Author: mashiro

  • Setsubun in Tokyo: 10 Places to Catch Lucky Beans (Famous + Hidden Spots)

    If you are visiting Tokyo in early February, there is a seasonal tradition you can participate in rather than simply observe: Setsubun (節分). This event marks the transition from winter to spring in the traditional calendar and is still practiced across Japan today.

    During Setsubun ceremonies, you will hear the familiar chant:

    “Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi!”
    Out with demons, in with good fortune.

    From large public gatherings at major temples to small, local ceremonies in residential neighborhoods, Setsubun offers a rare opportunity for visitors to engage directly with a living seasonal custom.


    What is Setsubun?

    Setsubun literally means “seasonal division.” In contemporary usage, it usually refers to the day immediately before the beginning of spring according to the traditional calendar.

    The central ritual is mamemaki, in which roasted soybeans (fukumame, or “fortune beans”) are thrown to symbolically drive away misfortune, represented by demons (oni), and to invite good fortune into the coming season.

    Common customs associated with Setsubun include:

    • eating the same number of beans as one’s age, plus one for good luck,
    • purchasing seasonal charms,
    • and eating ehōmaki, a sushi roll consumed while facing the year’s auspicious direction.

    The exact date of Setsubun varies by year, often falling on February 2 or 3. Some temples and shrines also hold events on adjacent days, so it is advisable to check official schedules in advance.


    Practical advice for visitors

    Arrive early
    Popular venues fill quickly, especially before the bean-throwing ceremonies begin.

    Choose your viewing position carefully
    Standing near the front can be intense. Those traveling with children, or anyone preferring a calmer experience, may wish to observe from the sides.

    Catching beans is not essential
    Many locations distribute beans directly or sell official Setsubun packages.

    Bring a small bag
    Useful for carrying beans or small festival items.


    Experiencing Setsubun in Tokyo

    Major venues and lesser-known options

    Below are ten locations in Tokyo, beginning with well-known sites and moving toward smaller, more localized experiences.


    1) Sensō-ji (Asakusa)

    Sensō-ji is one of Tokyo’s most prominent sites for Setsubun. The atmosphere is energetic, with large crowds and a distinctly festive mood.

    Why visit:

    • One of the city’s most established Setsubun events
    • Convenient if you are already exploring Asakusa

    2) Zōjō-ji (Shiba Park)

    Zōjō-ji offers a visually striking setting, with traditional temple buildings framed by Tokyo Tower.

    Why visit:

    • A contrast between historic architecture and the modern skyline
    • Often features large-scale ceremonies

    3) Kanda Myōjin (near Akihabara)

    Kanda Myōjin is known for ceremonies that feel closely tied to Tokyo’s urban energy.

    Why visit:

    • Processions and lively ritual atmosphere
    • Easy to combine with nearby districts

    4) Ikegami Honmon-ji (Ōta)

    Ikegami Honmon-ji is a large temple that attracts many locals while remaining less tourist-focused.

    Why visit:

    • Spacious grounds
    • A strong sense of ritual continuity

    Smaller and distinctive Setsubun experiences


    5) Fukagawa Fudō-dō (Monzen-Nakachō)

    Known for its fire rituals, Fukagawa Fudō-dō offers a more intense ceremonial atmosphere during Setsubun.

    Why visit:

    • Visually powerful rituals
    • Located in a neighborhood with traditional character

    6) Tokyo Tower (Main Deck)

    Setsubun ceremonies are sometimes held inside Tokyo Tower, offering a distinctly modern interpretation of the tradition.

    Why visit:

    • An unusual setting
    • Suitable for visitors with limited time

    7) Koami Shrine (Nihonbashi)

    Koami Shrine is small but well regarded locally as a place associated with good fortune.

    Why visit:

    • Quiet, intimate atmosphere
    • Central location

    8) Kasama Inari Shrine (Tokyo branch)

    A neighborhood-scale shrine offering a more modest Setsubun ceremony.

    Why visit:

    • Less crowded
    • A chance to observe local participation

    9) Hōsen-ji (Suginami)

    Some Setsubun events here include rare processions or performances.

    Why visit:

    • Uncommon ceremonial elements
    • Strong historical atmosphere

    10) Ōkunitama Shrine (Fuchū)

    Located outside central Tokyo, Ōkunitama Shrine provides a regional-scale festival experience.

    Why visit:

    • A slower pace
    • Suitable for a day trip

    Suggested ways to plan your visit

    • Single-location visit: Sensō-ji for a classic experience
    • Temple and cityscape: Zōjō-ji and Tokyo Tower
    • Local atmosphere: Koami Shrine and Fukagawa Fudō-dō

    Etiquette and safety

    • Follow instructions from shrine and temple staff
    • Avoid aggressive movement during ceremonies
    • Photography is usually permitted, but flash and obstruction should be avoided
  • Japanese Yakuza Films as a Cultural History

    From Honor and Role to Silence and Collapse

    Japanese yakuza films are often misunderstood as simple crime movies.
    Seen from the outside, they may look like stories of violence, power, or criminal spectacle. Yet historically, the genre functioned very differently. At its core, Japanese yakuza cinema has long been concerned with roles—how individuals are positioned within social structures, what they owe to others, and what happens when those obligations stop making sense.

