Artistry, Courage, Refinement

In Utagawa Kuniyoshi’s woodblock print Shizuka as a Shirabyōshi Dancer 『白拍子静』 from 1830, we see a figure who at first glance eludes simple categorisation. Who is she? Her attire seems to challenge established conventions – the tall black tate-eboshi (that black “cap” – a masculine symbol), the wide hakama trousers, and the white, straight-lined robe evoke more the image of a court warrior than a dancer. Her face glistens with snow-white powder, a fan gleams in her hand, and her gestures are full of restrained elegance, as if her movements concealed the code of a secret ritual. Looking at her, one might hesitate – is she a geisha? A miko from a Shintō shrine? Or perhaps an oiran, one of the refined courtesans?

We look closer. A tachi sword hangs at her hip – a weapon at odds with the roles typically assigned to women in art and entertainment. The suikan, a light robe once worn by aristocrats and samurai, falls in soft folds, while on her head sits the slender tate-eboshi, worn at the imperial court by men. This costume is a declaration, a manifesto of crossing the boundaries of gender and status. This is neither the salon of a geisha nor the stage of kabuki, but the imperial court – a space where art and ritual merge into something greater. Who, then, is this figure whose presence is at once intriguing and authoritative?

The answer leads us directly into the world of the Shirabyōshi – mysterious dancers of Japan’s early medieval Heian and Kamakura periods, who, clad in white male attire and with a sword at their side, performed graceful yet ritual-infused dances. They were more than mere performers – their presence could sway political alliances, and their charm and talent could alter the fate of Japan’s most renowned heroes, such as Minamoto no Yoshitsune. From geisha (who at that time of course did not yet exist), they differed in origin and function; from miko, in the secular nature of their art; from oiran, in the absence of a direct association with prostitution. Shirabyōshi were a phenomenon that defied easy definition, standing as a symbol of artistry, courage, and the role of women in a world where art, religion, and politics were one.

What does Shirabyōshi mean?

The word Shirabyōshi is written in kanji as 白拍子, and its semantic layers are as complex as the history of the dancers themselves. The first character, 白 (shira, shiro), means “white” – a colour of purity, but also a symbol of simplicity and emptiness in Japanese aesthetics. However, in this context some scholars suggest that it does not refer to the colour in the literal sense, but to an archaic reading of 素 (shira – “plain,” “unadorned”), which in classical Japanese was sometimes written with 白 as a phonetic substitute. The second element, 拍子 (hyōshi), in the language of music denotes “rhythm,” “meter,” but also a turning point, an accent in movement or sound. In Old Japanese, the word carried the sense of ritual tempo, marked by the beats of a drum or the measured step of a dancer. Literally, Shirabyōshi could thus be understood as “white rhythm” – a rhythm pure, unsullied by unnecessary ornamentation – or “plain rhythm,” pointing to the primordial form of dance performed with minimal accompaniment.

The etymology is closely tied to their costume and style of performance. “White” could refer to the suikan – the light white court robe in which dancers appeared in the later period, having abandoned the earlier costume elements such as the tachi sword or the black tate-eboshi. Alternatively, “white” might be a metaphor for the unadorned, almost ascetic sound of their music – early Shirabyōshi often danced without an orchestra, accompanied only by a drum and their own singing, which gave their performances a raw, almost liturgical aura. This linguistic duality – between colour and simplicity – also reflects their social identity: a balance between the ornamentation of court entertainment and the simplicity and ritual rooted in the religious dance of the miko (more about miko here: Shinto Priestess Miko – From Powerful Shaman to Part-Time Work and about the origins of their dance from Uzume here: Goddess Uzume dances naked and, with her sacred antics, saves us from sorrowful seriousness – Japanese mythology, how timely today).

The term Shirabyōshi appears in literary sources towards the end of the Heian period. One of the most important attestations is the Heike Monogatari (13th century), where the name refers to a group of talented women – often daughters of aristocrats – who, having lost their fortunes, earned their living performing for the elite. These accounts show that by the 13th century the term was already established in language and culture, and its meaning had evolved from the name of a dance form to the designation of the performer herself. Earlier variants, such as 素拍子 (“plain rhythm”), may have existed in parallel, emphasising the absence of elaborate accompaniment. In later centuries, as Shirabyōshi gave way to other artistic forms, the word survived mainly as a historicism, appearing in poetry, nō theatre, kabuki, and tales evoking the splendour of the Heian era. Just as their dance combined rhythm and silence, so the name Shirabyōshi still carries both an aesthetic dimension and the memory of a female presence on the political stage of old Japan.

