Drawn Toward a Quiet World—
The Serene Allure of Noh Masks
Kazumaro Unno, born into a shrine with over 800 years of history,
became captivated by the art of Noh masks.
Located deep in the mountains of Agatsuma District, Gunma Prefecture, Iwashita Sugawara Shrine was established in 1249 (Kencho 1) as a branch of Kyoto’s Kitano Tenmangu Shrine, which enshrines Sugawara no Michizane, the deity of scholarship. Over the centuries, its history has continued through many eras—marked by events such as the loss of its shrine buildings in a fire on February 14, 1834 (Tenpo 5), and the merger of five neighboring village shrines during the Meiji era. Alongside these chapters, the shrine has long hosted vibrant Kagura performances offered in prayer for abundant harvests.
Kazumaro Unno is the youngest son of the Unno family, which has served at the shrine for generations. His ancestors came from Unno-juku, a former post town on the Hokkokukaido highway that connected the Nakasendo and Hokurikudo highways, located in what is now Tomi City, Nagano Prefecture. Along the banks of the Chikuma River, a monument still stands commemorating the “Birthplace of the Unno Clan.” The Unno clan was a prominent family in eastern Shinano region from the Heian (794–1185) through Kamakura (1185–1333) periods. According to family tradition, they moved from Tomi City to Agatsuma District in the early 10th century, transitioning from Buddhist monks to Shinto priests in line with the syncretic practices (Shinbutsu-shugo) of the time. Kazumaro now serves as the 16th-generation priest.
Raised within the sacred rhythms of shrine life, Kazumaro’s fascination with Noh masks seems almost a natural outcome. But what path led him to that quiet, compelling world?
A Childhood Surrounded by Traditional Performing Arts—
And the Natural Beauty of Agatsuma That Nurtured It
Agatsuma District, where Iwashita Sugawara Shrine is located, lies along the northern ridge of Mount Haruna—one of the three celebrated peaks of Gunma Prefecture, known as the Jomo Sanzan. The area is dotted with mountains large and small, including Mount Iwabitsu and Mount Asamakakushi. With an abundance of natural hot spring sources—including the Agatsuma Gorge Onsen Area—the region is home to several well-known onsen resorts, such as Kusatsu Onsen (one of Japan’s three most celebrated), Ikaho Onsen, and Shima Onsen. It’s also a place where visitors can enjoy both nature and history, with highlights like the ruins of Iwabitsu Castle, which played a key role in the power struggle between Takeda Shingen and Uesugi Kenshin.
“Back then, nature was even more untouched than it is now. My walk to elementary school took me down village paths lined with fields of hemp, konjac, and mulberry trees grown for silkworm farming. Wild animals like boars, bears, and Japanese serows still roamed the area. After school, I’d meet up with friends in the neighborhood, and we’d play pretend sword-fighting games.” Since I wasn’t the heir to the shrine, I had a pretty carefree childhood. Come to think of it, my grandfather, father, and older brother would beat the taiko drum at 8 every morning—I even took their place a few times—but aside from that, our daily life wasn’t all that different from other households.”
Even so, festival seasons and holidays brought out the family’s role as shrine priests.
When it came to festivals, Obon (a time to honor ancestral spirits), or New Year’s, we had to take things seriously. That part set us apart from other families. We had to prepare offerings for the parishioners—like jingu taima (talismans from Ise Grand Shrine), shide (zigzag paper streamers), and gohei (sacred wands).Everything had to be ready by year-end, so we’d start preparing in November. Back then, the population was larger, and we couldn’t finish everything in time, so the whole family pitched in—cutting and folding washi paper, twisting ropes for the shimenawa (sacred ropes) ... we all helped out.”
Born in 1945 (Showa 20), Kazumaro grew up in a time when Japan’s traditional rural landscape still remained in many regions, and handmade crafts were part of everyday life. At the shrine, the seasons were marked by annual festivals: the spring rice-planting festival, the autumn harvest thanksgiving, the Gosha Festival following the merger of five village shrines, Setsubun (a seasonal rite where beans are thrown to ward off evil spirits), the Gion Festival, and more. The calendar was full of sacred events throughout the year.
“The Gion Festival was a spectacular event, with the procession making three round trips over two days along a 2.5 km gravel road through the parishioner area. It began with taiko drumming, followed by a tengu, four divine banners, a large sacred sakaki branch, a mikoshi (portable shrine), a priest riding a cow, and elaborately decorated festival floats. With all of that, it was truly a grand sight. Since we used Kagura masks during the festivals, I guess I was more familiar with them than most kids were.”