    To understand why yakuza films of the 1970s and 1980s feel quiet, empty, or pessimistic, it is necessary to look backward. The later sense of collapse only becomes meaningful when viewed against the ethical clarity that defined earlier works.


    What yakuza films were originally about

    Classic yakuza films were not celebrations of lawlessness. They were moral dramas structured around belonging rather than freedom.

    The central tension was rarely “how do I win?” but rather:

    • Who do I answer to?
    • What obligations have I inherited?
    • How do I act correctly when duties collide?

    This logic distinguishes Japanese yakuza films from many Western gangster narratives. Where Western crime films often emphasize ambition, ascent, or rebellion, Japanese yakuza films traditionally emphasized position—a fixed place within a hierarchy that defines one’s responsibilities.

    For much of the genre’s early history, that position still carried meaning.


    The ethical foundation: 1950s–1960s yakuza films

    In the 1950s and 1960s, yakuza cinema developed in close parallel with postwar Japanese society. This period is often described by scholars as the era of ninkyō eiga (chivalry films), in which yakuza figures were portrayed as bearers of an idealized moral code.

    These films did not aim for sociological realism. Instead, they presented yakuza protagonists as symbolic figures who embodied values such as:

    • loyalty to one’s group,
    • self-restraint,
    • and willingness to sacrifice personal happiness for obligation.

    Importantly, these stories often ended tragically. Acting honorably did not guarantee survival or success. However, the films affirmed that ethical consistency itself had value, even in defeat.

    This worldview reflected a broader postwar emphasis on social roles, discipline, and endurance—values that also structured corporate and communal life during Japan’s reconstruction period.

    (→ See: Early Japanese Yakuza Films: Honor, Duty, and the Birth of a Genre)


    Repetition as reassurance

    Early yakuza films frequently repeated similar plots, character types, and emotional arcs. Far from weakening the genre, this repetition functioned as ritual.

    Audiences were not primarily seeking surprise. They were watching to confirm that, despite hardship and loss, there was still a correct way to act. The films offered emotional reassurance during a period of rapid social transformation by asserting that moral order, though costly, remained intelligible.

    This stability would not last.


    The rupture of the 1970s

    Image source: © Toei Company / Jingi Naki Tatakai (Battles Without Honor and Humanity, 1973)
    Used for commentary and critical discussion purposes.

    By the early 1970s, the assumptions underlying the genre began to fracture. Economic growth, urbanization, and changes in labor structures increasingly exposed the gap between cinematic codes and lived reality.

    The decisive break comes with 仁義なき戦い (1973).

    Rather than portraying yakuza as tragic moral figures, the series presents a world in which:

    • loyalty is transactional,
    • violence is chaotic rather than ritualized,
    • and ethical codes collapse under pressure.

    What distinguishes this shift is not merely its depiction of brutality, but its conclusion: the old heroic framework no longer functions. Honor does not organize behavior. Obligation no longer stabilizes identity.

    From this point onward, yakuza films stop asking how to live honorably and begin asking whether honor itself has any social foundation left.


    Why the 1980s feel especially bleak

    The pessimism of 1980s yakuza cinema is often misunderstood as a reaction to hardship. In fact, it emerges during a period of relative economic stability.

    This paradox is crucial. By the 1980s, the social promise that once justified sacrifice—loyalty to an organization, endurance within a role—had begun to erode. Long-term belonging no longer guaranteed security or meaning.

    Yakuza films respond by hollowing out their protagonists.

    Typical figures of the era are:

    • isolated rather than authoritative,
    • burdened by past decisions,
    • aware that their inherited roles no longer connect to a coherent moral order.

    They do not fight to achieve resolution. They persist, hesitate, or quietly fail.


    Silence instead of spectacle

    Image source: © Shochiku Co., Ltd. / Sono Otoko, Kyōbō ni Tsuki (Violent Cop, 1989)
    Used for commentary and critical discussion purposes.

    This transformation is especially clear in その男、凶暴につき (1989).

    Violence here is abrupt and largely unexplained. Emotional framing is minimal. Scenes unfold with long pauses and limited dialogue. The film does not guide the viewer toward moral judgment.

    What makes the film unsettling is not its brutality, but its ethical emptiness. The protagonist cannot articulate his role within any stable system. Authority figures provide no guidance. Violence becomes an action without justification.

    This stylistic restraint reflects a broader late-1980s tendency in Japanese cinema, where silence functions not as elegance but as structural absence.


    Shifting perspectives: seeing the system’s effects

    Image source: © Toei Company / Gokudō no Onna-tachi (Yakuza Ladies, 1986)
    Used for commentary and critical discussion purposes.

    Another important development of the 1980s is a change in vantage point. Films such as 極道の妻たち (1986) examine the yakuza world from perspectives previously marginalized.

    Here, the organization is no longer romanticized as a brotherhood. It appears as a rigid, male-centered structure that distributes harm outward. Loyalty is not chosen; it is imposed.

    This shift reveals something essential: the yakuza code is no longer questioned only from within. Its consequences become visible in everyday life.


