Stubborn, direct, determined

On a silk scroll, under the pale light of the moon, a woman bends over a spread-out cloth. Her hands strike the fabric rhythmically, intently, relentlessly—as if she wanted to imprint upon it her own thoughts, her own defiance, her very self. There is no haste or delicacy in this scene—only concentration bordering on trance. The woman’s face is illuminated by a cold light that is no longer the light of the moon, but that of her inner fire. Looking at this painting—Kinuta gekka bijin zu, “The Beauty Beating Cloth in the Moonlight”—one cannot help but ask: who painted her? Who could so subtly merge a daily gesture with spiritual meditation, the poetry of the body with the silence of night, and portray feminine strength when all other artists of the age showed only feminine beauty?

It was Katsushika Ōi. Yes—Katsushika—the daughter of the great Hokusai, the very same who created “The Great Wave off Kanagawa,” the supreme master of ukiyo-e. But she was not merely his daughter. She was his student, collaborator, co-creator, companion—someone who, in that same stifling studio in Edo—amid incense, ink, and rice paper—matched him in passion and technique. Old memories of pupils and neighbors preserved an image of this extraordinary pair: two people—a daughter and a father, a master and a disciple—painting so obsessively that they forgot about the entire world. They didn’t cook or clean; when the clutter began to consume the room, they would pack up their papers and move elsewhere. For them, a house was only a backdrop—their true life was work, the motion of the brush, the shadows on silk, and the engravings on wood. Ōi was no “lady of the studio” nor the ornament of the master’s home. She refused the role that society had prepared for her. Her marriage to the painter Minamizawa Tōmei quickly collapsed because—as later sources wrote—she considered her husband a “mediocre and uninspiring artist.” One can’t help but smile at that.

And yet it was not simple rebellion but an uncompromising love for art that defined her life. She painted women as she herself lived—with pride and melancholy. In her “Yoshiwara,” night is not a backdrop but a protagonist; light and shadow converse with one another, and the lanterns in the darkness quiver like the breath of human desire. In “Three Women Playing Music,” she dared to turn one of the figures with her back to the viewer—a simple yet revolutionary gesture that broke the rules of ukiyo-e composition. Suddenly, the woman was no longer there for the male gaze to admire. She turned her back to it and focused on her music. Perhaps today this does not shock us, but at the time her image was almost subversive. Had she lived in another era, her name would be uttered in the same breath as Hokusai, Hiroshige, and Utamaro. But she lived in an age when women were not allowed to sign their own works. That is why the characters of her name—pushed for decades into the margins of footnotes—adorn so few pieces that have survived to this day. What a loss… Let us get to know her better now.

Who was Katsushika Ōi?

In the history of Japanese ukiyo-e, the name Katsushika Ōi resounds quietly, modestly, shyly in the shadow of her father’s colossal figure—the master Hokusai. Yet it was in that very shadow, in the half-light of his studio, that a new light was born—one we can admire anew today. Ōi was an extraordinary artist—not because she was the master’s daughter, but because she managed to surpass his boundaries. Her paintings, in which the lanterns of the night illuminate the rooms of Yoshiwara and women’s silhouettes live in the soft glow of the moon, introduced into Japanese painting something it had never known before—a consciousness of light and shadow. This was not merely a technical device but a way of thinking about the world: about its hidden sides, about delicacy and mystery that do not need daylight to be beautiful.

Although only a few of her works survive—just a handful compared to the thousands by her father—each bears witness to her remarkable sensitivity and courage. In “Night Scene in Yoshiwara,” the light of lanterns gently penetrates paper walls, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and melancholy that ukiyo-e art had never known before. In “Three Women Playing Instruments,” one of the figures turns her back to the viewer—a strikingly modern, symbolic gesture, as if the artist wanted to show that true beauty need not always be displayed. And in “The Beauty Beating Cloth in the Moonlight,” her talent reaches the height of subtlety—in that nocturnal silence pulses the rhythm of a woman’s labor, simple yet poetic as the daily life of Edo itself.

