Hideta Kitazawa in his Tokyo studio. Photograph by Sohta Kitazawa.
On Friday, 20th September 2024, I had the privilege of sitting down with Mr. Hideta Kitazawa, a renowned master wood carver from Tokyo, whose expertise lies in creating masks for Noh theatre—one of the world’s oldest surviving theatrical art forms. Noh, with a history spanning over 700 years, originated during Japan's Muromachi period, and its highly stylised performances are deeply intertwined with the craftsmanship of artists like Kitazawa-san. His masks are vital in bringing the characters to life on stage, helping actors convey the intricate emotions and depth that define Noh theatre. Over the past month, Kitazawa-san has been travelling across the UK, giving performances, workshops, and lectures on Noh mask-making at prestigious venues such as Japan House, the Daiwa Foundation, and the Japanese Embassy in London.
Our conversation took place in the peaceful surroundings of Russell Square Gardens. It was fascinating to gain deeper insights into his unique craft, his upbringing in Tokyo, and the traditional principles passed down from his father, who was also a master wood carver. Through this discussion, I developed a greater appreciation for the traditional Japanese "craftsman spirit" and the incredibly intricate creative process behind making Noh masks.
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Suleiman:
Kitazawa-san, whereabouts in Tokyo did you grow up, and what was your early childhood like?
Kitazawa-san:
I grew up in the Katsushika District, right on the border of Chiba and Saitama Prefectures, on the outskirts of Tokyo. I have two younger brothers, and my father was a wood carver who specialised in decorations for shrines and temples. He made lions, dragons, phoenixes, birds, flowers, things like that. We lived in a small house with just two rooms, so I was always surrounded by his work.
Suleiman:
Did your father encourage you to be part of his wood carving world? Did he expect you to follow in his footsteps?
Kitazawa-san:
Yes, I think he assumed that, with three sons, one of us would eventually take over his career. He was very much an old-school craftsman—strict, serious about his work, and always keeping his word. He rarely smiled or praised us. In that sense, he was very traditional.
A traditional young female (Ko-omote) Noh mask by Hideta Kitazawa and his mask-making sketches and tools. Photographs by Suleiman Suleiman
Suleiman:
So you’re a second-generation wood carver, but instead of crafting decorations for temples and shrines like your father, you decided to make masks instead. How did that come about?
Kitazawa-san:
It’s a bit of a long story... do you mind?
Suleiman:
Not at all, please go ahead!
Kitazawa-san:
Well, I started working with wood when I was about five years old. I loved making things with my hands, but it was just a hobby at that time. Later, I went to university and majored in forest studies. After I graduated, I realised that I really wanted to work independently, rather than for a big company. So I told my father that I wanted to pursue wood carving as a profession. His response was, "Ok, you are no longer my son; you are now my apprentice."
Hideta Kitazawa's father, Ikkyo Kitazawa. Photograph and credit unknown.
Suleiman:
How old were you when he said that?
Kitazawa-san:
I was 23 at the time. After graduating from university, I joined a wood carving association called the Tokyo Wood Carving Traditional Craft Association. I became a junior member, and even now, many years later, I’m still the youngest member. Every year, the association invites a special teacher to teach something related to wood carving. One year, it might be Buddhist statue carving, and in that particular year, it was mask making. We had a mask-making teacher come to teach us for a whole year, meeting once a month. During that time, I finished carving my first Hannya (demon) mask. The Hannya was my first mask. After finishing it, I thought, "Ah, mask making... I really need to go see the theatre." So I realised I had to experience Noh theatre with my own eyes. First, I made the mask, and then I went to see a Noh performance. That was actually my first time seeing Noh theatre in person.
Suleiman:
So you were about 24 or 25 years old at this point?
Kitazawa-san:
Yes.
Suleiman:
And do you remember what your initial impression was of Noh?
Kitazawa-san:
My first impression was, “What's this?!” It was completely new to me, so I didn’t know what to expect. But luckily, there was a pre-show programme for younger members to understand a bit more about the artform. Recently, more of these educational programmes take place before Noh performances.
Suleiman:
How would you describe Noh to someone who has never seen it before and doesn't know much about it?