The history of the dancers in white robes

At the end of the Heian period, when Japan’s political landscape trembled with change and the subtle glow of court culture began to seep into the halls of monasteries and the residences of warriors, shirabyōshi appeared on the stage. They were the daughters of aristocratic families who had lost their former influence and wealth. Raised in a world of calligraphy, poetry, and etiquette, with impeccable diction and a fine sense of rhythm, they found a new way to survive: they sang imayō – the fashionable secular songs of the time in a 7–5–7–5 syllabic rhythm, performed both by court ladies and travelling entertainers – recited elegant rōei, and above all danced in costumes that turned convention on its head. Dressed in male suikan, tall black tate-eboshi, and wide red hakama, they entered the halls of emperors and the pavilions of powerful warriors, carrying with them courtly elegance and artistic audacity. In literature, their figures appear early – the Heike Monogatari mentions Giō, Hotoke, and Shizuka Gozen, whose beauty, talent, and presence could alter the fate of great political players, from Taira no Kiyomori to Minamoto no Yoshitsune. The retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa, a lover of imayō songs, was their patron and frequently invited them to perform.

Their art had its roots in religious ritual. Shirabyōshi drew from the practice of the miko – Shintō shamans and priestesses who, through rhythmic dance and song, called upon the deities – but transformed this element into a secular form of entertainment, though not devoid of symbolic depth. Their performances had a minimalist setting: singing in short 7–5 phrases, the sound of the tsuzumi drum and flute, and sometimes only the bare rhythm of their steps. In iconography they are instantly recognisable: the kawahori fan, the tall tate-eboshi, the long hair tied in the takenaga ponytail, and sometimes the tachi sword at their side – a warrior’s attribute, which in a woman’s hand became a theatrical symbol of crossing the boundaries of gender and social role.

The peak of shirabyōshi popularity came at the turn of the Heian and Kamakura periods. They performed for both the old kuge families and the rising samurai elite. Their art permeated literature, chronicles, and collective memory, becoming a bridge between the high culture of elite religious rituals and entertainment closer to everyday experience. From their practice emerged the medieval forms of kusemai – “dancing tales” with a distinctive irregular rhythm – as well as sōga and ennen, which, together with sarugaku and dengaku, shaped the nō theatre.

Their costume, manner of movement, and accompaniment all flowed into later stage traditions. Yet with the 14th-century canonisation of nō – its all-male troupes, temple and court patronage, and closed repertoire – the place of women in this role began to vanish. By the turn of the 13th and 14th centuries, in the shadow of political, religious, and institutional changes, the shirabyōshi disappeared from the stage, surviving only in poetry, theatre, and painting. Born from court culture and festive ritual, they became one of the driving forces in the transformation of Japanese performance art – from the intimate singing of imayō to the monumental nō theatre – and at the same time a unique, contradictory chapter in the history of women’s presence in the politics and art of medieval Japan.

What does the unusual costume of the Shirabyōshi truly mean?

The costume of the shirabyōshi was not mere decoration, but an alphabet of symbols speaking about power, ritual, and identity. Every element had its origin in the order of the court or the temple, and each resounded on stage like a syllable in imayō: precise, deliberate, intentional. Take the tate-eboshi. In the Heian world, this tall black “cap” was not merely headwear, but an insignia of male maturity and status – worn during genpuku (more about this ceremony here: The Samurai Rite of Genpuku – When a Boy Receives His Name, His Weapon, and the Fate of a Warrior), the coming-of-age rite that marked a boy’s entry into adulthood. When shirabyōshi donned the eboshi, they stepped into the role of someone “permitted to speak in public”: they adopted the legitimising costume of male eloquence and agency, which carried their song from the private, feminine sphere into the stage of power. The cap’s soaring vertical form, tracing a clear upward axis, completed this declaration: this body is a bridge that reaches from the earth to the divine realm – an apt gesture for dancers whose repertoire grew out of songs of a prayerful nature.