In the age of the Tokugawa shogunate, when a woman was meant above all to be quiet, humble, and invisible, Ōi created art that was boldly feminine. Instead of passively illustrating the ideal of beauty, as her male colleagues did, she gave it depth—she made it flesh and blood—or perhaps, light? Hokusai, who could admit that “in painting women, I cannot compare to her,” saw in her not only a daughter but a successor. Had she lived in another time—an age when a woman’s name could resound as loudly as a man’s—we would today speak of her in the same breath as Hokusai, Utamaro, and Hiroshige.

For Katsushika Ōi was not the shadow of a great master. She was a master in her own right. So let us look closer at her life.

The life and personality of Ōi – a closer look at the person

She was born around the year 1800 in Edo, a city that foreshadowed modernity even as it was tightly bound by Tokugawa rules. She was the third daughter of Hokusai and his second wife, Kotome. In her childhood, the smell of damp rice paper mingled with the sharp scent of glue and ink; the tapping of chisels against pearwood echoed like the heartbeat of the house. That “house” was in truth a studio: a small room the size of a few tatami mats, alive at dawn and after dusk, filled with rolls of silk and sheets of test prints, sketches of actors and courtesans, models of mountains and sea waves.

In such an environment, the young Ei (栄)—for that was her private, family name—learned to observe. At first she handed brushes, then mixed pigments, and finally drew her own lines, increasingly confident, as if her hand already remembered what had to be done. Ukiyo-e at the time was not merely a craft or a fashion; it was the language of the urban world. And she—a girl in a world of men—mastered that language faster than anyone could have imagined.

Growing up in her father’s studio meant learning without mercy. Hokusai, a capricious genius whose fame reached far beyond the neighborhood, could not stand mediocrity. When he said that he could not rival his daughter in painting female figures, it was no polite compliment.

Ōi entered a painting through light and shadow—through what, in Japanese art of the time, was only hinted at, never used as a true technical principle. Even as a very young artist, she could build a scene out of the glow of a lantern, let the darkness “tell” the rest; her eyes had learned the nocturnal topography of Yoshiwara, the soft transitions where color fades but its suggestion still lingers.

Working with her father was part of daily life: side by side, they prepared sketches, supervised colorists, and sometimes—when deadlines demanded—swapped roles so seamlessly that it remains difficult to discern where one ends and the other begins. I imagine her bent over silk, holding a brush as fine as a blade of grass, focused in stillness. What was she thinking? Perhaps that true beauty rarely shouts—it flickers instead, like the flame of a lantern that must be shielded by the hand.

In 1824, when she was in her mid-twenties, she married Minamizawa Tōmei, a student of Tsutsumi Tōrin. The marriage was short-lived. According to one version that circulated among workshops, the reason was her merciless honesty: she supposedly laughed at his drawings, saying they were poor. Another version claims that Hokusai had made her a perfectionist, unfit for the role of a submissive wife. Whatever the version, the fact remains the same: Ōi returned to her father’s house—and to work.

In 1828 her mother died, and the duty of caring for the aging Hokusai—whose hands had begun to tremble—fell upon her. In the recollections of pupils and neighbors, the same image often returns: two people painting so fiercely that they forget about everything else. They did not cook or clean; when the mess began to devour the room, they would pack up their papers and move the studio elsewhere. This lack of “domesticity” was often reproached, but in their world only the rhythm of work mattered—the publisher’s deadline, the patron’s commission, the idea that would not let them sleep.

The relationship between daughter and father was a mixture of sternness, tenderness, and partnership. He had a nickname for her—“Ago” (顎, literally “jaw”)—teasing but affectionate, like all family jests (apparently she had a strongly defined jawline, which was a running joke among family and friends).

