The Timeless Wonder of Fusuma Karakuri

Five years after the end of World War II, citizens in Osaka gathered at Japan's first America Fair, where visitors explored scaled-down recreations of the Statue of Liberty and Mt. Rushmore. In Tokyo, onlookers gawked as live bikini clad models posed in department store windows while the sounds of Thelonious Monk and Stan Getz made their way across the country's radio waves.

Japan in the 1950s. The Atlantic. Mar. 12, 2014. (link)

Against the sounds of modern jazz and the whirlwind of General MacArthur’s Japanese reconstruction, the country witnessed a decline in traditional performance, specifically those art forms that stemmed from Shinto ritual, such as ningyo joruri. In post-war Japan, many linked Shintoism to Japan's pre-war militarism, and, as a result, puppet shows and traditional festivals, such as Nagoya Matsuri, were discouraged or banned. 

However, in 1951, during this new era of bikinis and home television sets, a small town in the mountains of Shikoku gathered together to rebuild a theater dedicated to a lost form of Japanese entertainment - fusuma karakuri.

Fusuma karakuri, or, as it’s known on Awaji island, dogugaeshi, features hand-painted panels, or fusuma-e, that slide in and out of a proscenium, twist in unison, and glide up and down to create intensifying stage murals that reach deeper and deeper into the playing space.

Similar to Kyogen, it was known as maku-ma, or a “between curtain show,” often performed after a Noh or ningyo joruri performance. After spending hours ensnared in the complex stories of Japanese dynasties and the linguistic cartwheels of the tayu, fusuma karakuri provided a mental recess. With only the strum of the shamisen, it activated a new part of the audience members’ minds where plot was cast aside for the magic of moving images. A mural depicting rabbits bounding across ocean waves glides across the stage to reveal a magnificent dragon while abstract floral patterns gently transform into a bamboo forest.

Transformation, or hayagawari, plays an essential part in noh, kabuki, and ningyo joruri performance. One of the most popular shows on Awaji island was Tamamonomae asahi no tamoto, where the performer is both puppeteer and magician, transforming costumes and characters seven times in one short act. Almost half of karakuri ningyo performances hinge on this moment of transfiguration, from a shinto priest turning into a miniature shrine to a graceful fan dancer morphing into an unruly lion.
When successful, these moments of transformation instantaneously alter the audience, leaving them in a state of awe. Fusuma karakuri is a celebration of this wonderment, a form of entertainment that connects audiences to that realm of surprise over and over again, tugging audiences through time and space.

In the 1930s, fusuma karakuri was a popular past-time in Tokushima, but today only five fusuma karakuri companies remain active in Japan, performing just once a year during fall and spring festivals. The only exception is Awaji Ningyo Za who has daily performances at the end of daily ningyo jouri shows.

This puppet company has modernized the fusuma karakuri technique by creating an aluminum fly-system on wheels. The fusuma-e are controlled by nylon string, carabiners, and puppeteers in the wings who slide the panels from the left and right.

Awaji Ningyo Za has sped up the the timing of a traditional show, and the modern contraption limits the movement witnessed in farm theaters such as Inukai Noson and Ono Sakura no Butai.

It was at Inukai Noson Butai's November festival where I first came across fusuma karakuri. I was immediately captivated and bewildered. As I watched the paper doors slide in and out of the proscenium to the sounds of the shamisen, I was in a state of disequilibrium. “How are they moving the images? Where's the story? What exactly am I looking it?” This chatter soon quieted down into a mollified acceptance, like the moment you give into a dream. I was hooked.

The next annual festival was in Kamiyama, about 30km from Tokushima City. After three months of e-mails, telephone calls, and assistance from my translator and friend Tatsuo Yasuda, I found myself riding a bicycle through the mountains of Kamiyama in total darkness as a river's resonant stride guided me back to the center of the road. As I held up my iPhone for light, I caught the glow of the theater, Ono Sakura no Butai, resting above the town’s Myozai district. Out of breath, Tatsuo and I climbed the stone steps to the rear of Tenno shrine, where the small wooden stage met us underneath a blossoming sakura tree.