The tachi – a sword worn rather low, blade down – carried a threefold symbolism. First, it was a sign of belonging to the warrior culture; it appeared as a discreet bow toward patrons from samurai clans and their tutelary deity, Hachiman. Second, in ritual imagination the sword acts apotropaically: it cuts through what is impure, separating the sacred from the profane. Worn in its scabbard, not as an instrument of violence but as a talisman and a boundary, it marked out on the stage a safe circle within which word and movement could operate. Third – in purely theatrical terms – the tachi stabilised posture and the rhythm of one’s walk, becoming the “metronome of the body”: the weight at the hip regulated the step, and the step set the hyōshi, the accent of the dance. In this role, the sword did not “masculinise” the dancer; it domesticated the power she expressed.

And finally, white. The suikan in pure white was no accident: white is the colour of ritual and liminality. In the courtly order, white garments appeared in “purifying” contexts – in audiences, ceremonies, and situations demanding restraint. In Shintō symbolism, white denotes purification (harae); in the culture of later eras it is also the colour of thresholds (for example, the bridal shiromuku), and in the semantics of the language – also “simplicity” (shira as the old “素”). On stage, white acted like a blank sheet: it sharpened the lines of gesture, thickened the pauses, and allowed rhythm and word to imprint themselves on the dancer’s body like calligraphy on paper. When white was joined by red (hakama), yet another nuance appeared: in Heian tradition, red had protective power, and in the temple attire of women (miko) it served as a barrier against evil (more about the symbolism of red in Japanese culture here: The Color Essence of Japanese Aesthetics: Vermilion Red, Immaculate White, Deep Black). The combination of white and red thus opened a channel between court and sanctuary: the shirabyōshi could speak in the language of both worlds.

In this way, their costume became a tool of mediation. The eboshi granted them a voice recognised by male institutions; the tachi defined and protected the space of action; and the white suikan turned the body into a visible vessel of rhythm – a surface on which politics, religion, and poetry are reflected in a single, simple beat 拍 (puku). Thanks to this, shirabyōshi did not so much “pretend to be men” as summon the codes of male power in order to turn them into instruments of art. Their symbols were not decoration: they were a grammar of agency, allowing them to speak simultaneously to the gods, to the court, and to the audience. This costume was thus a kind of passport – granting them the ability to address a wide circle in a time when a woman could otherwise speak at most to her husband or father.

The daily life of the Shirabyōshi

Let us imagine an evening at the end of the Heian period: the interior of the court illuminated by the glow of oil lamps, the scent of incense in the air, soft tatami mats muffling the steps. In the centre, with perfectly measured movement, a shirabyōshi appears. Her repertoire consisted primarily of dances to imayō – songs with a distinctive seven-syllable rhythm, which set the tempo and melody while allowing for subtle vocal modulations. This “white rhythm” (haku – 拍) was pure, clear, free from excessive ornamentation, which meant that every step, movement of the hand, or turn of the fan carried distinct meaning. The lyrics sung often drew on Buddhist prayers or waka poetry, accompanied by the sound of the tsuzumi drum, whose dry, sharp beats contrasted with the long, melancholic tones of the bamboo flute.

The dress of the shirabyōshi was an extraordinary reversal of roles and an aesthetic manifesto. They performed in male Shintō attire. Their faces were whitened with a thick layer of oshiroi, their brows marked with hikimayu – delicate black arches drawn high on the forehead where the natural eyebrows had been shaved. Their hair, instead of the smooth, formal coiffure of court ladies, was tied in the slightly “careless” takenaga ponytail, which, with each turn of the dance, would slip gently over the shoulders. This contrast – male costume, feminine features, ceremonial makeup – made the shirabyōshi appear almost like beings from another world, balancing between gender roles, the sacred and the profane.

Their influence extended far beyond the stage. In a world where art was simultaneously a tool of politics, shirabyōshi often served as cultural and political mediators. Their performances could soften a warrior’s heart, persuade an aristocrat to form an alliance, or ease a dispute between clans. They sat at banquets, engaging in conversations about poetry, history, religion, and court affairs, and their words – chosen as carefully as the steps of their dance – could influence men’s decisions. They were therefore not merely artists, but participants in a diplomatic game in which subtlety and tact could determine whether clan rivalries flared up or were soothed.

