The images are currently part of an on-going album on flickrꜛ. They will be available here soon.
The images are currently part of an on-going album on flickrꜛ. They will be available here soon.
The main entrance of the Senckenberg Museum in Frankfurt. The current building of the Senckenberg Museum was constructed between 1904 and 1907 on an open site outside Frankfurt’s city center, based on plans by architect Ludwig Neher (1850–1916), in the immediate vicinity of Johann Wolfgang Goethe University, which was not founded until 1914. It is located on the so-called Senckenberganlage in Frankfurt’s Westend-Süd district, surrounded on three sides by the Goethe University’s Bockenheim campus.
What fascinated me about the Senckenberg Museum is not only its spectacular exhibits, but also how it showcases the systematic study of nature. Its halls display animals, fossils, rocks, preserved bodies, reconstructed skeletons, models, and instruments. Some objects are beautiful, some are strange, some are unsettling. Together, they create a dense impression of biological diversity, geological time, and the human attempt to understand both.
In 1763, Johann Christian Senckenberg, a wealthy physician and philanthropist in Frankfurt, left a large part of his fortune to support scientific and medical institutions in the city. This legacy eventually led to the founding of the non-profit Senckenberg Society for Nature Research (German: Senckenberg Gesellschaft für Naturforschung (SGN)) in 1817. The society aimed to promote natural science through research, education, and public engagement. Soon after its founding, the physician Johann Georg Neuburg donated his collection of bird and mammal specimens to the society. This collection became the core of the natural history museum, which opened to the public in 1821. Over the following decades, the museum expanded its collections through fieldwork, donations, and acquisitions. It also developed research programs in various areas of natural science.
Historical photographs of the Senckenberg Museum around 1908, designed by Ludwig Neher. The photos show the exterior, the staircase, the interior, and the foyer of the museum. They provide a glimpse into the early days of the museum and its architectural style. Source: Wikimedia Commons 1ꜛ, 2ꜛ, 3ꜛ, and 4ꜛ (licenses: all in the public domain).
Today, Senckenberg is much more than a museum. It is part of a major research institution concerned with biodiversity, earth system research, paleontology, geology, and the study of life across time. The Frankfurt museum is therefore both a public exhibition space and the visible part of a much larger scientific infrastructure.
Bust of two of the 32 founding members of the Senckenberg Society.
In this sense, the Senckenberg Museum is not simply a collection of curiosities, but a public exhibition space built upon fieldwork, taxonomy, collecting, preparation, comparison, classification, and interpretation. Every mounted skeleton, preserved animal, fossil slab, or geological specimen points beyond itself to the work of scientists, preparators, collectors, and institutions.
The following sections follow my walk through the main parts of the exhibitions. They are not meant as a comprehensive review, but as a personal selection. I focus on the parts that I found most interesting and those that seemed especially relevant for understanding the value of such a museum.
The very first station after entering the museum is the dinosaur hall, where most visitors likely start. It is a large, open hall with several reconstructed skeletons of dinosaurs, including a Tyrannosaurus rex, a Triceratops, and a Stegosaurus. The skeletons are mounted in dynamic poses, and standing in front (or underneath) of them as a human provides a certain feeling of awe, also a bit of fear, and reminds one where we actually stand in the history of life.
While the main hall is reserved for land dinosaurs, a sub-section also displays marine reptiles. They were equally presented in a dynamic way, almost as if they were swimming in the water. It was interesting to see the diversity of marine reptiles, how gigantic some of them were, how they adapted to their aquatic environment, which predatory strategies they developed, and which evolutionary paths they eventually took.
After the dinosaurs, I moved over to another section where a collection of fossils was displayed. Fossils are the preserved remains or traces of ancient organisms such as bones, shells, imprints, or even chemical signatures. What is fascinating about fossils is that they are the primary source of information about extinct life forms and the history of biodiversity. They can be found in various geological formations, and they provide evidence for evolution, extinction, and environmental change. The museum presents them in a very accessible and informative way, which enables visitors to understand their background and significance.
I then moved over to the section, which houses a large collection of taxidermied birds. I was a bit torn about this.
On the one hand, it was fascinating to see so many different species of birds displayed in one place. Usually, we encounter in the wild, where they are often difficult to observe closely. They move quickly, avoid humans, hide in trees, or simply fly away. In a museum, one can look at them calmly and at close range. This changes the perception of them. What often appears only as a brief movement in everyday life becomes a detailed perception of color, proportion, and posture. The exhibition let’s one explore both common and exotic species – a rare opportunity.
At the same time, this section also raised some ethical questions for me. I mean, one cannot ignore the fact that these birds are taxidermied. All of them were once living animals. Thinking about that they were killed just for the purpose of being preserved and mounted for display also created a certain discomfort. It reminded me that scientific knowledge has often depended – and still does – on practices that always involve ethical considerations and debates.
The museum does not hide this fact, but it also does not make it the central focus. The birds are displayed as objects of natural history, not as reminders of the history of collecting. This created an ambivalence that stayed with me throughout the entire visit.
This was particularly evident for ordinary animals in display. A rooster, for instance, is so common that one rarely thinks about it seriously. Yet when displayed carefully, even such a familiar animal appears with a kind of dignity. Its posture, feathers, colors, and bodily presence make it clear that the ordinary is often only ordinary because we have stopped looking closely. In the end, I think, we should look with awe at all living beings, not only the spectacular ones.
