#Images of Ghosts

[xtruss]

Why Images of Ghosts Have Endured in Japan for Centuries

A New Exhibition at the National Museum of Asian Art displays Haunting, Colorful Woodblock Prints

— Roger Catlin | April 26, 2024

The Ghost of a Fisherman, Tsukioka Kogyo, woodblock print, 1899 National Museum of Asian Art

Oiwa’s husband wanted to remarry his rich neighbor, but his wife was still very much alive. He first tried poisoning Oiwa, but it disfigured her horribly rather than killing her. Then, he threw her into a river to drown, which was indeed successful. But later, when he returned to that river, Oiwa’s ghost rose from the water to haunt him no matter where he fled.

Foreboding depictions of this Japanese ghost story and others like it populate the “Staging the Supernatural: Ghosts and the Theater in Japanese Prints” exhibition at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Asian Art.

Going back centuries, ghost stories carry great resonance in Japan. The over 50 works on display, created from the 1700s to the 1900s by Japanese artists, show the lingering power of woodblock print art and the stories that the art represents, which continue to flourish in Japan today. Coming out of the theater traditions of kabuki and noh, the prints proved equally as popular as the performances.

The story of Oiwa, the faithful wife who returned as a ghost to haunt her murderous husband, was told in the 1825 kabuki theater production of Ghost Story of Yotsuya on the Tokaido by Tsuruya Nanboku IV. Though the supernatural had long been part of Japanese culture, the Edo period (1603-1868) and this specific production gave permanent prominence to the genre, says Kit Brooks, co-curator of the exhibition. The production toured more extensively than earlier variations and featured the potent special effects of flames and actors spurting blood and flying via wires.

Artists reproduced images from this ghost play and others of the era for clamoring patrons who wanted a souvenir of the production and its specific actors, often identified in the prints, and to recall the stories.

Left: Tsuchigumo, from Prints of One Hundred Noh Plays (Nogaku hyakuban), Tsukioka Kogyo, woodblock print, 1922-1925 National Museum of Asian Art Right: Oiwake: Oiwa and Takuetsu, Utagawa Kuniyoshi, woodblock print, 1852 Oiwake: Oiwa and Takuetsu, no. 21, from the series Sixty-Nine Stations of the Kisokaido Road, Utagawa Kuniyoshi, woodblock print, 1852 National Museum of Asian Art

Kabuki, which originated in the Edo period, was known for its stylized performances and intricate special effects that made it a popular entertainment for broad audiences.

“Whether it was tricks on the stage in terms of trap doors, lots of props, synthetic blood, contraptions that would have characters on wires, flying through the theater—these things were obviously conveying the presence of ghosts,” Brooks says.

Productions featured “spirit flames,” or fire that indicated the presence of ghosts. “Kabuki is very overtly entertaining in terms of bombast,” Brooks says.

Thousands of prints were created and made available at surprisingly populist prices. In the 1840s, Brooks notes, someone could buy a single-sheet multicolor woodblock print for the price of a noodle lunch.

Such colorful, vivid examples rarely survive after nearly two centuries, especially the prints that involved paper flaps that lift up, meant to reflect complicated stage effects.

One such elaborate woodblock print in the exhibition, made in 1861 by Utagawa Kunisada, shows the body of Oiwa pulled to the surface with a fishing hook and, by raising the flap, the body of a second corpse, a servant whose fingernails kept growing after his death.

This trick is even more effective onstage, since both corpses were portrayed by the same actor, doing a quick costume change.

By the 1860s, the stage trick had been used for nearly 40 years, and in that decade, real water tanks were used onstage. Brooks says prints were created to commemorate the trick. The prints are rare, especially those that survived fully intact.

Ghosts had also been prominent in noh theater going back centuries and aimed at a more elite, discerning audience.

Shakkyo, from the series One Hundred No Plays, Tsukioka Kogyo, woodblock print, 1922-1927 National Museum of Asian Art

Noh started in the 14th century “but dates back much earlier to harvest rituals and entertainments at shrines and temples,” says co-curator Frank Feltens. Those rituals involved dances, chants and characters using elaborate wooden masks. Donning a mask meant “you are basically assuming not just the essence of that role—you’re becoming it,” he says. “It’s a kind of spirit transmission that happens for them.”

Noh may have died out, Feltens says, had it not been revived as a cultural currency when Japan was reinventing itself in the mid-19th century as a more modern nation-state.

The 19th-century woodblock artist Tsukioka Kogyo tapped into the growing interest in noh by not only documenting its fearsome characters, but also clearly indicating the actors beneath the masks to the point of creating behind-the-scenes images of the theater for the first time.

“This peeking behind the scenes is almost sacrilegious in a way because it takes the mythology of noh away,” Feltens says.

Noh stories may not have been as bombastic in ghostly reproductions as kabuki, but the form was instead “capturing stories of the distant past, and those stories are often associated with specific sites, specific locales scattered throughout Japan,” he says.

Those stories are told through spirits associated with the sites, and the spirits are conduits for local memory, he adds.

So why have ghosts endured in Japanese cultural traditions, and why the big revival in the Edo period?

Collector Pearl Moskowitz, who, along with her husband Seymour Moskowitz, gifted hundreds of prints to the museum, posits in the exhibition catalog that it may have been a way to reflect society in a changing time. “My guess is these tales of ghostly hauntings acted as forms of justice in a feudal society in which the authority of the ruling class was absolute,” she writes in her essay.