People said she smoked and drank, that her sense of humor could be sharp, and that her temperament was as bold as a man’s. They also said she taught painting to the daughters of merchants and samurai, earned extra money by selling small figurines, that she was superstitious, and that she dreamed of longevity. From these fragments emerges the portrait of a woman who refused to be anyone’s ornament and preferred to work with pen, brush, or pigment knife. In a culture where a woman’s role was precisely prescribed, Ōi shifted the emphasis: she did not rebel with manifestos, but with daily choices—once again sitting before the silk, once again grinding vermilion and ultramarine, once again painting women not as decorations, but as heroines of their own stories.

Her real name was Ei (栄), but the art world came to know her as Ōi (応為 – literally “to respond through action”). This was no random pseudonym but a symbolic gesture—a name born from daily life and transformed into a mark of identity. According to accounts, Hokusai—famous for his fiery temper and absentmindedness—often called to his daughter impatiently, “Oi! Oi!”—“Hey, you!” Instead of taking offense, Ei turned the shout into a joke, and later into a deliberate artistic choice. She wrote the sound “Oi” using the kanji 応為, which literally mean “response” (応) and “action” or “creation” (為). In doing so, she gave her name a new meaning—as if to say: “My art is a response.” A response to her father’s voice, to the world, to an age that commanded women to be silent.

When Hokusai weakened, Ōi became his hand and his eye. After his death in 1849, she was left alone—without father, pupils, or school. She painted in silence, alone, faithful only to the art she created from memory and from the need of her heart. And then—almost suddenly—she disappeared. Sources diverge: some say she died around 1866, others speculate that she moved away, still others give different dates and places.

This silence is telling. In a world eager to record the names of publishers, the dates of censor seals, and market successes, the absence of any record of her speaks louder than a long obituary could. It tells of how easily female authorship is erased when it is not backed by a school, fortune, or founding myth. But it also tells something else: that the trace she left is not emptiness. Her trace is the soft glow of lanterns in the “nighttime” Yoshiwara, the turned back of the artist, the moonlit stillness of a woman’s labor—all that which Ōi was the first to bring into Japanese art. In these paintings lives a human being of flesh and blood—not the legend of “Hokusai’s daughter,” but an artist who searched for and found entirely new ways of expression.

Ōi’s Art

In art history there are creators whose memory endures through hundreds of preserved works, and those whose genius reveals itself in only a few surviving images. Katsushika Ōi belongs to the latter. Her surviving output is small—only a handful of works are recognized today as unquestionably hers—but each is like a window into her inner world: penetrating, sensual, and unsettlingly modern. Ōi was no copyist of her father, but an experimenter who, within the framework of ukiyo-e, sought ways for painting to speak of light, solitude, and the feminine experience.

吉原夜之景

(Yoshiwara yoru no kei)

“Night Scene in Yoshiwara”

– Katsushika Ōi, c. 1840–1845

This painting, now regarded as her masterpiece, depicts a nocturnal view of the Yoshiwara pleasure district. Here, Ōi breaks one of the fundamental rules of Edo-period Japanese painting—she depicts darkness as a tangible space. The background is no longer a neutral, bright plane but a deep, almost velvety darkness into which points of light pierce: paper lanterns, reflections in lacquered screens, delicate shadows on the courtesans’ faces. In the center of the composition, light spreads across the wooden frames and window lattices, while the figures of women—in profile, half-concealed behind curtains—appear almost ghostlike.

Technically, this is a masterful experiment in chiaroscuro (from the Italian—the technique of using contrasts of light and shadow), entirely unheard of in Japanese painting of the time. Ōi’s brush unites the classical flatness of ukiyo-e with subtle tonal transitions, creating an almost theatrical atmosphere. Psychologically, it is a painting about visibility and concealment—about a woman who exists in a world where her body is both a source of light and a prison. In the shadows of this composition lies empathy: the gaze of an artist who knew both the glow of the stage and its darkness (to read more about the fate of women in Yoshiwara, see: Born in hell, buried in Jōkanji – what have we done to the thousands of Yoshiwara women?).