The museum also contains smaller displays of reptiles and amphibians. Some exhibits appear as models, while others are preserved specimens, including frogs kept in glass containers with fluid. Fluid or wet preservation (I actually do not know the technical term for this) is a method of preserving biological specimens in a liquid, usually alcohol or formalin. This technique allows for the long-term preservation of soft tissues, which would otherwise decay rapidly.
A particularly unexpected part of the visit was a special exhibition on the brain, called “GEHIRNE” (German for brain). Coming from neuroscience, I was naturally interested in it, but the exhibition was not a conventional anatomical or medical presentation. It approached the brain more through artistic exploration.
There were objects and visual interpretations related to brains, neurons, and perception, but not in a classical scientific way as we, e.g., know from teaching classes. It was quite refreshing to see all the creativity behind all of these objects. A nice reminder that science and art are not separate domains, but can enrich each other in unexpected ways.
Another small section that interested me personally showed taxidermied rodents. This might sound like a contradiction to what I just said about the ethical tension of taxidermy. But I do not mean that I was fascinated by the taxidermy itself. I was fascinated to see rodents, in particular different types of wild mice, presented in ecological settings. The habitats were models, of course, but they were designed to show the animals within a broader environmental context. The mice were displayed in ways that suggested natural behaviors such as climbing, foraging, or nesting. This created an interesting contrast to the way rodents are usually encountered in scientific research.
The next section on my tour was the one on mammals. It included a variety of species such as zebras, deer, goats, elk, primates, and other mammals. The same awe that I felt in front of the dinosaurs and the taxidermied birds also caught me here. The diversity of mammalian life, their adaptations, and their evolutionary history were on full display. It was in particular interesting to see the primates, which are our closest relatives in the animal kingdom.
As a subsection of the mammal section, there was a special display dedicated to human evolution, with a focus on Lucy, the Australopithecus afarensis skeleton. Lucy is one of the most famous early hominin fossils, discovered in Ethiopia in 1974. The replica of her skeleton is displayed in the museum, and it was one of the highlights of my visit. Our previous post is entirely dedicated to her, so I will not go into too much detail here. But I want to emphasize that Lucy is not just a “missing link” or a curiosity. She represents a crucial stage in human evolution, showing that bipedalism emerged long before the large brains associated with later humans. She stands near the beginning of a long and branching evolutionary process that eventually gave rise to our own species.
After exploring the history of life on land, the museum also takes visitors to the underwater world. The entire upper floor is dedicated to marine life, with a focus on the deep sea. This section includes a variety of exhibits, such as models of deep-sea creatures, preserved specimens, and a model of a research submersible called ABYSSꜛ from the GEOMAR Helmholtz Centre for Ocean Research Kielꜛ. The deep sea is a fascinating and mysterious environment that is still largely unexplored. It is home to a wide range of unique organisms that have adapted to extreme conditions such as darkness, high pressure, and low temperatures. The exhibition provides insights into the diversity of life in this extreme regime and the scientific efforts to study it. At the same time it also anticipates how much we still have to learn about this vast and largely unknown part of our planet. There is an entire universe lying in the darkness beneath the sea. The exhibition offers a glimpse into this.
Toward the end of my tour, I also encountered a display resembling an old scientific laboratory. There were instruments, an old microscope, preserved plants, a human skull, bottles, and preparation fluids. This section was dedicated to the historical practice of studying nature.
I find reconstructions such as these important because in museums, science is often presented only through its results. We see fossils, classifications, diagrams, models, and conclusions. But behind them are scientists, labs, tools, methods, notebooks, chemicals, and technical routines. An old microscope, for instance, is not merely an outdated device. It represents a historical expansion of vision. It made structures visible that could not be seen with the naked eye. Preparation fluids, specimen jars, and laboratory tools likewise show that scientific knowledge depends on material practices. Nature does not simply reveal itself. It has to be collected, prepared, stabilized, magnified, compared, and interpreted.
The reconstructed laboratory therefore added a useful historical layer. In that way, not only the history of life is presented, but also the history of how humans developed methods to study life. And we still pursue this track of exploration and discovery today, albeit with more advanced tools. Science, i.e, the exploration of the surrounding world, is an integral part of the human nature. It is what drives us to continue on our paths, both long term and on a daily basis. The museum overall captures this aspect of human nature quite well, indirectly through its exhibits, but also explicitly in this section.
I believe that museums like the Senckenberg Natural History Museum were and are still valuable because they make complex scientific concepts and histories accessible. They provide a physical and visual representation of ideas that are often abstract and difficult to grasp. For instance, the concept of geological time is hard to understand because it is so vast compared to human experience. When we see fossils from different periods, or a timeline of life on Earth, it becomes more tangible. Similarly, the diversity of life can be overwhelming when presented as a list of species or a phylogenetic tree. But when we see actual specimens, models, and reconstructions, we can appreciate the variety and complexity of life in a more immediate way. In that sense, museums like this pursue both an educational and a scientific mission. They educate the public about the natural world, its history, and the methods of science. nd they also support scientific research by maintaining collections that can be studied and reexamined over time.
At the same time, museums of this kind also raise ethical questions. I felt it acutely. Taxidermied animals, preserved bodies, colonial collecting histories, and older scientific practices cannot be viewed innocently. Many specimens entered collections under conditions that would require careful scrutiny today. The educational and scientific value of such collections is real, but so is the moral discomfort that can arise when looking at once-living beings turned into objects.
I do not think the answer is to dismiss such museums. Nor do I think the ethical questions should be hidden behind fascination. The value of a natural history museum lies partly in holding both aspects together. It can preserve knowledge, support research, and educate the public, while also reminding us that scientific knowledge has its own history, methods, and costs.