In such an unjust class system, “it was kind of a catharsis in watching these kinds of plays where ghosts could take vengeance in ways they weren’t able to, and get justice achieved through these revenge plots in a way that might have been very satisfying,” Brooks says. “And samurai were often villains in these stories as well, so that lent some credence to that theory.”

It’s difficult to know how many prints were made at the time, Brooks says, adding that people still make them with traditional methods, and a practitioner could make 200 in a morning.

Viewers can likely connect these images of specters to modern Japanese horror in films like 1998’s Ringu, and its English-language remake, 2002’s The Ring.

“Japanese ghosts are things that people know from Japanese horror films,” Brooks says. “So even if they’re not specialists in the subject, you can still see things that you’d recognize and be interested in.”

Originally set to open around Halloween in October 2023, the exhibition was postponed for almost six months following the discovery of a leak in a nearby stairwell.

“Even though nothing was in danger, you obviously have to have an overabundance of caution, so we took everything out,” says Brooks. “It meant the second installation went very, very fast.”

“Staging the Supernatural” will run until early October at the National Museum of Asian Art—closer to the Halloween connection it was denied last fall.

But people are encouraged to also contemplate the supernatural in the summer. “In Japan, summer is the ghost time period,” Brooks says. “People tell ghost stories in the summer because it’s hot and sweaty and humid, and they make you shiver, which makes you cold.”

— Roger Catlin | Washington, D.C. freelancer Roger Catlin has written about the arts for AARP The Magazine, The Washington Post and other outlets. He writes mostly about TV on his blog rogercatlin.com.

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[wombywoo]

"smile!" 📸

[pomidaea]

The new summons reporting for gardening duty

[starry-bi-sky]

FUNNIEST fucking shit that comes with making Danny eleven years old when he had his accident in "late at night, when the nightingale sings" is the implication following, that everything that happened in the show did too. And I fully intend on (mostly) keeping it like that. There'll be some changes (of which I need to figure out) but for the most part??? Yeah relatively the same.

Like I FULLY intend on keeping Dark Danny occurring 6 months post accident. Do you know how fucking HILARIOUS that is??? That Dan got his ass kicked by a goddamn FIFTH-SIXTH GRADER?? I'd never show my face ever again. Homeboy spent the last ten years being a one-man mass extinction event, only to get his ass beat by a kid who hasn't even lost his last baby tooth. That's hysterical. I'm losing my mind just thinking about it.

AND PARIAH DARK TOO. Imagine being an eons old tyrant capable of dragging whole towns down into your dimension, and you get singehandedly shoved back into your coffin in less than 48 hours by a kid whose bedtime is still 8:30. You didn't even have the time to expand your army! You were still trying to take over the city the kid came from!

And he just!!! Shoves you back in!! Insane! This kid hasn't even been dead for a full year yet! He's still growing in his ghost fangs! And he just knocked you flat on your ass in an oversized mech suit. What the fuck! It's like looking down and seeing a four week old kitten meowing very indignantly at you and trying to bite your feet, except that kitten is also actually a black-footed cat and they have a 60% kill success rate, and oops! Now you're dead. You took too long laughing at the kitten trying to attack you that it clawed up your pant leg and ripped out your throat.

COULD I, realistically, span these episodes out over the course of 2.5 years prior to Danny's family dying?? Yes I could! Do I think it's hilarious (and horribly traumatizing, which makes it twice as fun) to shove all of this into the span of (roughly) a year instead?? Yes. Because the show has such a skewed timeline that I've always just assumed that at the end of the show, Danny was starting his sophomore year in high school. So fuck it, lets go for it!

[ehlihr]

WHEN YOU DIE || OFF Animatic

here’s my silly animatic i did over yesterday and today. hope u enjoy!

[gamergenia]

inspo below

[solarwreathe]

happy 10th birthday to sock opera.

[toxooz]

a mimir💤

[tanked-up]

Price’s boys

[gomzdrawfr]

[content warning:MCD, afterlife]

Back in your arms

[baconpal]

[yllu-stration]

Tattoo flash sheet inspired by Simon "Ghost" Riley (2022) because I hate the ones they gave him in the game 😇

[wimbu]

The aura is astonishing

[starry-bi-sky]

danyal al ghul memes because i don't think i've done those yet for this au.

(the jason one is in reference to the fanon headcanon/au that Jason and Damian potentially knew each other and interacted while jason was in the league. I've thought about it before in context of this au, but haven't thought about it enough to feel inspired or motivated to make a post exploring the idea)

(diablito means, as you can guess, 'little devil'. while i'm neutral to latino jason, i think the nickname is cute as fuck and was danny's main nickname from Jason. i don't wanna touch that timeline so im not gonna decide how old they were when Jason was there.)

Skulker: i am the ghost zone's greatest hunter! i capture and hunt creatures both rare and dangerous. Danyal: a poacher?? you're a poacher?? you poach animals??Skulker:...i sense i've made a mistake of some kind.

anyways that was the day that Skulker cemented himself as Danny's no.1 opp, and still remains there to this day even if he and Vlad are both viciously fighting for second. Out of everyone in the the AP rogues gallery, Skulker will be the first to be thrown under the bus in terms of 'o shit here comes phantom fucking RUN'.

[blitzwhore]

Sorry...