It’s here I get to know the director of Sakura no Butai, Ogawa Kazkiyo. Ogawa-san is a generous mentor who is both intimidating and big-hearted. He speaks with deliberate and piercing gestures, commanding attention and thoughtfully answering my endless questions. He perfectly sums up the experience of fusuma karakuri to wave watching: captivating, meditative, and rhythmic. Like other forms of puppetry in Tokushima, I try to find its connection to religious ritual, but Ogawa-san quickly extinguishes this argument. There isn’t one. Fusuma karakuri is entertainment, a type of diversion that thrived in Kamiyama at a time when Japanese identity, specifically shintoism, was disoriented.

Ogawa Kazkiyo

Unlike many forms of traditional Japanese theater, such as Noh and bunraku, fusuma karakuri is easily accessible. It is language-less and doesn’t require prerequisite knowledge to fully appreciate. But it’s also for these reasons I’m surprised fusuma karakuri isn’t more widely celebrated. Even in the Japanese theater community there's a lack of familiarity. As I told Japanese friends I was headed to Tokushima to study "fusuma karakuri,” which translated to "mechanical sliding panel,” most assumed I was learning how to build automated doors. Fusuma karakuri is slighly more recognizable when it's called by its other name, dogugaeshi, especially on Awaji island. Yet, despite its accessibility and uniqueness, it remains a brief footnote in Japanese performance history.

In 2003, puppeteer Basil Twist embarked on a project sponsored by The Japan Foundation that realized a contemporary fusuma karakuri production that captured the essence of the traditional art form. Basil’s production premiered in 2004 and has been performed across the globe since 2014, raising awareness about the medium. However, Basil Twist's production, titled Dogugaeshi, shares the same name of the tradition. Given the lack of documentation and research on traditional dogugaeshi, a Google query only wields results regarding Twist's production, further obscuring fusuma karakuri's role as a valuable traditional Japanese performance.

This year’s performance at Ono Sakura no Butai will feature two scenes from international artists Andrea Dezsö and Adam Avikainen, who were inspired by fusuma karakuri during their time at Kamiyama's Artist in Residency program. As Ogawa-san mentions these artists he beams with excitement. He is proud to have their work in his show, and he spends a lot of time sharing their work with visitors and audiences. He is eager to explain Avikainen's inspiration for his pieces Curry Typhoon and Turkey Earthquake (making curry during a typhoon and cooking turkey during an earthquake respectively).

Adam Avikainen's Curry Typhoon. 

Photos of Andrea Dezsö line the dressing room wall. Over the last few years, Ogawa-san incorporated Dezsö's pieces as one of the final fusuma-e in the performance. According to Kamiyama's Green Valley Artist Residency, "this may be the first fusuma-e screens used in a performance in Kamiyama since 1930".

Andrea Dezsö's fusuma-e of human emotions ki, do, ai, and raku  (joy, anger, pathos, and humor)

Similar to ningyo joruri, a successful fusuma karakuri performance requires a intuitive connection between puppeteers. To make this a bit more complicated than your typical puppet show, your partner is standing 30 feet away on the opposite side of the stage. These puppeteers must find a shared breath and united rhythm as they pull strings, tie-off rope, grab painted doors, and twist bamboo rods.

During a performance there is a conductor who leads the puppeteers’ movements with the hyoshigi, two pieces of wood that are clapped together. Since fusuma karakuri has no human actors on the stage, mistakes are easily noticeable and can easily disrupt the rhythm. This makes the need for harmony between puppeteers even more critical. To help guide the process, Ogawa-san created a script that organizes all 241 panels, dictating their placement and movement.

The script also illustrates Ogawa-san’s process as a director of fusuma karakuri. He must take in account the way different movement can effect an image’s meaning. Although it makes things more complicated, he insists that the ten panels that compose a resting tiger must all be removed from stage right. “You can’t see a tiger split in the middle,” he insists. Ogawa-san is constantly considering how the movement and order of these images change context and alters the viewer’s experience.

After rehearsal at Sakura no Butai, we sit around a table eating American chocolate I brought from home. I ask about the puppeteers’ day jobs. There are two farmers, a machinist, a councilman, a florist, a house wife, and a metadata specialist. For one of the older puppeteers, this will be his 30th year performing fusuma karakuri.

They share memories from their youth at the theater, where the community gathered to watch outdoor movies, have picnics, and experience the captivating tradition. 

During the 1950s, as a golden age of cinema dawned and the future was broadcasted on television sets across Japan, a small town in the rural mountains of Shikoku came together to rebuild a fusuma karakuri theater. Today, as we're surrounded by smartphone screens and digital media, the wooden theater underneath a blossoming sakura tree, where a metadata specialist and farmer move painted panels in and out of proscenium, feels radically innovative. Fusuma karakuri reminds us that our sense of awe is not always tethered to the future - the past is still filled with wonder.