For me, the Senckenberg Museum was therefore not simply a collection of impressive exhibits. It was a concentrated encounter with natural history as a process: Life emerging, diversifying, adapting, disappearing, and being studied. From dinosaurs and fossils to birds, mammals, deep sea organisms, and Lucy, the museum makes clear that nature is not static. It is historical, material, contingent, and continuously changing.
The museum exhibits a replica of the original fossil, which is kept in Ethiopia, where Lucy was discovered in 1974.
Last year, I ran a series of posts that kind of traced the history of human civilization from its deep origins through language, writing, religion (Mesopotamian, Egyptian, Hindu, Buddhism, Greek, Judaism, Christianity), philosophy (Greek, Chinese, Indian), and science. I thought, a post about Lucy would fit perfectly in line with this series, as it takes us back to the very origins of our species and the evolutionary history that led to the emergence of human civilization.
Lucy is the partial skeleton of an early hominin belonging to the species Australopithecus afarensis. She was discovered in 1974 in Hadar, Ethiopia, by the paleoanthropologist Donald Johanson and his team. The fossil is estimated to be around 3.2 million years old. The name “Lucy” originated from the song Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by The Beatles, which happened to be playing repeatedly at the excavation camp after the discovery. Scientifically, the specimen is designated AL 288-1.
Locations of Australopithecus afarensis sites. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 4.0).
What made Lucy extraordinary was not merely her age, but the completeness and preservation of the skeleton. Roughly 40 \% of the body could be reconstructed, an enormous amount for such an ancient hominin fossil. This suddenly allowed researchers to study body proportions, locomotion, posture, and anatomy in unprecedented detail. Lucy, thus, became one of the most important fossils ever discovered because she existed in a critical transitional phase of human evolution.
Left: ‘Lucy’ skeleton, cast from Museum national d’histoire naturelle, Paris, France. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0). – Center and right: Reconstruction of a male (left) and female (right) A. afarensis at the Natural History Museum, Vienna, Austria. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ and hereꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 4.0).
Lucy’s anatomy is scientifically important because it preserves a combination of traits that helps clarify the order in which major features of human evolution appeared.
Her skull was small, and her brain volume was still much closer to that of modern chimpanzees than to humans. Her face projected forward more strongly than ours, her arms were relatively long, and several anatomical features suggest that climbing still played an important role in her life. At the same time, Lucy’s skeleton shows clear evidence for habitual upright walking.
Her pelvis, femur, knee joint, and spinal alignment indicate bipedal locomotion. If true, this would mean that upright walking had already emerged long before the major brain expansion associated with later members of the genus Homo. This has important consequences for our understanding of human evolution, as it corrects a potentially too simple picture in which intelligence, tool use, or brain size appear as the first defining steps toward humanity. In Lucy’s case, the major change was anatomical and locomotor. The body had already begun to move in a distinctly hominin way, while the brain was still relatively small.
In a sense, Lucy therefore represents an evolutionary mosaic. She was neither a modern human nor merely an ape in the traditional sense. She belonged to a branching population of hominins experimenting, through evolution itself, with new ways of inhabiting the world. And she illustrates that evolution does not proceed as a uniform transformation of the whole organism. Different traits changed at different times and rates. Brain size, locomotion, limb proportions, dentition, and behavior followed partly independent evolutionary trajectories.
African Hominin timeline. ‘Lucy’, who lived around 3.2 million years ago, is member of the species Australopithecus afarensis (Au. afarensis). Between 4 and 2 million years ago, several species of Australopithecus and other hominins coexisted in Africa. It takes millions of years after Lucy for the first members of the genus Homo to appear. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 4.0).
Lucy lived during the so-called Pliocene epoch (5.3 to 2.6 million years ago) in eastern Africa, in environments that likely consisted of mixed woodland, river systems, and more open savanna-like regions. The climate was changing. Forests fluctuated and fragmented. Ecological pressures increasingly favored flexibility and adaptation.
19th-century artist’s impression of a Pliocene landscape. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: public domain)
The evolutionary line leading toward humans emerged not as a straight march toward progress, but as one branch among many hominin experiments. Numerous related species appeared, coexisted, and vanished over millions of years. Most left no descendants.
Human evolution during the Pliocene. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: public domain)
Lucy’s species, Australopithecus afarensis, is often regarded as close to the ancestral line that eventually gave rise to later hominins, including members of the genus Homo. Whether she herself belonged directly to that lineage remains debated. Evolution rarely provides neat boundaries. What is clear, however, is that eastern Africa became one of the great theaters of hominin evolution. Millions of years later, descendants of African Homo sapiens populations would disperse across the globe in the migrations described by the “Out of Africa” model.
Standing in front of Lucy in Frankfurt therefore placed the later history of human culture into a much older biological frame. Language, writing, philosophy, science, creativity, and social organization did not begin from nowhere. They were late developments in a much longer evolutionary history that had already been unfolding in Africa for millions of years.
When discussing the “Out of Africa” theory, it is easy to focus primarily on Homo sapiens. Yet Lucy reminds us that the story may have begun much earlier.
The “Out of Africa” theory (OOA) suggests that modern humans originated in Africa and migrated to other parts of the world. The map shows the approximate successive dispersals (labeled in years before present) of Homo erectus greatest extent (yellow), Homo neanderthalensis greatest extent (ochre), and Homo sapiens (red). Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: public domain)
The emergence of upright walking, changing social structures, increasingly flexible behavior, tool use in later hominins, symbolic thought, eventually expressed in language and writing, philosophy, and religion all belong to a continuum extending across immense stretches of time. None of these developments appeared suddenly. They emerged gradually from biological and cultural processes unfolding over millions of years.