    Stagnation and return

    Image source: © Toei Company / Yasha (1985)
    Used for commentary and critical discussion purposes.

    A quieter but equally telling example is 夜叉 (1985).

    Set in an isolated environment, the film centers on characters unable to escape their past affiliations. Conflict arises not from ambition but from inertia. Identity hardens into fate.

    Here, yakuza affiliation resembles a lingering condition rather than a chosen path. Violence is repetitive, drained of symbolic meaning. The genre’s earlier sense of tragic dignity has evaporated.


    What collapses on screen

    Across these films, what collapses is not morality itself, but the assumption that belonging provides meaning.

    Earlier yakuza cinema assumed that suffering within a role had value. By the 1980s, this assumption no longer holds. Loyalty does not protect. Tradition does not stabilize identity. Violence fails to resolve ethical tension.

    What remains is silence, routine, and the weight of commitments made under outdated premises.


    Why this history still matters

    Japanese yakuza films chart a cultural arc rather than a genre gimmick. They document how a society’s ethical imagination changes over time.

    The emptiness of later films is not accidental. It gains force precisely because earlier works once offered clarity, structure, and purpose. Collapse only resonates when something meaningful once stood in its place.

    Seen this way, yakuza cinema is less about crime than about how societies outgrow their own moral frameworks—and what happens to those left behind inside them.

  • Early Japanese Yakuza Films: Honor, Duty, and the Birth of a Genre

    Early Japanese Yakuza Films

    Honor, Duty, and the Birth of a Genre

    Before Japanese yakuza films became associated with silence, disillusionment, and moral collapse, they were built around order. Early yakuza cinema, especially from the 1950s through the 1960s, was structured by clear ethical frameworks: honor (ninkyō), obligation (giri), and emotional restraint.

    These films did not present yakuza life as realistic crime reportage. Instead, they functioned as moral dramas, using the yakuza figure to explore how a person should act when loyalty, duty, and personal feeling come into conflict.


    The historical background

    The rise of early yakuza films coincided with Japan’s postwar reconstruction. In the 1950s and early 1960s, Japanese cinema frequently addressed questions of order, responsibility, and social belonging. Yakuza films emerged as one way to stage these questions in heightened form.

    Scholars and film historians generally describe this period as the era of the ninkyō eiga (chivalry films). These works were not concerned with organized crime as it actually functioned, but with an idealized code of conduct attributed to yakuza figures in popular imagination.


    The yakuza as a moral figure

    In early yakuza films, the protagonist is not defined by ambition. He is defined by role.

    Typically, the central character:

    • belongs to an organization that demands loyalty,
    • inherits obligations he did not choose,
    • and faces situations where fulfilling one duty violates another.

    What matters is not whether he survives or succeeds, but whether he acts correctly within the code he has accepted.

    This structure distinguishes early Japanese yakuza films from many Western gangster narratives, which often emphasize individual rise, dominance, or rebellion. Here, individuality is secondary to responsibility.


    Honor over victory

    Image source: © Toei Company / Nihon Kyōkakuden (1964)
    Used for commentary and critical discussion purposes.
    Image source: © Toei Company / Shōwa Zankyōden (1965)
    Used for commentary and critical discussion purposes.

    One consistent feature of early yakuza cinema is that moral correctness does not guarantee a good outcome.

    Films such as 日本侠客伝, 昭和残侠伝, establish a pattern in which the protagonist upholds honor even when doing so leads to isolation, injury, or death.

    This recurring tragedy is not framed as failure. On the contrary, it confirms the value of the code itself. The films suggest that acting correctly matters more than being rewarded.


    Obligation as structure

    Early yakuza films repeatedly stage conflicts between:

    • giri (social obligation),
    • ninjō (personal feeling),
    • and loyalty to hierarchical relationships.

    These tensions were not unique to yakuza narratives; they appeared across Japanese literature and drama. Yakuza films intensified them by placing characters in rigid systems where compromise was impossible.

    Importantly, these films do not ask whether the system is just. They ask whether a person can maintain integrity inside it.


    Visual and narrative style

    Stylistically, early yakuza films favor clarity and formality.

    • Compositions are stable.
    • Characters are positioned clearly within hierarchies.
    • Dialogue is often explicit about duty and obligation.
    • Silence exists, but it functions as restraint rather than emptiness.

    This visual language reinforces the moral structure of the stories. The world is legible. Rules are known. Tragedy arises not from confusion, but from inevitability.


    Repetition and ritual

    Many early yakuza films repeat similar story patterns, character types, and emotional beats. Rather than diminishing their impact, this repetition serves a ritual function.

    Audiences were not watching to be surprised by outcomes. They were watching to see how the protagonist would uphold the code under pressure.

    This predictability is central to understanding why the genre worked. The films offered emotional stability during a period of rapid social change.


    The limits of the code

    By the late 1960s, however, the distance between cinematic codes and social reality became harder to ignore. Economic growth, urbanization, and shifting labor structures made the idealized yakuza figure feel increasingly abstract.

    This growing tension did not immediately destroy the genre, but it weakened its moral certainty. When later filmmakers dismantled yakuza mythology in the 1970s, they were responding to a code that had already begun to feel out of place.