Figures of famous Shirabyōshi

Shizuka Gozen

Shizuka Gozen (静御前) was a woman whose fate stretched between poetry and the sword, between the court hall and the shadow of the battlefield. She met Minamoto no Yoshitsune at a time when his fame as a warrior of extraordinary skill and beauty spread throughout Japan. Their love, born in the shadow of political storms, carried both the radiance of youthful passion and the awareness of impending tragedy. When Yoshitsune fell into conflict with his brother, the shōgun Minamoto no Yoritomo, Shizuka was drawn into a whirl of events that could end only one way.

In Kamakura, the capital of the new military government (the history of Japan’s shōguns can be found here: What Does “Shōgun” Really Mean? One word that forged the Japan of samurai in steel and blood), her fate was put to the test. Forced to perform before Yoritomo, she stood on stage surrounded by the stern gazes of warriors and the cool detachment of aristocrats. In the white oshiroi makeup, with the male tate-eboshi headgear and wide hakama, she moved with a grace that contained within it a challenge. When she sang an imayō whose words openly expressed her longing for Yoshitsune, the hall fell into a silence heavier than the steel of a tachi. It was an act of courage bordering on desperation – in an age when loyalty to the shōgun had to be unquestionable, a declaration of love for his enemy was akin to suicide.

Yoritomo, offended and furious, was ready to pronounce sentence. But then Hōjō Masako – the “Dark Nun” and wife of the shōgun – a woman hard and ruthless, yet capable of an act of mercy, intervened. By pleading for Shizuka, Masako not only saved her life but also demonstrated that in the world of warriors, sometimes it was the words of women, not the blades of men, that decided fates. Yet the shōgun’s mercy had its limits – Shizuka was pregnant with Yoshitsune’s child, and in Yoritomo’s eyes the birth of that child posed a threat to the dynasty.

When the time for childbirth came, Shizuka’s world shrank to the silence of the chamber and the cries of the newborn. A mother’s joy lasted but a moment – the order was merciless. The boy was drowned, and the echo of his death forever became part of the tales of the Minamoto. Shizuka survived, but her life was now marked by the shadow of that tragedy. She became a figure poised between history and legend – a heroine of nō, kabuki, and jōruri, a symbol of female fidelity, courage, and that particular kind of beauty born of suffering and dignity in the face of an inevitable end.

Giō and Hotoke

At the court of Taira no Kiyomori (平清盛) there reigned a splendour the capital Heian-kyō had never before seen. Giō (祇王), a famous shirabyōshi, would step onto the stage in a snow-white kimono and tall eboshi, her tachi catching the glow of the lanterns, every movement of her fan seeming to slice through the air. She was the hegemon’s muse, his pride and glory—until one autumn day, through the gates of the residence, entered a young girl whose face was so delicate it resembled a statue of the Buddha. Hotoke (仏御前) was barely sixteen, yet her dance was full of grace, and her voice in the imayō song sounded like the purest koto resonating over a river in the brisk mountain air.

Kiyomori, known for his capricious heart, fixed all his attention on the new dancer almost from the first glance. That very evening he ordered that Hotoke take up residence in his chambers, while Giō—until then surrounded by splendour and admiration—found herself outside the circle of favour. It was a blow she had never anticipated, even in a world where loyalty and affection often yielded to politics. In an instant she had lost not only her position but her dignity, leaving the court in silence, her face hidden behind a fan, while behind her back they laughed at her downfall.

But Hotoke was not a typical rival. A few days later, she appeared at the modest house where Giō had taken refuge. Not accompanied by servants nor bearing a procession of gifts, but alone, in a simple kimono, she bowed low and asked to join her. She said that a dance that stirs jealousy and pain is empty, like a leaf carried by the wind, and that fame at court is like morning mist—it vanishes before it can warm itself in the sun. Giō accepted her without a word, and their eyes, free of former resentments, met in an understanding no man at the heights of power could ever comprehend.