For more information on:

Ono Sakura no Butai

Inukai Noson Butai

Awaji Ningyo Za

Kamiyama's Artist in Residence

Andrea Dezsö

Adam Avikainen

Basil Twist's Dogugaeshi

Puppet Island

After a short bicycle ride from Sanjō Ōmidō Hachiman shrine, I am standing at the entrance of a graveyard. There's no iron gate, stone markers or memorial plaques, only a winding camphor tree caught between the fall and winter season. With overgrown plants and wild daffodils, the cemetery feels a bit neglected - perhaps due to its inhabits. Six feet below are the remains of puppets, with wooden heads carved from cypress and tiny fingers hinged with whale bone, buried by puppeteers searching for a final resting place for their sacred figures beyond repair.

Sanjō Ōmidō Hachiman Shrine in Southern Awaji is the birthplace of the region's puppet traditions, where centuries earlier Shinto priests manipulated puppets to appease the god Ebisu and grant good fortune for the rural island dwellers.

As I mentioned in my previous entry, these puppeteers eventually teamed up with traveling storytellers, morphing their performances from religious ceremony into itinerant entertainment. They were also notoriously grunge, part of a lower class that embraced a bohemian lifestyle. Shunned from society, puppeteers found their home amongst the gamblers, thieves, and prostitutes. 

And here, in the Sanjō neighborhood of Awaji, was the center of it. But today the town is frightfully quiet, caught in an economic slump that has taken a toll on village life.

Like the puppets underfoot, the history of Ōmidō Shrine is concealed - but just 15 kilometers down the idle highway, past a McDonalds and kiddy park, there's a different story still unfolding.

Hovering above Awaji's Fukura Bay, the puppet theater looks like a charcoal-colored Millennium Falcon - a planetary visitor surrounded by abandoned storefronts, a fish market, and a Family Mart.

Awaji Ningyo Za (Awaji Puppet Theater) was previously located a short walk from the Sanjō Ōmidō Hachiman shrine. However, in 2012 it was relocated about ten miles south in the tourist-friendly Fukura Bay.

Inside, the performance hall is an air-conditioned memorial to the original theater. The proscenium is embellished in fragments from the Sanjō theater’s roof, while the rubble is preserved in rocky details along the interior walls. In the rear, glass cases showcase 16th century puppets and original hand-painted panels from fusuma karakuri performances.

Japanese lanterns line the perimeter and audiences sit in professionally-crafted bamboo benches. The design attempts to summon its rural island roots, but with the enormous embroidered curtain, well-crafted aesthetic, and gift shop in the lobby, it can't help but feel wonderfully artificial - like Disneyland's Enchanted Tiki Room. Instead of a Dole Whip, audience members are encouraged to purchase Awaji cookies branded with the face of everyone's favorite puppet god, Ebisu.

On a typical day, bucket hats fill the audience as many visitors arrive via bus tours geared towards regional retirees. There are typically three to five performances a day, each made up of three acts: a comedic ritual with the god Ebisu, an excerpt from a classical drama, and a performance of Dogugaeshi (fusuma karakuri). 

At first, this mash-up of day trip attraction and Edo Era tradition was difficult to reckon with. Was I actually experiencing traditional Awaji puppet theater? Was the theater's modernization and its condensed production style doing more harm than good? However, after spending a month in Fukura, observing rehearsals, talking to locals, and hanging out backstage, I came to realize that Awaji Ningyo Za is a traditional puppet theater with tourist attraction frills. These modern adjustments are masks worn to survive in the 21st century.

The Awaji troupe operates under a rigid training and rehearsal regime. The lead puppeteers, musicians, and narrators train for over twenty years. In December, the lead shamisen player, Tsuruzawa Tomoj, passed away. She had been performing for over 90 years. She was 103.