    Why early yakuza films still matter

    Early Japanese yakuza films are valuable not because they depict historical yakuza accurately, but because they reveal how Japanese cinema once imagined ethical order.

    They present a world in which:

    • rules exist,
    • obligations are binding,
    • and personal sacrifice is meaningful, even when it leads nowhere.

    Understanding this foundation is essential for understanding why later yakuza films feel empty, silent, or bitter. Collapse only has meaning when there was once something solid to collapse from.

  • Why Japanese Visuals Love Empty Space

    Ma, Silence, and Meaning

    Japanese visuals often feel too quiet.

    Not because nothing is happening, but because something is being deliberately left behind.

    In Japanese art, design, or film, what many people call “negative space” is hardly ever accidental. In many cases, it plays a structural role. It creates rhythm, produces tension, and invites the audience not into simple reception of information, but into participation.

    To understand this, it helps to move away from the idea that meaning must always be stated, filled, or explained.


    Not emptiness, but structure

    In many visual traditions, clarity is achieved by adding information: more detail, more explanation, more emphasis. Japanese visual culture often takes the opposite approach. Meaning is strengthened by removal.

    This doesn’t mean minimalism for its own sake. Empty space in Japanese visuals is not decorative silence. It functions as a frame, a pause, or a breath. The image is not incomplete; it is intentionally unfinished in a way that allows meaning to emerge.

    This logic appears across media, from traditional prints to modern graphic design, photography, and film.


    What is ma ?

    The concept most often associated with this approach is ma (間).

    Ma is frequently translated as “space” or “interval,” but those translations are incomplete. Ma refers less to physical emptiness and more to timing, distance, and the relationship between elements. It is the pause between sounds, the gap between movements, the moment before something happens.

    Importantly, ma is not passive. It is active potential.

    In visual terms, ma is the area that allows forms to breathe. It is where the viewer’s attention settles before moving on. Rather than telling the viewer what to feel, ma gives them time to feel it themselves.


    Why absence carries meaning

    Japanese visuals often assume that the viewer is capable of interpretation. This assumption changes how images are constructed.

    Instead of guiding attention with constant signals, the image creates a situation and steps back. Absence becomes meaningful because it invites the viewer to fill the gap with their own perception, memory, or emotion.

    This can feel unfamiliar to viewers from cultures where visual communication prioritizes clarity, emphasis, and explanation. In those contexts, empty space may feel like something is missing. In Japanese visuals, that “missing” space is often the point.


    From ukiyo-e to modern design

    This logic is visible in ukiyo-e prints, where large areas of sky, water, or blank background are not filler but compositional anchors. These spaces stabilize the image while directing attention toward specific forms.

    Rather than centering everything, many prints use asymmetry and openness. The subject may be pushed to the edge of the frame, balanced by a wide, quiet area. The result feels dynamic, not sparse.

    Modern Japanese graphic design inherits this logic. White space is treated not as background but as an active element. Text and images are allowed to exist without being enclosed or crowded. The page feels intentional, not empty.


    Photography and film: silence as composition

    In photography, this approach often appears as restraint. The frame includes only what is necessary, and sometimes what is not included matters more than what is shown.

    A subject may be small within the frame. A scene may feel paused. Rather than directing emotion through dramatic emphasis, the image allows atmosphere to accumulate slowly.

    Japanese cinema often extends this principle into time. Long shots, quiet scenes, and moments where nothing “important” happens are not wasted space. They create emotional context. They allow the audience to notice details, textures, and rhythms that would disappear in faster editing.

    Silence, both visual and auditory, becomes part of the composition.


    Why this can feel unsettling—or calming

    For some viewers, this approach feels calming. For others, it feels unsettling. Both reactions are understandable.

    When meaning is not spelled out, the viewer is asked to stay present. There is no shortcut. The image does not rush to reassure or explain itself.

    This difference reflects a deeper cultural contrast. In many contexts, information density is equated with kindness or clarity. In Japanese visual culture, restraint can be a form of trust. The creator trusts the viewer to look, wait, and interpret.

    Empty space becomes a shared responsibility between image and observer.


    Empty space isn’t empty

    What looks like absence in Japanese visuals is often a carefully shaped presence. It holds timing, directs attention, and gives meaning room to form.

    Rather than filling every corner, these visuals leave space for breath, pause, and thought. The result is not silence for silence’s sake, but a different way of speaking—one that says less, so that more can be felt.

  • Japanese Things People Do at the Start of the Year

    A simple guide to New Year habits in Japan

    In Japan, New Year isn’t only one night. It’s a slow transition: the year is closed, the air is reset, and small routines mark the first steps into the next cycle. People do these things with different levels of seriousness. Some do everything, some do only one or two. But the overall rhythm is surprisingly consistent.

    Here are some of the most common things Japanese people do at the start of the year — and what they’re for.


    1) Say “Akemashite omedetō gozaimasu”

    This is the standard New Year greeting: “Happy New Year.” You’ll hear it in family chats, on phone calls, and in the first messages exchanged after midnight or on January 1st.

    It’s not just a phrase. It’s a reset button for relationships: the first greeting of the year is a way to keep social ties warm and alive.


