an art that requires one to be deeply serious toward the stage.
Toguri: Within that, what is it that you especially wish to pass on to the next generation?
Tomoyuki Takeda : One thing is certainly this: do not become accustomed to the stage.
Once one has stood on stage many times, there is always a danger of becoming too comfortable with it, or of simply getting through it. But Noh is an art in which, however similar things may appear each time, one must not stand there with the same state of mind every time. If one becomes too accustomed to it, the tension loosens. That is something I want to keep saying.
The other thing is that what in the past was not often taught in words now needs to be verbalized to a considerable extent. I try to hand things on to my son and to younger practitioners in words as much as I can. Of course, there are parts that can only be understood through the body. Even so, if this is to continue in the present age, I think we must make the effort to translate.
Toguri: In terms of transmission, are there challenges the world of Noh is facing today?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Many.
There is the declining birthrate, and quite simply fewer people are becoming Noh performers. A single stage requires a considerable number of people to come into being, so the question of how to increase the number of practitioners, and how to make it possible for them to live, is an extremely large one.
In particular, for shite-kata there is no national training institution. So the feeling that there are simply not enough people is very real. Transmission cannot continue through ideals alone. Unless the practical conditions are there — livelihood, new people entering, places where teaching can happen — the art itself will not continue.
So I think our generation must not speak only in abstract or spiritual terms. We also have to look carefully at the reality of how this can continue.
What is spoken of here is not a neatly ordered story of transmission. There is severity, there is historical change, there are practical difficulties, and still, in order to continue, the way of passing things on must change. Precisely because of that complexity, Takeda’s words retain a living force for readers now.
The Noh stage appears almost radically spare. But that spareness does not mean that nothing is required to sustain it. Quite the reverse. What remains unseen is supported by an immense number of hands. As one follows Takeda’s account, it becomes concretely clear that Noh cannot exist through the performers on stage alone. It rests upon a chain of interdependent forms of work that includes the omote, the shōzoku, the fans, the tabi, the materials, and the workshops and makers who sustain them.
a chain of interdependent forms of work: the art depends on many linked makers, materials, crafts, and practices beyond the visible performer.
Toguri: I do not think Noh is sustained only by those who stand on stage. Outside that visible world, how many kinds of makers are involved?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Quite many.
There are we Noh performers, then the people who make the Noh masks, the shōzoku, and the fans, and beneath them there are the people who sustain the threads and materials. Noh rests upon that chain. So it is not enough simply to have people who stand on stage.
If even one part is severed, the whole that follows is weakened. What is visible is only what happens on stage, but in reality there is many times more work behind it. In that sense too, I think Noh is an art that rests upon an extremely delicate balance.
Toguri: Are there already aspects of that world that are in a critical state?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes, there are. For example, there are now only very few places left, even in Kyoto, that can properly make shōzoku from the beginning. Fans as well are supported by only a very small number of places in practical terms. And the tabi we wear on stage are different from ordinary ready-made products. They are made to fit the shape of one’s own foot, but places that can do that too are becoming fewer and fewer.
The problem is that by the time one realizes something has been lost, it is already too late. Things that seem natural because they still exist are in fact connected by very thin lines. That may be difficult to see from the outside, but that instability is always there.
Toguri: Is the issue not only the makers themselves, but also the materials?
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes. Bamboo is one example, and there are real concerns about how difficult it is becoming to obtain materials produced in Japan.
So it is not simply a matter of whether there are craftspeople. One must also ask what those craftspeople are able to make with, and whether those materials will continue to be available. When people speak of cultural transmission, it easily becomes a matter of technique, but in reality it all extends into materials, distribution, and systems of repair. That is very significant.
To protect a single technique does not mean cutting out only that technique and preserving it in isolation. Unless the surrounding environment is preserved as well, it has little meaning.
From Takeda’s words emerges the sense that Noh is not only a “stage art,” but also a chain of interdependent forms of work. What is visible may be only the performers, but behind them are immense unseen hands. Here too, Noh is supported by what cannot be seen.
Toguri: Are there institutional frameworks that help protect such tools and shōzoku?
Tomoyuki Takeda : There are some, but basically we Noh performers are a collection of individual practitioners, so it is not the case that some large organization protects everything for us.
In our case, we have donated the shōzoku, the stage, and the land to a public interest foundation, so that they are not private possessions of the household. In that way, we hope to reduce, even if only slightly, the risk that they might one day be dispersed because of the circumstances of a single family.
But Japan has many forms of culture beyond Noh as well, so the state cannot fully protect everything. In the end, I think there remains a large part that we must think through and protect for ourselves. Transmission does not mean only raising people. It also includes creating systems for what is to be left, and how.
Toguri: So that too is part of transmission outside the stage.
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes, exactly.
Even if the art alone remains, it cannot continue if the things that support it disappear. And even if only the objects remain, they have little meaning without people. Thinking about how to connect both of those is, I believe, extremely important now.
So rather than speaking of transmission only through what happens on stage, we need to look as well at the realities and structures that lie outside it. I think that is especially important in our time.