The same species that eventually produced mathematics, Buddhist philosophy, cathedrals, spacecraft, and quantum theory ultimately arose from populations of African primates adapting to changing ecological conditions.
Lucy stands near the beginning of that path. She was not a “missing link” in the sense of being a direct ancestor of modern humans. Instead, she was part of a diverse and branching hominin family tree.
Taxonomic classification of the superfamily Hominoidea (hominoids), emphasizing the tribe Hominini. This tribe (lower left in graphic) comprises two genera, Homo and Pan; while gorillas are classified as separate from these — as the single genus Gorilla of tribe Gorillini; all of subfamily Homininae. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
For me, this has implications for how we should think about human nature itself. Human civilizations often imagine themselves as separate from nature or elevated above it. We see ourselves as beings of reason, culture, and technology, and we often treat these capacities as if they separate us from the rest of biological life. Fossils like Lucy proof the opposite and point instead to continuity, gradual transformation, and the multi-faceted character of life. The distance between modern humans and early hominins is enormous in terms of culture and cognition, but the biological connection is direct.
If our species is the product of a long evolutionary process, then many traits we consider “human” may have deep roots in our primate ancestors. This includes not only physical traits but also social behaviors, cognitive capacities, and even emotional tendencies. If developed further, this thought even suggests that human identity becomes less fixed, less absolute, and more process-like. Humanity itself appears not as a static essence, but as an evolving, multi-faceted continuum.
What impressed me most about seeing Lucy was that, unlike many museum exhibits, she did not feel entirely distant or disconnected. Many museum exhibits remain clearly separated from us as objects of display. Lucy was different. Looking at her skeleton is, in a strange sense, looking into a very distant mirror. Not a mirror reflecting modern humanity, of course, but one reflecting deep ancestry, contingency, and emergence.
Lucy represents a stage in an evolutionary process that eventually gave rise to beings capable of language, art, philosophy, and science. The cognitive world of Australopithecus afarensis was perhaps vastly different from ours. Yet fossils like Lucy make clear that the roots of human existence reach far deeper into evolutionary time than civilization itself.
And perhaps this is ultimately what makes Lucy so fascinating. She is not important because she was “almost human”, but because she reminds us that humanity itself was never something fixed or sharply separated from the rest of nature. It emerged gradually, through countless generations of adaptation, variation, and change. Our species did not appear as a finished form, but emerged through a long dynamic process, and Lucy stands close to one of its early visible stages.
In the photographs I took during my visit I tried to capture some of these impressions. The museum is definitely less a sequence of individual objects than a setting in which architecture, light, and exhibits are experienced together. This is also what makes a visit to Kolumba such a special experience: The rooms do not merely contain the artworks, but provide the conditions under which they can be viewed slowly and attentively.
The following images are visual notes to that experience and I hope they convey something of the unique atmosphere of Kolumba.
Living Images. Buddhist rituals in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean art – Exhibition view, Museum für Ostasiatische Kunst Köln, 2026. The special exhibition presents around 80 works from the museum’s collection that illustrate the ritual use of Buddhist images and objects in East Asia. The exhibition highlights how Buddhist art in East Asia is not only a visual expression of religious beliefs but also an active part of ritual life. – Shown here is one of the exhibitions rooms. Left: Bodhisattva Kshitigarbha of the Six Realms of Rebirth, Hanging scroll (kakemono), silk, ink, colours and gold applications, Nanbokuchō Period (1336-1392). Right: Bodhisattva Kshitigarbha (jap. Jizō Bosatsu), Hinoki wood, traces of different layers of coating, Japan, Kamakura Period (1185-1333), around 1300.
The exhibition frames Buddhism as a religion of repeated actions structured by calendars, spaces, and communities. Monks, nuns, and laypeople perform rituals for specific purposes: commemorating the historical Buddha Shakyamuni, purifying spaces and bodies, cultivating meditation, transferring merit to ancestors, protecting households, requesting health or prosperity, or negotiating the fate of the dead. The objects on display are therefore treated as components of ritual systems: images of Buddhas and bodhisattvas as cult images, implements such as vajra and bells for esoteric ceremonies, incense vessels for offering, and texts not only as carriers of doctrine but as powerful things whose production and copying create merit.
One of the exhibition rooms.
What makes the exhibition especially coherent is its implicit structure. It moves from annual commemorations toward everyday worship, then toward specialized ritual tools such as esoteric implements, Pure Land practices, and the bureaucratic imagery of hell, and it culminates in a distinctly Korean consecration practice that makes the activation of images visible as a process.
A first anchor is the ritual calendar. Buddhist communities mark key days in the lunar year, and the exhibition highlights two that are directly tied to Shakyamuni.
Buddha’s Entry into the Complete Nirvana, Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink, colours and gold on silk, Japan, Nanbokuchō Period (1336-1392), cyclically dated to 1392. This hanging scroll shows the death of the historical Buddha Shakyamuni, who lived in India in the 6th to 5th century BCE. His passing is understood not simply as death, but as liberation from rebirth and entry into complete nirvana, a state beyond desire and dualistic distinction. The Buddha is shown larger than life, lying with closed eyes on a richly ornamented platform. Around him gather beings from the six realms of existence: gods, bodhisattvas, humans including his ten disciples, animals, hungry ghosts, and demons. Their mourning reflects their degree of spiritual insight: the further they are from enlightenment, the more intensely they experience his death as a loss. Above the scene, Maya, the Buddha’s mother, descends on a cloud. Mist darkens the full-moon night, and the leaves of the sala trees on the right begin to wither. Paintings of this kind are still displayed and venerated in Japanese Buddhist temples on the 15th day of the second lunar month, the anniversary of the Buddha’s death.