In this way, traditional Japanese culture and folk performing arts were deeply rooted in Kazumaro’s heart from an early age.
A Fateful Encounter with Noh Masks in Ibaraki,
After Leaving Life in Tokyo Behind
As he grew up, Kazumaro Unno left Iwashita Sugawara Shrine to pursue his studies, and eventually entered public service in one of Tokyo’s 23 wards. He wasn’t just busy with work and family—he also served as deputy leader of the neighborhood association and as a senior parishioner representative during local festivals, leaving little time for personal interests. A turning point came 22 years ago, just before his retirement, when he moved to Ibaraki Prefecture in search of a new chapter in life.
“Ibaraki has many old highways—like the Mito Kaido, which extends from Edo (modern-day Tokyo), as well as the Tanagura Kaido, Shimotsuma Kaido, and Yuki Kaido—and I enjoyed strolling along each of them. One day, I came across a Noh mask exhibition held in Ishioka City. Seeing the masks brought back vivid childhood memories of Kagura masks, and I was deeply drawn to them—it just clicked. When I was younger, I didn’t have much time for things like this. Maybe it’s something that comes with age—or maybe it’s in my DNA as a Japanese person, or simply because I was born and raised at a shrine—but now, it resonates deeply. At the age of 70, I began learning to carve Noh masks. Among my peers, there were veterans with 20 or 30 years of experience, and many of them were kind. They patiently taught me everything, starting from the basics, and I became completely hooked on that world.”
With ancestral roots in Unno-juku, a former post town along one of Japan’s historic highways, Kazumaro’s connection to old travel routes runs deep. It was almost as if he had been guided by his ancestors when he encountered a Noh mask exhibition—soon after, he joined a mask carving group in Ibaraki Prefecture. He immediately began carving Noh masks but quickly realized that the delicate work was profoundly challenging.
“I really enjoy carving masks these days, but one thing that’s changed since I started is how I now pay much closer attention to people’s faces—the shape of their nose, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, and how their expressions move. To carve a face, you have to understand expressions. The hardest part is precision. I use a template marked with millimeter-level measurements—for the width of the face, the space between the eyebrows, the position of the eyes, and the height of the nose and cheeks. I place the template, mark the surface, and carve with exact precision. Especially with the ko-omote mask, which represents a young woman’s face—you have to match every detail within less than a millimeter, so I carefully measure and carve as I go. Noh masks are strange that way—even when using the same template, the final result varies completely depending on a person’s sensibility and how closely they observe. It really brings out individuality.”
The process of making a Noh mask begins with kidori—selecting and cutting dried hinoki cypress. From there, the shaping begins with ara-bori (rough carving), where the outline of the face is formed using a saw and chisels. Next is naka-bori (intermediate carving), where the facial features are developed and the back of the mask is roughly hollowed out. This is followed by kiji-no-shiage (wood finishing), in which the eyes, nose, and mouth are carefully refined with carving tools, and the inner surface is smoothed.
The finishing stages include applying multiple layers of lacquer to the reverse side (men-ura no urushi-nuri), coating the surface with a base of gofun (white pigment) and nikawa (animal glue), and adding color—such as red on the lips—and fine brushwork (saishoku). Depending on the mask, additional techniques may be used, such as attaching metal leaf to the teeth or implanting hair into the wood (kanagu ya shokumo). In total, the process involves eight distinct steps.
“If the basic carving isn’t solid, the mask won’t come together—and if the undercoat is poorly done, no amount of finishing can fix it. You have to stay focused at every stage of the process. I find the gofun (white pigment) painting process fascinating, but drawing curved lines like strands of hair—under the same conditions—can be surprisingly difficult. There’s still so much I don’t know, and I need to keep studying and honing my skills.”
Learning the History, Facing the Mask—
And Entering the Depths of Wabi-Sabi
The history of Noh masks in Japan is said to trace back to the Asuka period, when Mimashi of Baekje introduced gigaku, an ancient performing art from the Wu region of southern China. The earliest known ancestor of Noh masks is believed to be the okina mask, used in okina sarugaku performances during the Kamakura period. As sarugaku and dengaku developed during the Nanbokuchō period, Noh mask-making began to take form. In the early Muromachi period, under Zeami’s influence, sarugaku reached its height, and with it, mask varieties gradually expanded—such as demon masks and female masks.