    2) Visit a shrine or temple (Hatsumōde)

    Many people do hatsumōde, the first shrine or temple visit of the year. Some go on January 1st, others go later during the first few days.

    People might pray for health, safety, exams, work, or simply a calm year. They may also draw omikuji (fortunes) and buy omamori (amulets).

    Even if someone isn’t “religious,” hatsumōde still makes sense as a ritual: it gives shape to the beginning.


    3) Eat seasonal New Year food

    New Year in Japan has its own food language.

    • Osechi: special dishes arranged in boxes
    • Ozōni: mochi soup, often very regional
    • Toshikoshi soba: eaten around New Year’s Eve as a “year-crossing” marker

    You don’t need to memorize every symbolic meaning to understand the role these foods play. They’re edible tradition: repetition, continuity, and a sense of “this is the season.”


    4) Send New Year’s cards (Nengajō)

    New Year’s cards, nengajō, are still common. Some people write them by hand; many now use printing services.

    It’s a very Japanese kind of social care: short, formal, seasonal, and widely shared — a way of saying, “I remember you.”


    5) Give otoshidama

    Otoshidama is money given to children in small envelopes. It’s exciting for kids, but it’s also a social ritual: it makes family roles visible, and it marks growth year by year.


    6) Watch or listen to New Year TV and music

    Many households have a “New Year media routine,” whether it’s a famous year-end broadcast, a countdown program, or simply background TV while relaxing with family.

    This matters because New Year is also about atmosphere. Media becomes part of the seasonal mood.


    7) Set goals or make small promises (but quietly)

    Japan doesn’t always do dramatic “new year, new me” declarations. Many people keep it modest: a small intention, a short plan, a simple habit they want to continue.

    The cultural logic is often less about transformation and more about maintenance: staying healthy, staying steady, doing better little by little.


    8) Ease back into normal life

    New Year ends gradually. Decorations come down, routines return, and the season fades. That slow landing is part of what makes Japanese New Year feel different: it’s not a single fireworks moment, but a soft beginning.

  • I Ate Osechi — A Quiet Start to the Japanese New Year

    Osechi
    a New Year’s greeting note

    I had osechi this year.

    Osechi ryōri is the traditional set of dishes eaten during the Japanese New Year, usually packed into layered boxes called jūbako. Even people who don’t cook it themselves often encounter it in some form — homemade, ordered from a shop, or shared with family.

    What always stands out to me about osechi isn’t just the food, but the mood around it. It’s quiet. There’s no rush. The dishes are prepared in advance so that cooking can pause for a few days, and meals become more about sitting, talking, and letting time pass slowly.

    Each item has a meaning — health, longevity, prosperity — but in daily life, those meanings often sit gently in the background. You don’t need to recite them to eat osechi properly. You just eat, knowing that this is how the year begins.

    Some dishes I enjoy more than others. Some I eat mostly because they’re supposed to be there. That mix of personal preference and tradition feels very Japanese to me. Osechi isn’t about perfection; it’s about continuity.

    Eating osechi feels less like celebrating something new and more like acknowledging that another year has quietly arrived.

    In Japanese, there’s a phrase said after a meal: gochisōsama. It doesn’t just mean “thank you for the food,” but gratitude for the time, effort, and care behind it.

    So, after osechi — gochisōsama.

  • Japanese New Year Traditions Explained

    What Happens at Year-End and Why It Matters

    In Japan, the New Year is less a single party night and more a carefully staged transition. The year is “closed,” the space is reset, and the next cycle is welcomed with small actions that carry a larger logic: purification, renewal, and gratitude. Even for people who don’t think of themselves as religious, the season can feel quietly ceremonial, because the customs are woven into family life, public spaces, and the calendar itself.

    This article walks through the main traditions from late December to early January and explains what they do culturally, not just what they are.


    1) Year-end cleaning: Ōsōji (大掃除)

    Many households do ōsōji, a deep cleaning toward the end of December. On the surface it’s practical. Culturally, it functions like a reset: clearing dust, clutter, and “last year’s atmosphere” before the new year begins.

    A helpful way to understand ōsōji is that it treats the home as something with a mood. Cleaning is not only hygiene, it’s preparation.


    2) Ōmisoka (大晦日): closing the year

    Ōmisoka is New Year’s Eve, and it often feels calm rather than loud. Families may eat toshikoshi soba (年越しそば), noodles associated with “crossing over” into the next year. The meal is simple, but it acts like a marker: this is the border between cycles.

    Some people watch traditional year-end TV programs, visit family, or stay home quietly. The vibe is closer to “closing ceremonies” than countdown chaos.


    3) Joya no Kane (除夜の鐘): 108 bells

    At many Buddhist temples, bells are rung on New Year’s Eve in a tradition known as joya no kane. You’ll often hear “108” explained in connection with human desires and attachments. Even if you don’t memorize the doctrine, the sensory effect is unmistakable: slow, heavy sound that turns the night into a ritual.

    This is one reason Japan’s New Year mood can feel reflective. It’s designed to slow you down.


    4) Shōgatsu (正月): the New Year season

    In Japan, New Year is a season (Shōgatsu), not just one day. Many businesses close or operate on limited schedules. Families visit relatives. People eat special foods. And public spaces, especially shrines, become stages for the first actions of the year.