One group of works addresses the commemoration of Shakyamuni’s death and entry into complete nirvana. A large Japanese hanging scroll depicts the death scene as a cosmic event in which the beings of the six realms gather around the reclining Buddha. The image is constructed as a didactic and affective field: grief is shown as graded by spiritual insight. Natural motifs such as the night sky and withering trees intensify the sense of transition. The same theme appears again as a smaller Japanese woodblock print intended for private devotion, which suggests how a major temple ritual can be mirrored in domestic practice.
Buddha’s Entry into the Complete Nirvana, Woodblock print, ink, colours and gold on paper, Japan, Edo Period (1603-1868), 18th c. This small woodblock print adapts the familiar image of the Buddha entering complete nirvana for use in private worship. While large hanging scrolls of this subject belonged to temple ceremonies, a printed version on paper was easier to keep, hold, and use at home. The labels written in Japanese syllabary name the individual figures and point to an intended audience of lay practitioners. The print therefore shows how important ritual images also entered ordinary devotional life outside the temple.
A second group addresses Shakyamuni’s birth and birthday celebrations. In East Asia, the infant Buddha is ritually washed on the eighth day of the fourth lunar month, and the exhibition includes both a gilded bronze infant Buddha and a Japanese woodblock print that renders the mythic birth narrative and its ritual use. Here the museum’s framing matters: these works do not merely depict an event. They are designed to be integrated into annual acts of veneration.
The newborn Buddha, Bronze, gilded, China, Qing Dynasty (1644-1911), 18th c. Figures of the infant Buddha are used in celebrations of his birthday on the eighth day of the fourth lunar month. In temple rituals, the image of the young Shakyamuni is placed in a basin, washed with scented water, and honoured with flowers. The pose refers to the birth legend: immediately after being born, the child is said to have walked seven steps and pointed to heaven and earth while proclaiming his sovereignty over the world.
The Birth of the historical Buddha Shakyamuni, Woodblock print, hand-coloured, black lacquer, gold dust (Jap. beni-e), later mounted as hanging scroll, Japan, Edo Period (1603-1868), early 18th c. This early hand-coloured woodblock print presents the birth legend of the historical Buddha Shakyamuni. The newborn child is shown at the moment when, according to the story, he walked seven steps, pointed upward and downward, and announced his rule over the world. The scene also includes the dragon deities who pour water and the parents of the Buddha. Important figures are identified by cartouches written in Japanese syllabary, suggesting that this early red-brown beni-e print was intended for devotion among ordinary believers.
From the calendar the exhibition turns toward the everyday. Rituals also happen daily, in temple halls and private devotional spaces. The most imposing example is a Japanese sculpture of Dainichi Nyorai, the Buddha Vairocana, associated with esoteric Buddhist traditions and their mandalic cosmology. Such a figure is not primarily a sculpture to be viewed, but a presence to which offerings, recitations, and ritual gestures are directed.
Elevenheaded Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara (jap. Jūichimen Kannon Bosatsu), Wood, lacquer and gilding Japan, Heian Period (794-1185), 12th c. The multi-headed form of Avalokiteshvara goes back to Indian precedents within the Buddhist pantheon. In this Japanese form, Jūichimen Kannon Bosatsu, the ten smaller bodhisattva heads above the main face display different expressions, referring to the many ways in which Kannon answers the prayers of devotees with compassion and aid. The eleventh, central head represents Amitabha Buddha, in whose retinue Kannon appears. At the same time, the heads stand for the ten stages on the path toward enlightenment and Buddhahood. Jūichimen Kannon has been worshipped in Japan since the 9th century and is counted among the 31 forms of this bodhisattva named in the Lotus Sutra. Pilgrimages to the 33 temples associated with Kannon’s different manifestations remain among the major devotional practices of Japanese Buddhism.
Dainichi Nyorai (Sanskrit: Maha Vairocana), Hinoki wood, traces of lacquer coating and gilding, Japan, Heian Period (794-1185), around 1100. Dainichi Nyorai, the “Great Sun Buddha”, occupies the central position in esoteric Buddhism and in its two principal mandalas: The Womb Mandala and the Vajra Sphere Mandala, known in Japanese as the Taizōkai- and Kongōkai-mandara. The figure’s mudra, or symbolic hand gesture, expresses the unity of opposites in this universal Buddha. Its refined style is associated with the culture of the Fujiwara elite, and the sculpture probably once stood as the main devotional image on the altar of a temple hall or pagoda.
The exhibition complements this with objects that imply domestic scale and repeated use. A small lacquered altar case for Fudō Myōō shows how devotion can be portable and intimate. The soot darkening on the figures is not damage in a purely negative sense. It is evidence of activation through incense and candle smoke. The object carries a trace of practice.
Small private altar for Fudō Myōō, Wood, black lacquer, gold Japan, Meiji Period (1868-1912), 2nd half 19th c. This small private shrine opens from a black-lacquered exterior onto a gilded interior containing Fudō Myōō, the “Immovable Wisdom King”, with his two attendants. Fudō’s wrathful appearance represents firmness against temptation and the force that removes obstacles on the path toward enlightenment. The figures were once brightly painted, but devotional use has left them darkened by soot. Portable altar shrines of this kind were popular objects of worship and were often obtained during pilgrimages.