To kakeru the mask, to try suriashi, to chant utai. When we hear the word “experience,” our thinking easily turns toward what one can become able to do. But listening to Takeda, one begins to feel that the essence of encountering Noh does not lie in acquiring a skill in a short time. It lies in learning how to place the body, and how to enter the space. The tension and stillness that come into being on the stage cannot be understood through knowledge alone. By touching them, even slightly, through one’s own body, the very way one sees Noh begins to change.
suriashi: A gliding manner of walking in Noh that depends on posture, gaze, balance, and the whole body, not only the feet.
utai: The vocal chanting of Noh, using breath, projection, and bodily control rather than song in the usual Western sense.
Toguri: When visitors actually encounter Noh through experience, what does it mean to touch the Noh mask?
Tomoyuki Takeda : First, what matters is that we do not say one “puts on” the mask, but that one kakeru it.
And originally, when one receives the mask, one bows first and then wears it. That may be respect toward the mask itself, or toward those who came before. Either is acceptable. In any case, one receives it not simply as a tool, but as something with a certain weight.
When one kakeru the mask, one’s field of vision becomes quite restricted, and even one’s own angle becomes difficult to know. So to encounter the mask is not simply to place something on the face. It is also to enter a different way of seeing than usual. Then one begins to understand, in reverse, how freely one normally sees and moves.
Toguri: And what about the experience of suriashi? From the outside it appears to be a quiet movement, but I imagine it feels very different in practice.
Tomoyuki Takeda : Very different.
Suriashi is not a technique of the feet alone. It comes into being only when the whole is aligned: the stance, the position of the chin, how the chest is held, the elbows, the gaze, and the center of gravity. One advances as if brushing the surface of the stage with the soles of the feet, but it is very different from the way one ordinarily walks.
When people actually try it, I think what they first notice is how unconscious ordinary walking had been. To move forward without lowering the gaze, without swaying the body, while maintaining one’s center of gravity — that alone changes one’s bodily sense quite significantly.
So the experience of suriashi is not simply a matter of imitating “the way one walks in Noh.” It is also a chance to come to know again how one’s own body is moving.
Toguri: In the experience of utai, what do you most want people to feel?
Tomoyuki Takeda : More than doing it skillfully, first it is abdominal breathing, and voicing strongly.
The utai of Noh is not aimed simply at singing beautifully. What matters is a bodily sense in which the body is used fully and the voice is sent to a distance. And the other thing is to let go of embarrassment. Those who try it for the first time naturally feel shy, but when they move a little beyond that and let the voice out, something changes within them.
So I think the experience of utai is not simply a vocal exercise. It is also a time for noticing one’s own breathing and the way one holds tension. More than whether one can do it well, what matters is noticing how one is producing the voice, and where one is hesitating.
By this point, the meaning of the experience becomes fairly clear. It is not simply trying to imitate Noh. It is understanding, through one’s own body, what kind of body Noh comes into being through. That is the core of the experience.
Toguri: Then what visitors truly take away is probably not only the feeling of “I managed to do it.”
Tomoyuki Takeda : Yes, I think so.
Of course, the fact that one “wore the mask,” “tried suriashi,” or “chanted” will remain in one’s memory. But beyond that, if one can understand bodily, even a little, why one bows, why one does not lower the gaze, and why one does not push one’s own self too far to the front, then the way the stage appears will change completely.
Noh has parts that cannot be reached through knowledge alone. There are things one understands for the first time only by passing a little through the body. So I think such an experience is not a place to acquire technique in a short time, but an entrance that changes how one sees Noh.
For those seeking a high-value journey as well, it may become not simply an activity, but a time in which one encounters a cultural way of thinking through the body.
Toguri: Finally, what do you yourself feel is the attraction of Noh?
Tomoyuki Takeda : I think this is true not only of Noh but of the performing arts more broadly: it is the making of a single space that includes not only the people on stage, but the audience as well.
When a stage becomes truly high in quality, there can be an atmosphere in which one cannot even clear one’s throat. But it is not merely that the tension becomes too strong. Rather, the air itself gathers into one. That is a very large attraction.
So whether one watches or performs, both are helping to raise the same space together. I think that is one of the fascinations of Noh. The form may not have changed greatly for seven hundred years, but the atmosphere that rises there is different every time. That singularity makes it an extraordinarily rich art.
When we speak of Noh, we often look first to its age and formality. But through the words of Tomoyuki Takeda , what emerged was something much closer to the present. To turn oneself toward what cannot be seen. To raise a world through imagination within an empty space. Not to display oneself strongly, but to compose oneself and seek a form appropriate to the stage. These sensibilities live within an art that has continued for seven hundred years, and yet they feel surprisingly close to us now.
And at the same time, this is not something that remains on its own. There are those who stand on stage, and outside that there are those who make the omote, the shōzoku, and the fans, and beyond them still there are the materials and techniques that support them. Transmission is not only the preservation of form. It is also the repeated work of reconsidering how something can continue.
After listening to Takeda, the pine on the Noh stage no longer appears as a mere background. Beyond that quiet stage lies a long span of time that has continued turning toward what cannot be seen, and the figure of someone trying to hand that time onward in a form for the present. To encounter Noh may be to place oneself, if only slightly, within that current of time.