    5) Hatsumōde (初詣): the first shrine visit

    Hatsumōde is the first shrine (or temple) visit of the year. For overseas readers, this is one of the best examples of how Japanese ritual works: participation doesn’t always require strong doctrinal identity. People go to pray for health, safety, luck, or a better year.

    Common hatsumōde elements include:

    • offering a small coin
    • a brief prayer
    • receiving omikuji (fortunes)
    • buying protective amulets (omamori)

    The important point is the feeling: you start the year by placing yourself inside a calmer frame.


    6) Kadomatsu and shimenawa: marking the threshold

    During New Year, you’ll see decorations that mark entrances and boundaries:

    • Kadomatsu (pine/bamboo arrangements) near doorways
    • Shimenawa ropes used to indicate a set-apart, “clean” boundary

    Even without knowing the religious vocabulary, the visual message is clear: the home becomes a place prepared for a new cycle.


    7) Kagami mochi (鏡餅): a quiet symbol of the season

    Kagami mochi is a New Year decoration of stacked mochi, often placed in homes. It’s part symbol, part seasonal object. Later, there is a custom of breaking and eating it (kagami biraki), which turns the decoration into food and ends the New Year period in a tangible way.

    That movement, decoration → shared eating, is very Japanese: symbols are often made edible.


    8) Osechi and ozōni: New Year foods

    New Year foods can be divided into two famous categories:

    Osechi (おせち)

    Osechi is a set of dishes prepared for the New Year, traditionally arranged in special boxes (jubako). Many items are associated with auspicious meanings. Even if you don’t memorize each symbol, the overall message is abundance, care, and a deliberate start.

    Ozōni (お雑煮)

    Ozōni is a mochi soup eaten around New Year. What’s fascinating is how regional it is: broth types, ingredients, and mochi styles vary across Japan. If you want to taste “local identity,” ozōni is one of the cleanest ways to do it.


    9) Otoshidama (お年玉): money for children

    Otoshidama is money given to children in small envelopes. It’s not just a gift. It’s also a ritual of family roles: adults acknowledge growth, children receive a marker of the new year, and the family structure becomes visible in a gentle way.


    10) When does New Year end?

    New Year doesn’t end the morning after January 1st. Decorations often remain for part of early January, and the season gradually fades as normal schedules return. The feeling is not “done,” but “settled.”


    A simple way to summarize the cultural logic

    If you want one sentence to carry the whole season:

    Japan’s year-end and New Year customs treat the calendar as something you cross with intention: you clean, you mark boundaries, you slow down, you visit, you eat symbolic foods, and you begin again.

  • Uehara Konen (上原古年, 1877–1940)

    Uehara Konen (上原古年), Ocean Waves (波濤図), c. 1910 (early 20th century).
    This work is a color woodblock print (mokuhanga), depicting dynamic ocean waves with a bold, graphic composition.

    Uehara Konen (上原古年, 1878–1940) was a Japanese painter and print artist active from the late Meiji period into the early Shōwa era. Born in Tokyo (often noted as the Asakusa area), he trained under Kajita Hanko and later Matsumoto Fūkō, and built a career centered on atmospheric landscape painting, regularly exhibiting and receiving recognition in official art circles.

    Alongside painting, Konen is also known for color woodblock prints, producing quiet, lyrical scenes that bridge traditional themes with modern print culture. His works are often appreciated for their calm composition, subtle mood, and careful attention to natural light and place.

    Because Japanese visual culture historically blends local custom with Buddhist and Shinto influences, Western categories like “religion” or “fine art” do not always map neatly onto how these images were made or understood. A useful way to approach Konen’s work is to focus on composition, atmosphere, and the modern re-framing of classical motifs through printmaking.

  • Shinto Shrine Architecture Explained

    Torii, Haiden, Honden, and How Sacred Space Is Built

    A Shinto shrine can feel instantly recognizable even if you don’t know the vocabulary. You see a gate, a path, a wash basin, a hall, and quiet space arranged with intention. The easiest way to understand shrine architecture is not to treat it as “a building,” but as a sequence.

    Shrines are designed like a gentle machine that changes your pace. You approach. You cross a threshold. You prepare. You offer respect. You leave, and everyday life resumes. The architecture is the guide.

    This article explains the main parts you’ll see and what each one does.


    1) The big idea: boundaries and approach

    Shrines are built around a simple spatial logic:

    • Ordinary space and sacred space are not the same
    • You don’t “teleport” from one to the other
    • You transition through gates, paths, and small actions

    That transition is the point. The shrine’s layout trains your body to behave differently before you even know the rules.


    2) Torii: the gate that marks a threshold

    What it is

    A torii is the gate most associated with Shinto shrines. It signals a boundary: beyond this point, you’re entering a space framed as distinct from the street.

    How it functions

    • It doesn’t block you like a door
    • It announces a change of mode
    • It makes the entrance unmistakable in the landscape

    What visitors often miss

    Torii are not “just decoration.” Even when people treat them as a photo spot, the design still works: many people naturally lower their voice and slow down after passing under one.


    3) Sandō: the approach path that changes your mindset

    What it is

    The sandō is the approach path leading deeper into the shrine grounds.