While the small altar for Fudō Myōō represents domestic devotion accessible to lay believers, another form of everyday Buddhist practice is embodied by the rakusu, which belongs to the disciplined routines of Zen monastic life. The rakusu is a reduced form of the full monk’s robe (kesa) and is worn during meditation, rituals, and formal activities. Rather than mediating between devotee and deity, it materializes ethical commitment, ordination status, and lineage affiliation. As a continuously worn object, it integrates Buddhist practice directly into the body of the practitioner.
Zen-Buddhist monk’s robe (jap. rakusu), Silk gauze, lining fabric silk damask, Japan, Meiji Period (1868-1912), 2nd half 19th c. This pocket-like rakusu is a characteristic garment of Japanese Zen Buddhism. Worn like an apron across the front of the body, it is fastened with ties around the neck.
A major strength of the exhibition is that it treats scriptures not as neutral containers of meaning, but as ritually potent matter. Copying and sponsoring the copying of sutras is presented as an act that generates merit, supports deceased relatives, and links donors to the Buddha’s teaching through material labor.
Copy of one chapter of the ‘Great Sutra of Perfected Wisdom’, scroll (emakimono), blue-dyed paper, gold, silver, Japan, Chuson-ji, Heian Period (794-1185), late 12th c. The Great Sutra of the Perfection of Wisdom (Dai hannya haramitta kyō in Japanese, Mahā-prajñāpāramitā Sūtra in Sanskrit) consists of 600 scrolls and is the most extensive form of the Wisdom Sutras, the same textual family that includes the shorter Heart Sutra and Diamond Sutra. Its Chinese translation was made by the Indian pilgrim and translator Xuanzang. This scroll preserves the 34th chapter from scroll 282. The manuscript is especially notable for its costly materials and decoration. The scripture text is written in gold on blue-dyed paper, while the title page is embellished with gold paint and gold powder. Its scene shows Buddha Shakyamuni preaching on Vulture Peak. The outer cover carries a rich Tang-style floral design known in Japanese as hōsōge. This copy probably formed part of the complete sutra canon donated to Chūson-ji in Hiraizumi in 1176. The commission was made by Hidehira, then head of the Northern Fujiwara family and a monk, to mark the twentieth anniversary of the death of his father Motohira.
A Japanese copy of a chapter from the Great Sutra of the Perfection of Wisdom is shown as an extreme case of costly devotion: gold writing on blue paper, a carefully designed title page, and a luxurious cover. The emphasis is not only on legibility but on splendor as an offering. The exhibition pairs this with a Chinese scroll of the Diamond Sutra dated to the seventh century, whose colophon makes donor intention explicit: copying as a deliberate ethical and soteriological act for parents and all beings. The underlying idea is that the scripture’s presence, and the act of producing it, can function like a relic.
Another detail of the Copy of one chapter of the ‘Great Sutra of Perfected Wisdom’ scroll.
This perspective clarifies why East Asian Buddhism developed a rich spectrum of textual practices: copying, storing, enshrining, circulating, and visually staging texts. The scripture becomes an object that can be approached, possessed, and installed, not only read.
Copy of one chapter of the ‘Diamond Sutra’, scroll, yellow-dyed hemp, ink China, Tang Dynasty (617/618-907), dated to 657. According to the colophon at the end of this nearly six-metre scroll, Jiang Shiren, an official in the imperial army, commissioned the copying of a chapter of the Diamond Sutra in 657. The merit of the act was dedicated to the enlightenment of his parents and of all living beings. The Diamond Sutra (Jingang jing in Chinese) is a translation of an Indian text dating from roughly the 2nd to 4th century. Together with the Heart Sutra and the Lotus Sutra, it became one of the most widely revered scriptures of East Asian Buddhism. This scroll preserves about half of chapter 577 from a text tradition comprising 600 chapters. In the sutra, the Buddha responds to questions from his disciple Subhuti concerning the path and duties of bodhisattvas, the emptiness of all existence, and the spiritual value of the Diamond Sutra itself. The scripture presents this value as immeasurable and comparable to the power of a bodily relic of the Buddha. This helps explain why copying and venerating Buddhist texts became such an important practice across East Asia.
The exhibition makes this material understanding of scripture especially tangible through containers designed to hold and protect Buddhist texts. A cylindrical lacquered container with mother-of-pearl inlay and a bronze sutra box from the Goryeo period exemplify how texts were treated as precious substances. Such containers were not neutral storage solutions. They defined where a text could be placed, who could access it, and how it participated in ritual space. In some cases, scriptures were deposited together with relics in pagodas or tomb foundations, effectively equating written teaching with bodily presence. The container thus becomes part of the ritual economy: it stabilizes the text’s power by enclosing it, preserving it, and assigning it a fixed location within devotional architecture.
Cylindrical Sutra container, Wood, black lacquer with mother of pearl inlays, Korea or Japan, 16/17th c. This long cylindrical container was probably made to hold a Buddhist sutra scroll. Its elaborate mother-of-pearl decoration forms a turtle-shell pattern with possible precedents in either Korea or Japan. Because the lid is later and was added in Japan, the original place of production cannot be determined with certainty.
Container for Buddhist Texts, Bronze, Korea, Goryeo Dynasty (918-1392), 13th c. Made from thin sheets of bronze, this conical container has a simple decoration of two horizontal lines and a domed lid with a bud-shaped knob at the centre. Objects of this type were used to enclose Buddhist texts. Such texts could be deposited as votive offerings in the foundations of pagodas or tombs, either alongside bodily relics of the Buddha or in their place.