Soon both women, together with Giō’s mother, donned monastic robes and went to a temple. In the silence of the temple courtyard, among pines and the sound of bells, they spent the rest of their lives in meditation and the recitation of sutras. Legend says that in spring they planted flowers, and in autumn they swept the paths, never speaking of the splendour they had once known. The tale of Giō and Hotoke, passed down through the centuries in the Heike Monogatari (平家物語), became not only a parable about the transience of fame but also a hymn to the gesture in which compassion triumphs over rivalry.

Izumi Shikibu

At the start of the 11th century, in the world of intricate ceremonies and whispered intrigues at the imperial court of Heian-kyō, there appeared a woman who would soon be the talk of the entire capital. Izumi Shikibu (和泉式部), gifted with a talent for composing delicate waka, was already known in literary circles when she became the wife of Tachibana no Michisada, governor of Izumi Province, from whom she took her name. Yet life at the side of an official could not satisfy her temperament or her hunger for passion. Then she met Prince Tametaka, son of Emperor Reizei, and their romance—bold, passionate, and not without scandal—became the subject of court gossip. Their encounters, described in letters and poems, were filled with longing, but happiness did not last long—Tametaka died suddenly, leaving Izumi in mourning that found expression in her poetry.

Not much time had passed when a new object of her affections appeared on the horizon—Prince Atsumichi, Tametaka’s younger brother. Their romance was even bolder, for Izumi was still formally married, and the entire situation was considered a scandal on an unprecedented scale. They exchanged letters and poems sent in secret, met at night, risking the anger of both family and court. It was during this period that The Diary of Izumi Shikibu was created—a literary record of their love, where reality mingles with subtle stylisation, and every verse pulses with emotional intensity. The court salons whispered about her with condemnation and envy—some saw her as the embodiment of romantic passion, others as an example of ruinous recklessness.

But fate showed her no mercy—Atsumichi too died young, leaving Izumi once again in solitude and grief. After this blow, her life became even more turbulent: at times close to the circles of power, at times losing her position, falling into conflicts with the mighty. Her poetry, imbued with sadness and reflection on the fleeting nature of the world, won admiration, but also provoked controversy for its frankness in describing female feelings. She was a master of words that could wound or enchant—and she knew it well. Legend has it that she could, with a single poem, awaken love in a man or chill his heart.

Towards the end of her life, weary of constant loss and disappointment, she is said to have turned to Buddhism, taking monastic vows and leaving behind the bustle of the court halls. Whether this was an act of true renunciation or simply another stage in her unpredictable life—the sources remain ambiguous. Her name, however, did not vanish from the memory of posterity: Izumi Shikibu became a heroine of poetic anthologies, literary anecdotes, and plays, and her life—full of romances, losses, poetry, and scandals—remained one of the most vivid portraits of the Heian era. In her, as in a lens, passion and transience came together—the two forces that defined the world in which she lived.

Are the Shirabyōshi remembered?

To this day, figures such as Shizuka Gozen (静御前), Giō (祇王), and Izumi Shikibu (和泉式部) occasionally return in popular culture—from classical nō and kabuki dramas to television series. Shizuka Gozen appears in the popular taiga dramas produced by NHK, where her famous dance in Kamakura becomes one of the story’s climactic moments. Giō and Hotoke are an inseparable element of adaptations of the Heike Monogatari—their drama plays out on stages from nō theatre to modern reinterpretations in film and literature. Izumi Shikibu, with her poetic, scandalous biography, has become the subject of numerous poetry anthologies and historical romances, her image—as an artist balancing between spirituality and passion—eagerly used in visual culture.

The history of these women overturns the stereotype that equates Japanese female artists solely with the figure of the geisha or courtesan. The shirabyōshi existed centuries before the emergence of geisha and functioned in an entirely different context—they were not only performers but also political actors and legendary figures. Through them we can see how rich and diverse the female presence in the public sphere of medieval Japan was, and how important a role they played in shaping narratives about loyalty, love, and honour.

Each thread such as the activity of the shirabyōshi allows us to look more broadly at the history of Japan as a space in which art, religion, and politics intertwined inseparably. It is an invitation to journey into another world—every additional detail allowing us to understand it a little better, to transport ourselves more fully to a time when people viewed life in a way entirely different from our own.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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