    Why it matters

    Distance is part of the ritual logic. The walk gives you time to detach from whatever you carried in from outside, and it creates a sense of entering a different kind of place.

    You’ll often notice the path is straight or gently guided, sometimes lined with trees, lanterns, or stone features. The message is subtle: keep moving forward, keep it calm.


    4) Temizuya: the purification fountain

    What it is

    The temizuya (hand-and-mouth rinsing pavilion) is usually near the entrance.

    What it does architecturally

    It’s the shrine’s “reset point.” It turns your entry into a deliberate act. Even if you don’t perform it perfectly, the fountain signals that preparation matters here.

    Simple, respectful version (no stress)

    If you want the simplest low-risk approach:

    • rinse your hands briefly
    • keep it quiet and unhurried
    • follow the flow of people around you

    5) Komainu: guardian figures at the entrance

    What they are

    Komainu are paired guardian figures often placed near the approach or in front of the worship hall.

    What they do

    They visually reinforce that you’re crossing into a protected space. They also communicate the idea of “watching the boundary” without needing words.


    6) Shimenawa and shide: ropes that mark the sacred

    What they are

    A shimenawa is a rope used to indicate a sacred boundary or a sacred object. You’ll sometimes see zigzag paper streamers attached, called shide.

    Why they matter

    This is one of the clearest examples of Shinto’s boundary logic: something becomes “set apart” not by walls, but by marking. A rope can turn a tree, a rock, or a small area into a sacred focal point.


    7) Haiden vs Honden: where you pray vs what is enshrined

    This is the most useful distinction for understanding shrine “buildings.”

    Haiden: the worship hall

    The haiden is the area where visitors typically stand, bow, clap, and offer respect. It’s the public-facing space designed for worship.

    Honden: the main sanctuary

    The honden is the inner sanctuary where the kami is enshrined. It is usually not a space visitors enter. Architecturally, it’s often set behind the haiden, sometimes partly hidden or fenced.

    Why this split matters

    Many foreigners assume the “main building” is the place you walk into, like a church nave. Many shrines work differently: the most sacred core is separated, and worship happens from the outside-facing hall.


    8) Heiden, kaguraden, and other structures you might see

    Depending on the shrine, you may encounter additional buildings:

    • Heiden: a hall associated with offerings and ritual functions between worship space and sanctuary space
    • Kaguraden: a stage or hall for kagura performance and ceremonies
    • Shamusho: the shrine office where you can receive amulets, stamps, or ask simple questions
    • Ema area: wooden plaques where visitors write wishes
    • Omikuji area: paper fortunes, often tied up in designated places

    You don’t need to memorize these to be respectful. Recognizing that different buildings serve different roles is already enough to read the space correctly.


    9) Sessha and massha: smaller shrines within the grounds

    Some shrines contain smaller subsidiary shrines, often to the side or deeper in the grounds. These can feel like “chapels,” but the better way to read them is as a network: the main shrine anchors the site, while smaller shrines extend the site’s spiritual geography.


    10) A quick “shrine vs temple” visual guide

    If you’re trying to identify where you are:

    Shrines often have:

    • torii gates
    • shimenawa ropes
    • komainu guardians

    Temples often have:

    • large entrance gates that look more like buildings than frames
    • statues and incense
    • different roof forms and ornament styles

    There are exceptions and overlaps, so treat this as a helpful shortcut, not a rule that never breaks.


    11) How to visit respectfully without overthinking it

    You don’t need perfect choreography. The safest approach is behavioral:

    • keep voices low
    • don’t block paths, gates, or stairs for photos
    • follow posted signs and the flow of visitors
    • treat the inner sanctuary area as “do not enter” unless clearly allowed

    Shrine etiquette is less about performance and more about attitude: calm, clean, and considerate.


    12) Tiny glossary

    • Torii: gate marking the threshold
    • Sandō: approach path
    • Temizuya: purification fountain pavilion
    • Komainu: guardian figures
    • Shimenawa / Shide: sacred rope / zigzag paper streamers
    • Haiden: worship hall
    • Honden: main sanctuary (not typically entered)
    • Shamusho: shrine office

    [1] Encyclopaedia Britannica, “Shinto”

    [2] Encyclopaedia Britannica, “Shinto: Ritual practices and institutions”

    [3] Kokugakuin University, Encyclopedia of Shinto (index / reference for terms)

  • What Is Shinto?

    Purification, Kami, and a Short History

    Shinto is often described as Japan’s indigenous religion, but it doesn’t map neatly onto what many English readers expect “religion” to be. A simple starting point is this:

    Shinto is a tradition of practices and shrine-centered rituals related to kami, expressed more through custom and ceremony than through a single doctrine.[1]

    That’s why Shinto can be difficult to summarize in one sentence. It has no single founder, no universal creed, and no fixed dogma in the way many global religions do.Shinto also developed in long contact with other traditions, especially Buddhism, so it is best understood as a historical flow rather than a sealed system.[2]


    1) What does “Shinto” mean?

    The term Shintō literally means “the way of kami.” The word came into use to distinguish Japan’s indigenous beliefs from Buddhism, which was introduced in the 6th century CE.

