The Noh Mask’s Other Face
At a recent Noh workshop, I was given the opportunity to handle a Noh mask, or nōmen (能面), for the first time. Noh performers commonly refer to these simply as omote (面), meaning the outside or surface. Until that moment, I had only ever seen them from the audience.
The mask depicted a young woman. Her face was serene and slightly smiling, the expression poised somewhere between joy and melancholy. Her mysterious likeness dates to Japan's medieval period, though even then it embodied a classical ideal of beauty inherited from the much earlier Heian era (794–1185).
Before handing me the mask, my instructor, a Noh performer, explained how it should be held. I was to touch it lightly and only at the two holes near its edges where the cords pass through. Never anywhere else. The care with which he spoke made it clear that this was more than a matter of preservation.
I carefully turned the mask over. What I saw took me aback.
The other side was dark and rough-hewn. The young woman had disappeared. In her place was something far more ancient. The carved interior looked less like the reverse side of a face than a fragment of something unearthed. Looking into it, I had the unsettling impression that I was seeing the mask's true self. Strangest of all, it seemed more alive than the beautiful face on the front.
The Noh performer then suggested I try it on. Before doing so, he asked me to bow to the mask, which I did. Then I carefully lifted it to my face while he tied the cords behind my head, cautioning me that once the mask was on, I would no longer be able to see my body or feet.
At first, everything seemed unchanged apart from the faint scent of cedar. Then he told me the mask was sitting incorrectly. I had positioned it so that it rested just below my chin. He explained that it should sit on top of it.
As soon as I adjusted the mask, something even more startling occurred. Time and space seemed to change.
My vision narrowed immediately. The eye openings were no larger than small slits, but instead of merely restricting my sight, they altered it. My field of vision became a small circle. The room receded, as though I were looking through the wrong end of a telescope. For a moment, I felt as though I were looking at the world from another age.
I know that putting on a Noh mask is a transformation for the performer. The mask allows them to become a vessel for the heart and state of mind of their character. On stage, through movement and chant, the performer will give life to the fixed expression of the young woman, while the audience will complete the transformation through its imagination.
I found myself wondering whether the other side of the mask is present in the performance too.
Perhaps the mask itself is a vessel. If so, who or what had been moving through the wood and the craftsman who carved it?