One of my favorite performances I’ve seen in Japan is Awaji Ningyo Za’s excerpt from Datemusume koi no higanoko. Confronting her own death to save the life of her lover, a young woman wildly dances across the stage as her long black strands deliriously fly around her face. The performance starts out graceful, but transforms into something more grotesque and chaotic. At the end of the scene, hair unruly, she climbs a bell tour, the puppeteers holding her arms from the inside. After intentional stumbles, she is thrown over the top of the tower, almost haphazardly. The scene is melodramatic and showcases the puppet’s feral qualities. This is one of the main differences between Awaji ningyo and Bunraku - its a bit more untamed. While Bunraku appealed (and appeals) to a more sophisticated crowd, Awaji was a tradition primarily performed for commoners. Even with the hawking of ningyo cookies, Awaji Ningyo Za still manages to preserve this wild quality.

Each show at Awaji Ningyo Za ends with a six minute performance of Dogugaeshi, also known as fusuma karakuri. Dogugaeshi is a form of rural performance where sliding hand-painted panels move in and out of a proscenium, delving deeper and deeper through an illustrative portal. I plan to write much more on Dogugaeshi in April. 

While in Awaji, I spend my nights at rehearsals as the troupe prepares for a performance at Tokyo's National Theater. The show calls for over 30 puppeteers, so members of the community assist and operate secondary characters. Their manipulation is certainly not too cultivated, but this is what makes Awaji Ningyo Za so interesting - it's tightly bound in the Awaji community. It's a city center, a sort of performative town hall, for the people of Fukura. Almost all of the local schools offer shamisen and puppetry classes, and there are a dozen performances every year featuring middle and high school students. Some of the these students even go on to work at the puppet theater after graduation. At the local cafe, the barista is excited to talk about the upcoming puppet shows. At the ice cream shop, the husband and wife owners generously give me an extra scoop since I’m a puppeteer. Awaji puppeteers are everywhere, saying hello at the post office or grabbing udon with their family at the local noodle restaurant. The longer you spend in Awaji, the more you realize that puppetry plays a vital role in the city's success, both culturally and economically. 

Although much smaller, Fukura reminds me of Takarazuka, home of the Takarazuka Revue, an entire city centered around one theater. In both Fukura and Takarazuka the puppeteers and performers are like adored athletes. Like a sports team, they offer the city a sense of purpose. While walking around Fukura it's obvious that Awaji Ningyo Za has fostered a sense of community, and might be why you can't help but be met with friendly and inquisitive neighbors throughout the town. 

Returning to the Sanjō neighborhood, there sits a museum dedicated to Awaji puppetry. Inside, you'll find 16th century puppet costumes, mechanized wooden heads, and miniature models of the Edo Era’s outdoor puppet theaters. But it’s every Saturday afternoon when the spirit of Awaji puppetry is on full-display. During my time on the island, I looked forward to these weekend visits, when a group of dedicated puppet hobbyists meet to carve heads, hinge hands, and thread wigs. 

The group has been meeting for over 30 years. They are creating puppets with the same materials and zest of those puppet-makers from centuries before. 

Together, in their 70s and 80s, they still trade notes and make hand-crafted guidebooks filled with photocopied pages and handwritten instructions.

They are generous with these references, sharing them without hesitation. It’s one of the most inspiring experiences I’ve had in Japan, watching how puppetry connects this group of artisans to their ancestors, to the region, and to a history spanning half a century. 

After my days at Awaji Ningyo Za, I often stop by a small coffee shop down the street from the theatre. Here, I take notes and chat with the barista about puppetry, his family, and the best food in Awaji. The barista recounts a time, twenty-five years earlier, when the then-governor of Arkansas, Bill Clinton, came to Fukura Bay and stayed at the luxurious Royal Hotel, a short drive away. “He enjoyed Awaji beef," the barista recalls. 

But this also speaks to another time, when Japan was experiencing an economic boom, and Awaji’s tourism was more active, attracting the likes of up and coming charismatic American politicians. But today, the town feels like it’s in limbo. It’s either on the verge of becoming a charming tourist destination or falling deeper into the unknown. This is the theme I keep coming across traveling in rural Japan. It feels like the uncertainty of Japan’ post-bubble economy is akin to the unresolved future of rural Japan and its traditional art forms. 

But it’s Awaji Ningyo Za’s mixture of community engagement and tourist appeal that gives Fukura a fighting chance. After a month in Awaji, the Star Trekian building stops looking so out of place, and stands like a celestial beacon for the future. During my last visit at the local cafe, the barista sincerely asks me if I’ve considered buying property in Fukura. “We need more puppeteers around here”. 

To learn more about Awaji Ningyo Za, please visit their website:

http://awajiningyoza.com/introduction/en/