Kitazawa-san:
Hmm, I would say Noh can be challenging for a beginner. But at first, it’s more about feeling than understanding. Just enjoy the experience—the beauty of the costumes, the masks, the chanting, and the dance. Don’t try too hard to understand everything the first time. Just feel it. And if you think, “Ah, I’d like to see more,” then go again. Over time, your understanding will deepen. Noh has a long history—about 700 years—and it hasn't changed much over the centuries. That’s why it uses very old Japanese language. Traditionally, it was performed for high-class audience members, people who already had knowledge of things like literature, poetry, history, Buddhism, and Shintoism. So, Noh doesn’t explain these ideas during the performance; it assumes the audience is already familiar with them. But Noh is beautiful in its simplicity. If you’re curious after seeing it, you can read books about Noh masks or costumes, and the next time you watch, you’ll have a better understanding. Each time, you’ll gain more insight.
Kinue Oshima performing in an English Noh play, Pagoda, at the Southbank Centre in London. December 2009.
Photograph by Clive Barda
Suleiman:
How long is a typical Noh performance?
Kitazawa-san:
It’s usually between 60 and 90 minutes long.
Suleiman:
And is there an interval break during the performance?
Kitazawa-san:
Ah, good question. Traditionally, no. Zeami, who was the founder of Noh, didn’t include intermissions in his plays. Instead, between Act one and Act two, a Kyogen actor comes on stage. Kyogen is a comedic form of theatre, often performed between the more serious Noh acts. The Kyogen actor might narrate the events of Act one, which is often a mysterious story, and give some context or explain what’s coming next. While this happens, the main Noh actor changes backstage—maybe switching costumes or masks. This can take around 15 to 20 minutes.
Suleiman:
That's very interesting. So Noh provides the serious, tragic drama, and Kyogen is a form of comic theatre?
Kitazawa-san:
Yes, Kyogen can be comic, but it can also deal with human drama. For example, there’s a great Kyogen story about a husband and wife. The husband has lost his sight, and one day he prays to a special Buddhist statue to restore his vision. The statue answers, saying, “Yes, I can return your sight, but only if you separate from your wife.” It’s a very difficult choice! So Kyogen isn’t just about creating humour; it can also explore deep human emotions and dilemmas.
Suleiman:
(Laughs) And are the actors that perform the Kyogen parts separate from Noh actors? Or do Noh actors also perform Kyogen?
Hideta Kitazawa wearing one of his Kyogen masks during a demonstration at SOAS. Photographs by Suleiman Suleiman
Kitazawa-san:
That’s a very interesting point. In traditional Noh theatre, roles and specialisations are rigidly defined, unlike in some Western theatre traditions where actors may switch between different forms or styles. A Noh actor only performs Noh. There’s no crossover between Noh and Kyogen. The main Noh actor, called the shite, only plays the role of shite—the main character. The waki, or supporting actor, only plays the supporting role. Musicians only perform the music. And Kyogen actors only perform Kyogen. They never mix, and this has been the tradition for a very long time. In fact, I’d say it never happens.
Suleiman:
Really? As a theatre-producer I love the idea of synthesising different styles together. My work might not be very popular with the traditionalists in Japan!
Kitazawa-san:
(Laughs)
Suleiman:
I truly enjoyed your recent performance at Japan House. You played the role of a "mask-maker" in a brand-new adaptation of the classical Noh piece, Kazuraki. I thought this was such an inventive way of sharing nuanced details about your craft with the audience. For example, you talked about your father’s strict principles, such as forbidding the use of power tools. Are there any other rules or principles from your father that you still follow?
Kitazawa-san:
Yes, one of the most important principles is that the work we create outlives us. Do you understand? After I’m gone, my work will still exist. That’s why if I create something of poor quality, people will see it and wonder, “Who made this?” During my lifetime, people might say, "Ah, Kitazawa made this." But after I’m gone, the work will speak for itself. That’s why my father taught me to always do my best, no matter what. Even if my skill wasn’t good enough at the time, as long as I gave it my all, something good would come of it. This is different from industrial production, where it’s just about mass manufacturing. For us, it’s about putting our soul into each piece.
Hideta Kitazawa in his Tokyo studio. Photograph by Sohta Kitazawa.
Suleiman:
That’s such a great point, and it feels incredibly relevant in today’s fast-paced world, where people often expect high-quality results instantly.
Kitazawa-san:
Yes, exactly.
Suleiman:
People might come to you and say, “Kitazawa-san, we need this mask by next week.” But when that happens, the quality is bound to suffer because you don’t have the time or space to put your best work into it.
Kitazawa-san:
Or the communication.
Suleiman:
Absolutely. It’s a very difficult balance to achieve.