三曲合奏美人図

(Sankyoku gassō bijin zu)

“Three Women Playing Musical Instruments”

– Katsushika Ōi, c. 1840–1845

On this silk scroll (it was not a woodblock print but a painting on silk), three women sit in a semicircle, holding a koto, shamisen, and kokyū—the instruments of the traditional sankyoku trio. At first glance, it appears to be a typical bijin-ga scene, “pictures of beautiful women.” Yet Ōi breaks the convention from within. The central woman, instead of facing the viewer, turns her back. Her silhouette divides the space into the visible and the inaccessible. Today this may seem quite natural, but at the time and place it was strikingly subversive—it immediately caught the viewer’s attention.

This compositional decision was bold, rebellious. In an art form that for decades had relied on displaying the female body, Ōi allowed one of her figures to escape the gaze. Psychologically, it is a gesture of defiance against the role of the “ornament.” The woman here is not an object—she becomes a subject in the act of creation. From a formal perspective, the arrangement of figures forms a closed circle in which glances and sounds circulate among them, never leaving the frame. It is a painting about feminine communion—silent, focused, self-sufficient. Women who exist for themselves and for their music—not for the external, male viewer.

関羽割臂図

(Kan’u kappi zu)

“Operation on Guan Yu’s Arm”

– Katsushika Ōi, c. 1840–1850

In this monumental painting from the 1840s, Ōi takes up a subject entirely different from her subtle scenes of women: the legendary story of the Chinese warrior Guan Yu, whose arm is operated on by the physician Hua Tuo during a banquet while he—unmoved—plays go. It is a scene about stoicism and strength of spirit, about a will that transcends pain.

Technically, the work impresses with its sweep: strong color contrasts, golden details, and dramatic lighting point to inspiration from Chinese painting and—perhaps—the influence of Western methods of modeling space. Ōi does not present the man from a distance—in his face and clenched fist one feels empathy, as if the artist herself were probing the limits of human endurance. Here her extraordinary psychological gift is revealed: in every gesture, in every wrinkle or glint of metal, she could perceive the tension between spirit and body, between control and pain, between human being and fate.

砧月下美人図

(Kinuta gekka bijin zu)

“The Beauty Beating Cloth in the Moonlight”

– Katsushika Ōi, c. 1845–1850

Seemingly the most modest, and at the same time the most personal of Ōi’s known works: a woman beats wet cloth with a wooden mallet to soften it—an everyday action transformed into a poetic ritual. The background is a misty, light-brown gradient that makes it impossible to tell whether it is day or night. Yet from the title and from the very top of the painting we know: it is the glow of the moon that illuminates the scene.

Light here does not serve a function—it is a feeling. It reflects in the wet fabric, in the sheen of the hands’ skin, in the soft folds of the kimono. The woman’s gesture is repetitive, meditative. In this silence echoes the life of Ōi herself—an artist who beat her own cloth to draw from it sound, rhythm, existence. “Kinuta” is a hymn to work and solitude; a parable about a woman who, in the moonlight, finds her own tempo, her own identity.

Place in the workshop and tradition

In Hokusai’s workshop, Ōi was not only a pupil but a co-creator. She helped him in his final years, when his hands trembled and his eyesight waned. It was she who painted backgrounds, corrected lines, adjusted the light. Her influence can be seen in the master’s late works—in the gentler modeling of women’s faces, in the more sensual handling of light, in the softness of contour. If Hokusai’s art possessed precision and a cosmic curiosity, Ōi’s brought feeling and empathy.

Her paintings are not a chronicle of Edo life but lyrical studies of light and soul. Every face is a half-shadow, every hand—a gesture of concentration. Reflected in her shade is the world she saw up close: the world of women imprisoned in beauty, of artists on the edge of poverty and genius, of people who, in the glow of lanterns, sought a semblance of freedom.