The exhibition also includes objects that sit between text and image: votive works commissioned to generate and transfer religious merit. A Tang dynasty Buddhist votive stele exemplifies this logic. Its carved image program is paired with a donor inscription that names the commissioner and states the intended purpose of the act: the accumulation of merit for ancestors and living family members.
Buddhist Votive Stele, Sandstone, China, Tang Dynasty (617/618-907), cyclically dated to 664.
The stele does not function primarily as representation. It materializes a transaction. By fixing donor, image, and intention in stone, it stabilizes an otherwise intangible exchange between human action and cosmic order. The combination of image, inscription, and ritual context turns the object into a durable node within a social and religious network.
The stele is arranged around a main image niche. At its centre stands a Buddha, accompanied by monks and bodhisattvas; below them, two devotees kneel before an incense burner. The upper section is filled with heavenly flying beings, or apsaras, who hold heavy strings of pearls that twist around one another. At the centre, a pagoda rises above a supporting demon mask, perhaps referring to the future Buddha Maitreya, while another Buddha figure is enthroned among the garlands. The scene is probably connected with the Descent of Maitreya Buddha, shown across both earthly and celestial realms. Inscriptions along the bottom and sides date the stele to 664 and name Zhai Baicheng as the donor, who commissioned the votive image to gain religious merit for his ancestors and for living members of his family. The rather awkward calligraphy and the style of the figures point to a provincial workshop.
The provincial execution of the figures and script underscores that such merit economies were not confined to imperial or elite contexts. They operated across regions through standardized visual and epigraphic forms, anticipating later practices in which images were ritually activated, installed, and authorized.
Another view of the central image niche.
Another cluster of objects centers on the Pure Land traditions focused on Amitabha Buddha. Here ritual is organized around an accessible practice: reciting Amitabha’s name, with the promise of rebirth in the Western Paradise.
Descent of Amitabha Buddha (jap. Amida Raigō), Wood, gold leaf, Japan, Early Muromachi Period (1336-1573), around 1400. This group represents the Japanese Amida Raigō, the descent of Amitabha Buddha at the moment of death. In this belief, Amida appears with his attendants to those who recite his name in their final hour and leads them to paradise. The triad consists of Amida together with the two bodhisattvas Kannon and Seishi. The three sculptures were not originally made as a single set, but they all date to the early Muromachi period and correspond closely in style and scale. Amida joins his thumb and ring finger in the mudra of the highest level of rebirth. Kannon and Seishi bend slightly, giving the impression that they are descending. Seishi holds his hands in prayer, while Kannon originally carried a small lotus pedestal on his extended arms, now lost, to receive the soul of the deceased.
The exhibition includes imagery of the Western Paradise in the Taima Mandara idiom, where the Pure Land is rendered as an architectural and cosmological order populated by bodhisattvas, lotus ponds, and reborn devotees. Closely related is the theme of Amida Raigō, the descent of Amitabha at the moment of death. Sculptural triads and pictorial representations translate an existential concern into visual form: the hope for a guided transition.
The ‘Western Paradise’ of the Amitabha Buddha, Woodblock print, ink, colours and gold on paper, Japan, Edo Period (1603-1868), 18th c. This hanging scroll shows the Western Paradise of Buddha Amitabha, called Amida in Japan: the Pure Land of the West, or Sukhāvatī in Sanskrit and Jōdo in Japanese. The composition follows the model of the Taima Mandara. Amida sits enthroned on the terrace of a palace complex, surrounded by bodhisattvas, while believers are reborn from lotus flowers in the waters of the lotus pond. The name “Taima Mandara” derives from the earliest Japanese example of this type, an 8th-century tapestry kept at Taima-dera near Nara, of which fragments still survive. In later centuries, the term came to be used more generally for paradise images based on that model. Along three sides of the mandala appear scenes from the Sutra of Meditation on the Buddha of Infinite Life: on the left, the story of Queen Vaidehi; on the right, meditative practices connected with reaching the nine grades of rebirth in paradise. The image expresses the central promise of the Pure Land School: even a single recitation of Amida’s name can lead to rebirth in his paradise.
One embroidered depiction goes further by representing the deities through Sanskrit syllables rather than bodies, turning the image into a meditation device that is simultaneously textual and iconic. The use of human hair in such works indicates an intensely personal mode of dedication, where the donor’s body participates in the offering.
Descent of Amitabha Buddha (jap. Amida Raigō), Embroidered scroll painting (J. shūbutsu), silk, human hair, pigments, Japan, Muromachi Period (1333-1573). This embroidered scroll presents the Amida Raigō, the descent of Amitabha Buddha, in a highly abstract form. Amida, Seishi, and Kannon are not shown as figures, but through embroidered Sanskrit syllables. Such images were used to support meditation. The inclusion of human hair in the embroidery gives the work a strongly personal devotional character.