    A practical takeaway is that Shinto is less “one book” and more “a way of doing,” most visible in shrine life, seasonal rituals, and life events.


    2) What Shinto is (and what it isn’t)

    Shinto is:

    • Closely tied to shrines, ritual practices, and matsuri (festivals) as community and seasonal events.
    • A broad umbrella. Scholarly overviews often discuss Shinto through categories such as shrine Shinto, sectarian Shinto, imperial Shinto, folk Shinto, and scholastic Shinto.

    Shinto is not:

    • A single standardized set of commandments or a universal confession of faith.
    • A simple synonym for “Japanese mythology.” Myths matter, but they are not the whole tradition.
    • A timeless artifact untouched by history. Shinto has been shaped by institutions, ideas, and changing social realities.

    3) Why Shinto can feel “practice-first”

    Many global religions are introduced through beliefs: a creed, a doctrine, a set of propositions. Shinto often introduces itself through etiquette, timing, and boundaries: how to enter, how to prepare, and how to behave within a sacred space.

    This is why first-time visitors may notice something before they understand it. Shinto often asks for a bodily response, not an argument. You bow. You rinse. You approach. The meaning is carried by the sequence.


    Purification Basics

    The simplest key that unlocks a lot

    If you learn only one recurring logic in shrine life, make it this: purification comes before approach.

    Harai / Harae

    Harai (also written harae) refers to purification rites performed so that a person may properly approach what is sacred.[3] In English, “purification” can sound moral, like guilt and punishment. In Shinto contexts, it often works better as “resetting conditions,” restoring a state that allows safe approach.

    Misogi

    Misogi is purification by washing the body, described in reference works as cleansing misfortune, tsumi, and kegare understood as having become attached to the body.[4] Misogi shows how spiritual trouble can be treated as situational and removable rather than a permanent identity.

    Kegare

    Kegare is described as a polluted condition opposite of purity, often understood as arising from naturally occurring phenomena rather than purely human wrongdoing, and generally addressed through purification such as misogi.[5] This changes the emotional logic of purity. Kegare is often easier to understand as a state that spreads or clings, rather than a simple moral verdict. That difference shapes how taboo, danger, and recovery can be imagined.


    4) Why Shinto’s origins are hard to pin down

    A key point for accurate writing is that Shinto does not have a single, determinate point of origin.[2]

    Historical introductions explain that if you define Shinto broadly as what stands at the center of Japanese religious life, then “Shinto-like elements” can be considered as old as Japanese culture itself. But if you define Shinto as something that formed under influences such as Chinese thought and Mahayana Buddhism, then Shinto becomes something that takes clearer shape later.[2]

    This is not a flaw in the tradition. It reflects how Shinto developed: as an evolving set of practices that were later named, organized, and debated.


    History of Shinto

    5) Ancient foundations: kami worship and early ritual life

    At its core, Shinto is commonly described as kami worship, but the earliest forms are difficult to reconstruct in detail.Over time, worship was often organized around local and clan deities, seasonal rites, and purification practices.[1]

    6) Early state formation and classic texts

    Kami worship took on a distinct shape in ancient times and had an important place in early state systems, though it also changed as those systems dissolved. Classic texts such as the Kojiki and Nihon shoki became central sources for reconstructing early narratives and mythic frameworks connected to kami worship.[2]

    7) The long syncretic era: kami and buddhas together

    As Buddhist influence expanded, accounts of Shinto history describe the rapid growth of shinbutsu shūgō, the amalgamation of kami and buddhas, in both philosophy and practice. From the 8th century onward, shrines and temples were often deeply intertwined in many contexts.[1]

    This period matters because it explains why “Shinto vs. Buddhism” can be a misleading way to read premodern Japanese religion. Historically, boundaries were often porous.

    8) Medieval to early modern: new theories and intellectual influences

    After the Kamakura period, various Shinto schools and philosophies emerged. In the Edo period, Shinto theory also developed under Confucian influence. This era also includes intellectual movements such as kokugaku (National Learning), which later influenced modern discussions of Shinto identity and restoration.[2]

    9) Modern transformation: institutions and the state

    Modern Shinto underwent significant institutional reshaping. Overviews of modern Japanese religion note that after the Meiji Restoration (1868), Shinto was restructured as a state-supported religion, and that this institutional form was abolished after World War II.[6]

    A useful reader’s note is that in English writing, “Shinto” can refer both to everyday shrine practice and to modern political-religious institutions. Keeping those meanings distinct prevents confusion.

    10) Contemporary Shinto: shrine practice in modern life

    In everyday life, Shinto is often encountered through shrine visits, local festivals, and life events rather than through doctrinal study.[6] The practice-first logic remains visible: prepare, approach, participate, and return.


    Sources

    [1] Encyclopaedia Britannica, “Shinto”

    [2] Kokugakuin University, Encyclopedia of Shinto, “Introduction: The History of Shinto”

    [3] Encyclopaedia Britannica, “harai”

    [4] Kokugakuin University, Encyclopedia of Shinto, “Misogi”

    [5] Kokugakuin University, Encyclopedia of Shinto, “Kegare”

    [6] Encyclopaedia Britannica, “Japan: Religion”