A woman artist in Edo

At the time Katsushika Ōi was born, Japan was under the rule of the Tokugawa shogunate. It was the late Edo period (early 19th century)—an age of peace, but also of stagnation. Society had clearly drawn boundaries: samurai, peasant, artisan, merchant—each knew their place in the hierarchy (more about it here: Songs from the Eta-mura – The Lives of the “Non-Humans” Erased from the Maps of Shogunate Japan). Yet within this seemingly rigid structure flourished a phenomenon of an entirely different nature—the world of ukiyo, the “floating world.” It was a world of artists, actors, courtesans, and printers whose works served neither religion nor power, but aesthetic pleasure. In this atmosphere arose the phenomenon of ukiyo-e, a mass art, sensual, as fleeting as the scent of incense.

This, however, was also a man’s world. Women in Edo society could rarely cross the boundaries set by Confucian morality. Their task was to maintain household harmony, to obey husband and parents, and art—if accessible to them at all—had a domestic, intimate character, never a professional one. In this context, the emergence of an artist like Ōi was decidedly an anomaly. There were indeed a few predecessors, such as Kiyohara Yukinobu in the 17th century or Uemura Shōen much later, yet between them stretches an almost empty space. In a world where even women’s names often failed to enter official records, Hokusai’s daughter managed to mark her voice—and in a field practically entirely dominated by men.

Ōi was neither a “lady of the studio” nor the ornament of the master’s home. She refused to assume the role society had prepared for her. Her marriage to Minamizawa Tōmei fell apart after a short time—as later sources wrote, the artist considered her husband mediocre and uninspiring. She chose solitude and creation. She was not a wife or mother; she was a painter—a word that, in the language of the time, had no feminine equivalent. She spent her days among brushes, pigments, and paper; at night she painted by lamplight, immersed in the same concentration she would later depict in her images. Her daily life—as sources recalled—was full of chaos, and the house she shared with her father resembled less a home than a workshop of unceasing creation, in which the only rhythm was the rhythm of work.

Why, then, have so few of her works survived? There are several reasons. First, the name Hokusai was a brand in itself—many publishers signed their joint works only with his name, even if a substantial portion of the painterly “work” belonged to Ōi. Second, artistic practices of the time often eschewed individual signatures, especially in family workshops. Finally, some of her works may simply have vanished into the shadows of history—attributed to others, copied, forgotten. In a world in which even (male) genius was often anonymous, female genius had virtually no chance to leave a trace of its name.

And yet today, looking at the few surviving scrolls and paintings by Ōi, we can see in them something far greater than technical mastery. They are not only works of subtle beauty but also testimonies of inner freedom. Her women—whether playing music in the half-light or lost in thought under the moon—are both fragile and strong, quiet and aware. In their eyes one sees a world that contradicted her reality—a world in which woman was subject and creator, not a decorative object to be admired.

Katsushika Ōi—solitary, stubborn, faithful to art—did not proclaim the slogans of emancipation, yet through her life she wrote the most beautiful manifesto of feminine independence in the Edo period. And though her name long remained in the shadow of her father’s Great Wave, today it resounds like an echo from the past: quiet, yet impossible to ignore.

“Light and Shadow” – Ōi’s Unique Techniques

What distinguishes Katsushika Ōi from nearly all her ukiyo-e contemporaries is her conscious use of light as a vehicle of emotion and compositional rhythm. In an era when Japanese painting avoided chiaroscuro and built space through line and color, Ōi reached for something new—a dialogue between light and darkness. Her paintings are no longer static records of beauty but charged, “meaningful” spaces in which glow and shadow together create the narrative.

This is most visible in her masterpiece 夜の吉原図 (Yoru no Yoshiwara zu) – “Night Scene in Yoshiwara.” In this silk composition, Ōi employed something close to the previously mentioned chiaroscuro—the Italian technique of contrasting light and shadow, virtually unknown in 19th-century Japan. The scene unfolds in the nighttime pleasure quarter of Yoshiwara, seen through a perspective resembling an isometric projection. More precisely, it is 斜投影法 (shatōei-hō): oblique parallel projection, a method of constructing space in which all lines remain parallel and objects do not diminish with distance, allowing the viewer to encompass multiple planes—street, interiors, and figures—at once, without losing proportion or narrative clarity.

