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/

Uncovering the Puppet Rituals of Tokushima

Outside the Tokushima Prefecture Museum, Kazuhide Tsujimoto stands by an ashtray checking his watch. With stylish leather loafers, sunglasses, and an intimidating poker-face stare, Tsujimoto is not what I imagine when I think “hako-maswashi ritual puppeteer.” He abruptly ashes his cigarette and heads to his hatchback. I have trouble keeping up, his pace steadfast, his eyes fixed ahead at something unseen. Tsujimoto is clearly on a mission. 

Hako-mawashi often refers to the nomadic puppet performance performed in rural cities across Japan, specifically on the Shikoku and Awaji islands. These puppeteers, or dokumbo-mawashi, would travel with boxes strapped around their necks that served as both storage and a miniature stage. The earliest puppets were bodiless heads on wooden rods. Eventually, these figures transformed into larger costumed puppets that were transported in crates and carried from bamboo poles. Hako-mawashi certainly speaks to the inherent transient lifestyle of puppeteers, but it’s far more than traditional street theater. Hako-mawashi is a missing link, a part of performance history that uncovers the puppet’s mystic powers. It's a doorway between puppetry and the gods. 

Photograph by Alípio Padilha. (Website / FB ) 

Hako-mawashi is rooted in religious ceremonies performed in shrines during Japan’s Edo era. One example is Sanbasō-mawashi, where a puppeteer manipulates a Sanbasō puppet through a series of ritual choreography until it enters into a mystical trance. This trance is marked by the puppet’s eyes rotating upward through a mechanized trick head, or gabu. Once the puppet is in this transcendent state, he adorns a black mask, and shakes a suzu bell, performing a purification rite. Other types of hako-mawashi include ebisu-kaki, where a puppet of god Ebisu sings songs, requests a little sake, and grants good fortune. 

Via Awa Deko Hakomawashi Hozonkai, Kazuhide Tsujimoto

One of the most comprehensive English-language books I've found on hako-maswashi is Jane Marie Law's Puppets of Nostalgia. In the text, she writes:

”These wandering puppeteers...performed an essential ritual function. They mediated the boundaries between the distinct but sometimes overlapping worlds of sacred forces and human beings, order and chaos, life and death, fertility and infertility. Their ritual performance served to usher in the new year, purify dwellings for another season, and revitalize sacred forces in the community."

Eventually, these traveling dokumbo-mawashi teamed up with storytellers (tayu) and roaming musicians, giving rise to ningyo joruri and, in the 19th century, Bunraku puppetry.

Working as a puppeteer in Tokushima during the Edo era was like being an actor in Astoria, Queens today. Documents from the early 1800s illustrate a population where over twenty percent of citizens worked as puppeteers.

Photograph by Alípio Padilha. (Website / FB ) 

Puppeteers had a vital role to play in Japanese life. They were ritualistic shamans who could appease the unknown and dispel the impurities of the past. Without them, crops wouldn't harvest and the natural world remained untamable. However, since these puppeteers dealt in a realm of enchantments and pollution, they were considered unclean, and were edged out of towns into their own outcast neighborhoods.

Tokushima and Awaji were filled with these misfit districts until the early 20th century when the hako-mawashi practices almost vanished due to burgeoning entertainment and the strain of World War II. Ultimately, a post-war environment emerged that frowned on ritualistic customs.

This last New Year season, Tsujimoto trudged through miles of snow, visiting hundreds of houses, and performing hako-mawashi’s ebisu-kaki ritual for residents. When areas of Shikoku face a poor harvest or drought, Tsujimoto is called to perform these rites for the distressed towns.

Yet, when you ask him about his occupation, he won't say “puppeteer.” “Scholar,” he responds, silently giving credit to the giants before him. It’s these giants who seem to fill Tsujimoto’s thoughts. I sit in his studio, piled high with countless books and hundreds of puppets by one of Japan’s most famous puppet-makers, Tengu Hisa.

Tengu Hisa carved beautiful wooden heads, or kashira, that are immediately recognizable for their craftsmanship and large size. These puppets, many of which mirror the puppets used in Edo era hako-mawashi performances, are larger than traditional Bunraku puppets. Despite being much heavier than their puppet descendants, they are only manipulated by a single puppeteer. 

The Tengu Hisa name has continued for three generations, and, today, at the foot of Tokushima’s majestic Mt. Bizen, sits Tengusa Hisa’s original studio and home preserved as a museum.

I stand outside the museum snapping photos of the quiet neighborhood. With narrow streets and farmland filling most of the area, it’s hard to imagine this district teeming with hundreds of puppeteers. Even here, standing in one of the centers of hako-mawashi, the art form feels just out of reach.

I turn to ask Tsujimoto a question, but before I say anything I realize he’s already made his way back to the car, lighting a cigarette while eyeing the road in his rear view mirror.

This afternoon, we meet at a primary school in the center of rural Shikoku. Middle school students fill into a recreation room as Tsujimoto and his two assistants, Masako Nakauchi and Kimiyo Minami, unpack the hako-maswashi boxes. For the audience of adolescents, Masako and Kimiyo perform examples of hako-mawashi, such as ebisu-kaki, Sanbasō rite, and a short ningyo joruri show.

Today’s demonstration ends with Tsujimoto, who looks out at the group of over one hundred middle school students with an unexpected smile. He seems like a different person in front of the group, comfortable and cool, emphatically delivering his closing remarks. Tsujimoto is doing everything he can to pass his passion on to these students, urging them to recognize the importance of Japan’s artistic history before it’s too late. This is far from a lecture, but an act of transference.

My translator paraphrases, “Tsujimoto feels like most Japanese university students who study art know Picasso and Van Gogh, but know nothing about traditional Japanese art. Those who study theater know Shakespeare, but not Noh.”

Tsujimoto grimaces.

“Foreigners care more about Noh than those who study in Japan," he adds.

As Tsujimoto continues, I think about him alone at the wheel, traveling through the roads of Tokushima witnessing a town forget. Today, he does everything he can to help the city remember.

When it seems like Tsujimoto is about to say goodbye, he stops for a moment, his speech growing more serious.

“His grandmother was a puppeteer,” my translator explains. “But she faced, you know, discrimination?"

Discrimination is a word I I hear a lot when it comes to life as a puppeteer during the Edo Period. I nod.

“When her children were born she was afraid they would face the same fate, so she cast her puppets into the river, hoping her children would have a better future.”

Today, with his studio filled with puppets, books, and a career built on preservation of this endangered traditional art, it feels like Tsujimoto is treading in that river, piecing together fragments of those lost puppets. Like the Shinto priests before him, delivering their puppets into other-worlds, Tsujimioto is wading in a realm we can no longer see: the past.

After the lecture, Tsujimoto sits in the school principal’s office chatting over coffee. He looks gleeful, and, for the first time since I’ve been around him, relaxed. He leans back and smiles.

As the children return to their classes, we pack up Tsujimoto’s van, carrying Tupperware containers to the trunk, where Tsujimoto meticulously organizes them. I return to the gymnasium to make sure nothing was left behind. When I return, Tsujimoto has already left. I look across the parking lot to see the rear of his van, traveling down the road, vanishing into the horizon.

For more information about Kazuhide Tsujimoto: 

Website: EN / JP. 
Facebook Page

Book: Awa no dekomawashi.

For more information about hako-maswashi and ritual puppetry in Tokushima and Awaji, I can't recommend Jane Marie Law's book enough:

Puppets of Nostalgia: The Life, Death, and Rebirth of the Japanese "Awaji Ningyō" Tradition