Kitazawa-san:
Another principle my father taught me is to always say thank you to the customer. If I make something of good quality, the client pays me for it. But it’s more than just payment—it’s the appreciation of the work itself. That’s very special. I think it’s similar in your line of work. You do a performance, and someone buys a ticket. Even though they’ve paid for it, they might still say, “Thank you, I really enjoyed the performance.” That’s a very important part of our job—acknowledging the gratitude for the work we do, even when there’s an exchange of money.
Suleiman:
Yes, it’s about recognising the value of the craft. Which reminds me of something you mentioned at the Japan Embassy, which I found interesting—you don’t get credited for your masks in the programmes of Noh performances?
Kitazawa-san:
My goal is always to create something that the client truly desires. I don’t consider myself a 'pure artist,' seeking admiration for the artistic value of my work alone. Instead, my focus is on fulfilling the client's needs. That’s why it’s not necessary for my name to appear in Noh programmes—it’s not about me as the creator, but about the work itself. Whether or not people know it’s made by Kitazawa doesn’t matter. What matters is the quality and the value that the work brings.
Suleiman:
That's intriguing I've never thought about it like that. Do you ever sign your masks?
Kitazawa-san:
If the client requests it, I’ll sign my mask, but not every time. If they don’t ask, that’s fine with me. The most important thing is that the work is completed, and my client is happy with the final result.
Suleiman:
During your recent demonstration at the Japan Embassy, you mentioned that you receive two types of mask commissions—traditional ones from professional Noh actors and more creative commissions from other artists. Which type of mask do you enjoy making more?
Kitazawa-san:
I try to maintain a good balance between making traditional Noh masks and taking on more creative, modern commissions. Traditional Noh masks require me to follow very strict guidelines—every detail, from the size to the expression, must be precisely replicated. Sometimes, a performer will ask for an exact replica of an old mask, and while this is a valuable learning experience, it can be quite demanding. There’s no room for deviation because preserving the tradition is so important.
A contemporary Noh mask by Hideta Kitazawa, comissioned by Theatre of Yugen for Cordelia in 2011. Photograph by Sohta Kitazawa.
On the other hand, creative commissions offer more freedom. I collaborate closely with the client, we discuss ideas, and I get to experiment with my clay models to explore new possibilities. It's more flexible, but it comes with a different kind of responsibility—challenging my own creativity and pushing my abilities to make something truly unique. Both types of work have their own challenges, but I enjoy the balance between them.
Suleiman:
If you could meet yourself at 17 years old, what would you say? What advice would you give to your younger self?
Kitazawa-san:
That’s an interesting question. When I was about 25 and just starting out in this profession, I visited London with my girlfriend at the time. We spent three days walking through Piccadilly Circus and around central London, enjoying the city. Now, 30 or 31 years later, I’ve returned—but this time for Noh mask-making demonstrations and talks. Looking back, I never could have imagined that one day I’d return as a Noh mask maker. It’s such a big change, something I never expected.
Suleiman:
Travel seems to be a big part of your life. Do you love to travel?
Kitazawa-san:
Yes, because most of my life is spent at home, in my studio. I’m usually not talking much—just working. Sometimes I get a big commission that requires six months of intense focus. Just concentrating on that one piece. So, travelling gives me balance. Going overseas, meeting new people like you, sharing ideas, and connecting with people who have the same interests—that’s very important to me.
Suleiman:
What do you think makes Noh masks special in comparison to other types of masks?
Kitazawa-san:
Ah, good question. I really enjoy researching masks from different cultures. For example, Italian Commedia dell'Arte masks are very famous—I even have two that I exchanged with a Commedia dell'Arte mask maker. I’ve also studied Indonesian Topeng masks, Haida masks from Vancouver, and of course, Mexico has a rich mask tradition with Maya and Aztec cultures. Most masks around the world are used in festivals or carnivals. They often represent gods or special figures, but Noh masks are different—they require more subtlety and sensitivity because Noh theatre is not just about transformation. Noh has to express deeper philosophical ideas, ways of life. It's much more complex than just portraying an angry or happy face.
Suleiman:
It’s more nuanced?
Kitazawa-san:
Yes, exactly. Early Noh masks were more wild in their expressions, but over time, they became more refined. I think the most beautifully crafted Noh masks were established about 400 to 500 years ago, and today, as a mask maker, I feel I have to chase that ideal of beauty. It’s a lifelong study, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever fully reach that point of perfection. But I continue to try.