By the late Muromachi through the Azuchi–Momoyama periods, the style of Noh masks had become more refined, with most existing types established and matched to specific plays. During the Edo period, feudal lords actively collected famous masks, and the focus shifted from original creations to faithful reproductions.
After the Meiji Restoration, the world of Noh declined due to the loss of patronage from the shogunate and feudal domains. Hereditary mask carvers disappeared in Japan, even as Noh masks came to be appreciated abroad as fine works of art.
“It’s like anything—knowing the background makes a big difference. In our carving group, we often talk about the history too, and the more you understand it, the more it changes how you relate to the mask. It’s not just about shaping the form; once you start shaping the spirit as well, even the mask’s appearance begins to change.”
What lies behind Kazumaro Unno’s emphasis on the importance of knowing is his experience attending a special three-year seminar in Shinto Culture at Kokugakuin University, which he began at the age of 62. The more he studied, the more he realized how little he truly understood—how shallow his knowledge had been, despite thinking he “knew.” At the same time, he discovered the joy of learning. As his fascination with Noh masks deepened, he also began to reflect more deeply on why there are so many mask carving groups in Ibaraki Prefecture.
“I think Ibaraki has preserved a great deal of ancient tradition. For example, at Mount Tsukuba’s Tsukubasan Shrine, the enshrined deities are the divine couple: Tsukuba-o-no-Okami (Izanagi-no-Mikoto), worshiped on Mount Nantai, and Tsukuba-me-no-Okami (Izanami-no-Mikoto), worshiped on Mount Nyotai. In its auxiliary shrines, you’ll find deities from the Kojiki (Japan’s oldest chronicle) and Nihon Shoki (The Chronicles of Japan)—Amaterasu-Omikami, Susanoo-no-Mikoto, Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto, and Hiruko-no-Mikoto.
According to the Engishiki Jinmyōchō (Register of Deities) compiled in 927 (Encho 5), the most prestigious shrines at the time were Ise Jingu (Mie), Kashima Jingu (Ibaraki), and Katori Jingu (Chiba). Kashima and Katori Jingu sit across from each other on either side of the Tone River, and are said to have been founded over 600 years earlier than Ise Jingu, dating back to the reign of Emperor Jimmu.
From the Kokai River in Ibaraki, you can see Mount Fuji, the Nikko mountain range, and Mount Tsukuba. It makes you wonder—prehistoric archaeological sites in Japan are overwhelmingly concentrated in the Kanto and Tohoku regions. Some researchers suggest that during the Jomon period, more than 80% of Japan’s population lived in eastern Japan. Could this area have been the political center of ancient Japan? It really sparks the imagination.
Perhaps it’s thanks to this land’s geography—its wide plains, fertile soil, and rich agricultural traditions—that local culture has flourished. That may be why several Noh mask carving groups still remain active here in Ibaraki today.
Many kagura and Noh performances that use Noh masks are based on myths in which gods take center stage—stories like the Kuniumi (Birth of the Nation), the tale of the Heavenly Rock Cave (Ama-no-Iwato), and the legend of the eight-headed serpent, Yamata no Orochi. These performances are deeply enriched by understanding their background. With a constant spirit of inquiry, Kazumaro Unno continues to deepen his knowledge through study and reflection. In his daily life, he observes the expressions of those around him, translating the emotions he perceives into delicate movements of his fingertips as he carves. Perhaps it’s through this quiet practice that he envisions the ideal Noh mask.
“I haven’t yet reached the true depth of Noh masks, which embody the Japanese aesthetics of wabi—the beauty of simplicity through the removal of all excess—and sabi—the quiet appreciation of time’s passage and natural aging. The more I carve, the more I feel just how difficult it is. But that’s exactly why it’s so enjoyable. Because I never think, ‘This is good enough,’ I can keep pursuing it, endlessly.
Of course, one of my goals is to one day properly carve a ko-omote mask. It may look plain—almost blank—but that simplicity makes it incredibly challenging. Someday, I hope to craft one that doesn’t just mimic the form, but truly captures the spirit within—one I can finally feel satisfied with.”
Even the moment a mask is completed is merely a step on the path forward. Precisely because of its difficulty, Noh mask carving holds an endless depth—and quiet joy—that keeps calling me on.
