Kyoto’s Hanamikoji Dori is one of the most popular streets in the city. Lined with traditional machiya wooden houses that double as restaurants and shops (Hermès even opened a nine-month pop-up boutique here in November of 2016), the road becomes even more picturesque in the evening when the lanterns light up. But aside from the emblematic architecture, what one really hopes to catch a glimpse of when strolling down the stone lane are geishas. The famed street is located in the neighborhood of Gion, which has two geisha districts; woven amongst its many stores are ochaya, teahouses where these women entertain, performing traditional Japanese arts oftentimes over a meal. While geisha are found all over Japan, Kyoto has become synonymous with these hostesses and in local dialect are referred to as geiko and maiko, distinguishing age (the former are older than 20) and apprenticeship status (the latter). These enigmatic women rarely reveal their true selves, changing their names and shrouding behind white makeup and courteous giggles, but can sometimes be seen on Hanamikoji Dori, quickly bypassing crowds to slip through sliding doors.
But getting the chance to dine with these women is uncommon for tourists (you typically have to be invited by an existing patron of an ochaya), so when I was asked to attend a dinner hosted by two geiko and one maiko at Man ochaya in Kyoto last year, I immediately jumped at the opportunity. That evening led me to become even more curious about the frequently misunderstood world of the geisha, so on my trip to Japan this past October, I negotiated my way into a geisha school—which is completely closed off to the public—where women learn and practice their craft.
On a late Sunday morning, I found myself in the Gion Higashi kagai (one of five geiko districts in Kyoto) on a street that I’ve walked several times before, unknowingly passing the unassuming learning institution that I was about to gain access to. I remove my shoes on the first floor before I ascend the stairs to what is essentially the classroom. Half of the floor is bare wood while the other is covered in tatami mats. This is where the girls hone their skills in dance, instrument playing, singing, and more. On this particular day, they are preparing for the Gion Odori festival, an annual dance performance that is held every fall at Kyoto's Gion Kaikan theater.
The girls are wearing minimal makeup and casual kimonos (far less extravagant than the versions worn for performances). The only way I’m able to distinguish between a geiko and maiko is by their hair—the former wear wigs when around clients, which is why their natural locks are currently simply pulled back at this moment, while the latter use their real tresses to create the incredibly symmetrical updos that have become synonymous with geishas. I instantly recognize Masami, the okaasan or mother of Man ochaya who is still a practicing geiko. Today, she was dressed in costume with a fiery-red wig that drops down to the floor.
I’ve arrived just in time for the start of their lesson, led by dance teachers Mon Fujima and Monnosuke Fujima. But before they begin, the room must be rearranged so that only one lone table is front and center for Mon Fujima to kneel at and observe the women dancing, while the rest are pushed to the side. The young geiko and maiko all rush to help move everything into place while also bringing me a chair to perch on.
To begin, four geiko take their places facing Mon Fujima. Three of them are holding a tsuzumi (hand drum) while the other is cradling a fue (flute). A maiko in a pastel pink kimono presses play on a CD player and the room comes alive with music. Monnosuke Fujima gestures to commence and the women start, playing their respective instruments while simultaneously belting out a sort of chant before getting up to dance, withdrawing fans from their obi belts. When the scene ends, he signals once again, using his hands to emulate a curtain drop, and the girls seamlessly swap out for the next act, shuffling swiftly into place.
The Gion Odori dance is comprised of seven parts altogether: an opening act and six scenes. As I watch them rehearse for the performance, I’m astounded by how far of a departure these dances are from the ones I had been exposed to at my first geisha dinner. Their movements are much more pronounced than the subtle gestures that I had previously seen. At the end of the lesson, when they all say thank you and goodbye to one another, Mon Fujima even notes the contemporary nature of the festival’s numbers, urging them to continue practicing traditional dances. For the Tokyo-born teacher who has more than 30 years of guiding students and whose father previously taught the women of Gion Higashi, carrying on tradition is what’s most important to her. “Geiko and maiko are not just learning traditional arts, but also mannerisms, etiquette, and attitude. Even how to bow—instead of standing, you should be kneeling and bowing to every individual, not just one single bow for the whole group. It’s like training. Nowadays, people don’t really consider it and think it’s too much to go through the hassle, but simplifying is not everything. People think simplifying is the best way to live daily life, making it more convenient, but it’s not.”