But the most important element here is the light. The shining points of lanterns cut through the darkness, forming soft halos that fade at the edges of the shadow. Each circle of light has a different intensity and color temperature—from amber to milky white—attesting to the artist’s attentive observation of reality. The brushstrokes are delicate, translucent; the light is not applied but drawn out from the background, as if Ōi were painting the very presence of air between the source of the glow and the viewer’s eye.

Unlike typical ukiyo-e, which portrayed a “shadowless” world—daytime scenes, diffused light, flat colors, clear contour—Ōi breaks convention. She does not illuminate her figures evenly; she allows parts of faces, kimonos, and hands to vanish into darkness. The light in her paintings is unpredictable, organic, responsive. It does not serve merely to reveal form but to construct atmosphere. As in the Western paintings of Caravaggio, in Ōi’s art light becomes a language of emotion—at times an intimate whisper, at others a sudden flash.

All her works show that Ōi was not an experimenter for the sake of novelty. Her technique was not mannerism but deliberate choice—an attempt to give painting a new language. Where others saw only decoration, she perceived the drama of light. Where others sought the beauty of the face, she found the psychology of the gaze. Her “meaningful light and shadow” represent not only technical mastery but also a way of thinking about the world: that beauty exists not in daylight but in gentle twilight, where form and emotion merge into one (a notion corresponding to the broader role of shadow in Japanese aesthetics, about which you can read here: "In Praise of Shadows" by Tanizaki – Let Us Touch the Japanese Beauty of Twilight, So Different from the Western Aesthetic of Light).

Where Can We See Ōi Today?

Katsushika Ōi is an extraordinary and yet perhaps one of the most underrated figures in Japanese art. She was a woman who, in a world bound by the rules of the Tokugawa shogunate, dared to live and create in her own way. She was not a wife, mother, or pupil in the master’s shadow—she was an artist who consciously chose solitude and freedom. Her life embodied contradictions: rebellion and care, austerity and tenderness, light and shadow. She left behind few works, yet each bears the weight of presence—as if in every brushstroke she wished to inscribe proof of the feminine voice in an age that refused to hear it.

Today, her works can be admired in a few museums—among them, the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, which holds “Three Women Playing Musical Instruments” (the one with the women musicians); the Cleveland Museum of Art, which possesses a portrait of a woman attributed to her; and the Ōta Memorial Museum of Art in Tokyo, where “Night Scene in the Yoshiwara” has been exhibited. Each of these paintings is not only an example of her technical mastery but also of her sensitive, almost psychological gaze upon light, the body, and solitude. Viewing them, one can understand how far ahead of her time she was—her play of light and shadow, her courage in tackling intimate subjects, and her subtle perception of the human interior bring her closer to European masters of the fin de siècle than to the conventions of Edo Japan.

Today Ōi returns—no longer in her father’s shadow, but as a rightful heroine of culture. The Canadian writer Katherine Govier created the novel “The Ghost Brush” (“The Printmaker’s Daughter,” 2010), giving voice to Ōi herself and allowing her to speak as a woman torn between art and a world that silenced her. In Japan, the novelist Makate Asai revived her in “Kurara” (2016), adapted by NHK into the television drama “Kurara: Hokusai no Musume” (2017), starring Aoi Miyazaki in the title role. For younger audiences, the closest encounter with the artist is the animated film “Miss Hokusai” (2015), based on Hinako Sugiura’s manga, which won numerous awards at international festivals. In each of these retellings, the same woman reappears—brave, strange, wise, defiant—who truly existed, though history tried to erase her.

If you ever stand before one of her paintings—whether in Tokyo, Boston, or on a screen—pause for a moment. Look into those quiet lights of Yoshiwara, at the gentle movement of the hand striking the cloth in the moonlight. This is not merely a story of the daughter of a great master. It is the story of a remarkable woman—one simply worth knowing.

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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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