Scene from Noh Dance, Takashima Chiharu ca. 1820 (The Metropolitan Museum collection)
Suleiman:
A few minutes ago, you mentioned that you're not a "pure artist". But from what you’ve just said, I think it proves you really are! Only a pure artist would say, after all the years and hours you’ve spent carving, that you’re still striving for more.
Kitazawa-san:
(Laughs) Yes, sometimes I go to bed thinking about my work, or even while I’m taking a bath!
Suleiman:
At the very end of your life, you’ll still be there with your chisel, thinking, “I’m not ready yet! I still need to improve!”
Kitazawa-san:
(Laughs) Yes, and my wife really loves to talk, especially when we’re eating together. She’ll be chatting away, and I’m there, deep in thought, and she’ll say, “Are you even listening to me?”
Suleiman:
(Laughs) You mentioned at the Japan Embassy that your process of making masks isn’t truly finished until you see it on stage.
Kitazawa-san:
Yes.
Suleiman:
Can you describe your feelings when you watch an actor on stage wearing one of your masks? Are you satisfied? Surprised?
Kitazawa-san:
The most important thing for me is that the performance goes smoothly. If there are no issues, then that’s already a success. Sometimes, I feel really happy—like, “Wow, that’s a great performance!” But other times, I think, “Oh no, the mask isn’t changing expressions,” or it might look too flat in the stage light. In those moments, I realise I still need to improve. That’s why seeing it on stage is the final part of the process. When the mask is just hanging on the wall it’s static—only one expression. But on stage, you see how it works with different angles, lighting, and how it interacts with the actor’s movements. It’s not just about the mask itself; it’s about the combination of everything. The mask has to be part of the whole performance.
Suleiman:
Last question—you’re one of the few Noh mask makers in the world. I believe you mentioned there are only about 10 of you?
Kitazawa-san:
Yes, there are 10 professionals, 5 based in Tokyo and 5 in Kyoto, and I’m the second youngest.
Suleiman:
For the future of Noh theatre, what do you think is the most important thing to help it continue to develop?
Kitazawa-san:
Ah, there are many things—more funding, more education, more collaboration. All of that is needed. When you go to a Noh performance, most of the audience is older—around 70 years old. That’s a bit of a crisis for Noh theatre. We need to engage younger generations, give them hands-on experiences, especially in elementary schools. Even if they don’t fully understand it, that’s ok. If just 1%, 2%, or 3% of them remember the experience and grow up with an interest, it’s worth it.
Hideta Kitazawa giving a Noh mask workshop in Tokyo. Photograph and credit unknown.
Noh also needs greater exposure overseas. Often, it’s only when Japanese people see the appreciation for their culture abroad that they begin to recognise its value at home. It’s the same with Ukiyo-e—now everyone in Japan knows how important Hokusai and Hiroshige are, but that came after international recognition. It’s the same with Noh. If more foreign researchers and travellers come to Japan specifically to see Noh, maybe that will make Japanese people realise how valuable it is for our future.
Suleiman:
Kitazawa-san, thank you so much. There are many more questions I’d love to ask you, but perhaps when I visit your studio in Tokyo, we can continue the conversation. That would be amazing. But for now, thank you so much for your time.
Kitazawa-san:
Thank you!
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My conversation with Kitazawa-san was a profound insight into the intricate art of Noh mask-making, as well as the dedication and passion required to preserve such an ancient craft. His respect for tradition, coupled with his openness to creative exploration, embodies the delicate balance between honouring the past and embracing new artistic challenges. Kitazawa-san’s journey, from his apprenticeship under his father’s strict guidance to becoming one of the few remaining Noh mask masters in the world, offers a glimpse into a world where art and discipline merge seamlessly.
As Noh continues to evolve and adapt, thanks to artisans like Kitazawa-san, it’s clear that this centuries-old tradition still holds powerful relevance today. His masks have now been beautifully documented in a brand new book, Noh and Kyogen Masks: Tradition and Modernity in the Art of Kitazawa Hideta, written and edited by Janette Cheong and Richard Emmert, and published by Prestel. The book features exquisite photographs of Kitazawa’s creations, offering readers a chance to appreciate the fine details of his work up close. If you ever have the opportunity to experience a Noh performance or view Kitazawa-san’s masks in person, I highly encourage it. The level of craftsmanship and attention to detail involved in each mask is truly remarkable, bringing unparalleled depth to the performance on stage.
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