Before everyone disbands, the girls have the chance to ask for one-on-one help and I have the opportunity to meet two more women. First was a fifth-year maiko of Tomikiku okiya (a lodging house for geishas) by the name of Tomitsuyu. Born in Kyoto, Tomitsuyu always had a deep appreciation for Japanese tradition and history growing up. She moved away briefly to study abroad in New Zealand, but yearned for her home country while she was away. So she returned, and with the support of her parents, decided to become a maiko. Then there was Tsunekazu of Shigenoya okiya, the most highly regarded performer out of the geiko in Gion Higashi. Unlike many of the others I’ve spoken to, Tsunekazu didn’t have initial ambitions of leading such a lifestyle. When she was graduating junior high, she visited her older sister, who was a maiko at the time, and was encouraged to give it a chance. Shortly after starting as a maiko herself, her big sister decided to marry, and retired. Tsunekazu also considered marriage in her thirties, but ultimately decided against it.
I return the next day for their penultimate practice. This time, the women are robed in formal kimonos known as ohikizuri and the room is packed with instrumentalists who are there to replace the recording that has been used in previous rehearsals. It’s officially down to the wire with Gion Odori starting in two days; all hands are on deck. The room is abuzz with chatter as the geiko and maiko say good morning to everyone, particularly prioritizing their teachers. In addition to Mon Fujima and Monnosuke Fujima, there are five other instructors that have contributed their expertise to the upcoming festival, all of whom have honed and professionally performed their respective crafts for decades. In the room are Katsuroku Kineya, whose father played the shamisen and took it upon himself at the young age of three to play himself; he has now taught his nagauta style of music (traditional Japanese music that accompanies the kabuki theater) at the Gion Higashi school for the past 17 years. There's also Jukaku Nakamura, a gentleman who has trained his pupils in narimono (also known as ohayashi, a type of drum) for a total of 20 years and there is Meisho Tosha, who specializes in the fue and has been teaching for over 50 years. (The two who weren’t able to make it to the lesson are Kikusuke Kiyomoto, who has teaches the kiyomoto style of singing (high-pitched), and Sohaku Suzuki, a master of tea ceremonies.)
Today’s session is much more collaborative and lively. Discussions are held about act transitions and there is plenty of fine-tuning to the music, with much of the feedback coming from Katsuroku Kineya and Meisho Tosha. The Katsuroku Kineya focuses his attention on the group of geiko that have been brought in to play the shamisen and sing, advising when the string instrument should be strummed quicker as well as instructing the vocalists on which words to enunciate. Meisho Tosha directs his notes to his own apprentice, apprising him of the proper flute to use and where to soften his tunes, but at one point also informs a young man to refrain from dinging a bell to reduce the cacophony. I’m amazed by the number of changes being made given the precise nature of Japanese culture, but I let this be a lesson in what it takes to achieve such perceived perfection.
A few days later I return to Kyoto for Gion Odori, excited to see everything put into practice. There is the option to sit in on a brief tea ceremony carried out by one geiko and one maiko, so I decide to take advantage of it. (Tip: Arrive early to grab a seat at the front so that you can really see what’s going on during the ritual.) Two cups of matcha are prepared live while the others are brought out from the back, along with pieces of joyo manju, a traditional Japanese sweet made of a yam rice cake and sweet red bean paste, that are served on a small ceramic plate for guests to keep as a souvenir. It’s a very expedited version of the practice, but certainly worth the small extra fee of 500 yen.
From there, you move into the auditorium, which was nearing full capacity the day I came to watch. The majority of the attendees are tourists, largely Japanese, with some locals and ochaya patrons in the mix. It’s a special occasion given that all of the girls from Gion Higashi are performing at one time, rather than seeing just a select few like you would at a dinner. And while I had a preview by sitting in on the lessons, seeing the performance come to life was an entirely different experience. Backdrops of blooming cherry blossoms are projected, the women are in their full garb and makeup, and even special mechanics such as a stage lift are involved. But it all culminates with the finale—which hasn’t changed for the past 40 years, unlike the previous scenes—when all of the women come out on stage. The geiko are all uniformly dressed in black kimonos while the maiko don differing vibrant variations, resulting in a visually striking lineup. The synchronized twirling of 17 fans is easily the most magnificent portion of this number, but the biggest surprise is when they all toss maki-tenugui (hand towels) into the crowd, a tidbit I wasn’t privy to during rehearsal. These washcloths are printed with the geiko and maiko’s names, and for the lucky few who were able to catch one, they leave with a unique memento.
When it all comes to an end, I step out of the dark theater into blinding sunlight. As I search for my sunglasses, a group of tourists dressed in Mario and Luigi costumes whiz by on their go-karts. And just like that, I’m spun out of one dream world and into another.
