The disappointment of speed, and the absence of Jason
Last week, I attended my first professional ice hockey match here in Hokkaido, the unofficial home of the sport in Japan. Honestly? It was awesome. The speed was breathtaking, although I must confess, I still have absolutely zero idea what the rules are. The pace was so quick I could barely register what was happening, which, for an analyst like me, is deeply frustrating.
But my biggest disappointment was the goalkeepers. Did you know they no longer wear the iconic, blank hockey mask made famous by Jason in the Friday the 13th series? The modern mask is complex and expressive, not the simple, terrifying void of the past.
The absence of that blank slate made me think of Japanese Noh masks (Nō-men). Both are unsettling, but for different, yet subtly related, reasons. Jason’s mask scares us by its total absence of expression—a terrifying, emotionless blankness. The Noh mask, however, scares us by its changing expression, which subtly shifts depending on the viewing angle. Yet, in both cases, we are projecting our worst fears onto them. The imagination is always the most effective special effect.
The physics of the creepy face: Asymmetry and the 600-Year mask
To truly understand the Noh mask, you must understand the art of Noh itself—a traditional Japanese play established in the 14th century, mostly focused on the emotional turmoil of human interaction with the unworldly (like ghosts and demons). The masks are for these unworldly roles.
The genius of the Noh mask is that the actor doesn’t change masks; they express a wide range of human emotions (sorrow, anger, longing) simply by changing the angle at which the mask is held. Tilt it down, and it looks sad; lift it up, and it appears angry.
How is this possible? I was fascinated to learn the secret: The masks are subtly carved to be left-right asymmetric. Just like an ordinary human face (which is rarely perfectly symmetrical), this intentional, slight imbalance is what allows the light and shadows to play across the surface, giving the illusion of shifting expressions. This is what we call Nō-men no hyōjō (the expression of the Noh mask).
The woodworking skill required is profound. Authentic Noh masks are still made by professional craftspeople who study and copy masterpieces, some of which are over 600 years old. This is where the spiritual element of high-skill woodworking is forged in Japan. It is the perfect marriage of craft, psychology, and subtle asymmetry—a lesson that undoubtedly filters down into our own wooden furniture industry, where seemingly simple forms often hide immense, subtle complexity.
Hokkaido: A kingdom of ice, but not Noh
Unfortunately, while Hokkaido is the undisputed kingdom of ski and skate in Japan, we don’t have much of a Noh tradition. We are a young, frontier region, developed only about 150 years ago, and we lack the authentic stages and artists.
But that’s fine. We have plenty of ice. You can skate everywhere, sometimes even in front of the central station here in Asahikawa. We may lack the historical gravitas of a 600-year-old wooden mask, but we are absolutely masters of the fleeting, crystalline beauty of ice. We excel at the beauty of the temporary and the fleeting, not the beauty of the six-century legacy. And that, too, is a powerful form of cultural expression.
I confess that I went to my first hockey match looking for Jason’s mask, only to find myself obsessing over the physics of 600-year-old Noh masks instead. In Japan, we know that true emotion lives in subtle asymmetry and the shifting of shadows. Our Hatsune Miku Art Chair is the modern successor to this ‘woodworking soul’—a piece that doesn’t just sit there, but changes its ‘expression’ as the light of your room dances across its curves. It’s a masterclass in complexity hidden within a simple form. Now, here is a mask you’ll want to wear your heart on: the image below is your link to the special site. If you prefer the blank, emotionless void of ordinary furniture, do NOT click it. But if you’re ready to see how 600 years of craft can be breathed into a digital icon, go ahead. Discover its true face. —— The Hatsune Miku Art Chair.
Shungo Ijima
Global Connector | Reformed Bureaucrat | Professional Over-Thinker
After years of navigating the rigid hallways of Japan’s Ministry of Finance and surviving an MBA, he made a life-changing realization: spreadsheets are soulless, and wood has much better stories to tell.
Currently an Executive at CondeHouse, he travels the world decoding the “hidden DNA” of Japanese culture—though, in his travels, he’s becoming increasingly more skilled at decoding how to find the cheapest hotels than actual cultural mysteries.
He has a peculiar talent for finding deep philosophical meaning in things most people ignore as meaningless (and to be fair, they are often actually meaningless). He doesn’t just sell furniture; he’s on a mission to explain Japan to the world, one intellectually over-analyzed observation at a time. He writes for the curious, the skeptical, and anyone who suspects that a chair might actually be a manifesto in disguise.
Follow his journey as he bridges the gap between high-finance logic and the chaotic art of living!