‘The Western Paradise of Amitabha Buddha’ at the entrance of the ‘Great Wild Goose Pagoda’, Stone rubbing, ink on paper, China, Relief: Tang Dynasty (617/618-907), dated 652, rubbing: 1950s. This ink rubbing reproduces a Tang-period stone relief at the entrance of the Great Wild Goose Pagoda in Xi’an. The image shows Amitabha Buddha with attendant bodhisattvas, set within palace architecture. Before his throne, newly reborn beings kneel on lotus flowers. From the 7th century onward, devotees increasingly connected such imagery with the hope of rebirth in Amitabha’s Western Paradise. The relief forms the western tympanum of a group of four decorations on the Great Wild Goose Pagoda, the relic pagoda of the Great Temple of Compassion and Mercy (Da Ci’ensi) in Xi’an, the former Tang capital. The temple was founded in 648 by Emperor Taizong in memory of his mother and later housed the Buddhist texts, relics, and images brought back from India by the famous monk and pilgrim Xuanzang. During the Ming dynasty, the pagoda required extensive renovation. The relief had by then suffered heavy damage, and the non-Buddhist inscriptions on it date from that later period. As Buddhist monuments, pagodas are places where the Buddha’s teachings, relics, scriptures, and images are honoured. Devotees circumambulate them clockwise, so that both figural and non-figural traces of the Buddha become active supports for merit-making and progress toward enlightenment.
The exhibition’s most socially direct materials concern the afterlife and the moral economy of judgment. Kshitigarbha, known in Japan as Jizō and in Korea as Jijang Posal, appears as a central savior figure associated with the ten hells. The exhibition includes both sculpture and painting that present him as a judge-like presence embedded in a bureaucratic cosmos populated by kings of hell, assistants, registers, and punishments.
Bodhisattva Kshitigarbha (jap. Jizō Bosatsu), Hinoki wood, traces of different layers of coating, Japan, Kamakura Period (1185-1333), around 1300. Jizō is one of the most frequently depicted bodhisattvas in Japan, as he is venerated as the saviour from the ten hells. He is the only bodhisattva depicted with a shaved head and in monk’s attire, consisting of a skirt, outer garment and a robe (jap. kesa) draped over both his shoulders. Like a wandering monk, he holds a staff in his right hand, the six rattles of which symbolize the six realms of rebirth. This was added later. The wish granting jewel on his left hand, as well as his long earlobes and the wisdom eye (Sanskrit: urna) on his forehead, identify him as an enlightened being. Sculptures of Jizō can be found not only in temples in Japan, but also at numerous crossroads, carved from stone and draped on red attire, to commemorate deceased children.
A Japanese sculpture of Jizō emphasizes his monk-like identity and his role as mediator across the six realms. Korean materials intensify the institutional dimension: monumental paintings with detailed consecration inscriptions list donors and ritual participants, making visible how ritual is socially organized and financially supported. Sculptural attendants and judges of hell, sometimes with frightening features and official attire, demonstrate how Confucian political imagery and Buddhist cosmology merge. Particularly striking is the explicit depiction of donation as a counterweight to transgressions, an almost accounting-like model in which offerings and sutra donations can mitigate the duration of suffering.
Bodhisattva Kshitigarbha of the Six Realms of Rebirth, Hanging scroll (kakemono), silk, ink, colours and gold applications, Nanbokuchō Period (1336-1392). This kakemono presents Kshitigarbha, known in Japan as Jizō, in his role as ruler over the six realms into which beings are reborn before enlightenment. These realms are shown above him on brightly coloured cloud bands: Hell, hungry ghosts, animals, demons, humans, and gods. Jizō occupies a throne and appears in the posture of a judge. He is attended by two figures holding scrolls and by two kings of hell. In the lower part of the image stands the legendary monk Daoming, shown with his lion and with his father Mingong. Daoming was traditionally regarded as the author of the Chinese Sutra of the Ten Kings of Hell (Shiwang shengqi jing). His lion, understood as a manifestation of Bodhisattva Manjushri, is said to have enabled him to overcome hell. Daoming and his father, who gave away all his wealth, are both described as having reached enlightenment.
Bodhisattva Kshitigarbha and the Ten Kings of Hell (kor. Jijang Posal), Hanging scroll, hemp or coarse silk, ink and colour, Korea, Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910), dated 1764. This large Korean hanging scroll shows Kshitigarbha, known in Korea as Jijang Posal, together with the Ten Kings of Hell and their attendants. In front appear the monk Daoming with his lion and, opposite him, his father Mingong. The forceful use of colour suits the religious setting of late Joseon Korea. By this period, Confucianism dominated the court, while Buddhist monasteries had lost much of their former political importance. The inscription reflects this context through its dating system: it gives the year as Jiashen, corresponding to 1764, within the Qianlong reign period of the Qing dynasty. A long consecration text records the foundation ritual for the image, which was installed on the central altar of the Naewonam sub-temple of Changosa Temple. It names not only the principal donors, but also the scribes, nuns and monks responsible for the chanting, temple guardians, and other assistants who took part in the ceremony. A second inscription, placed to the left outside the cartouche, refers to a later purification ritual after the painting had been restored and again lists the people involved.
This section also makes clear that Buddhist ritual is not only contemplative. It is also administrative, communal, and ethically disciplinary. The artworks function as pedagogical instruments that shape conduct by staging consequences.
The Eighth King of Hell (detail), Hanging scroll, ink, colours on hemp, Korea, Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910), 16th/17th c. Korean Buddhist temples often include special halls devoted to the hell realms. These realms are governed by ten kings with their attendants; after death, each person passes through them, and the conditions of the next rebirth are determined there. Paintings like this hanging scroll of the Eighth King of Hell were placed behind nearly life-size sculptures of the same judges and their assistants. In the lower section, the dead are shown being assessed: their wrongdoings are weighed against donations of money and sutras made either during their own lifetime or later by their descendants. This balance determines how long they must remain in each hell.
Seated Assistant to a Judge of Hell, Stoneware, glazed China, Ming Dynasty (1368-1644), c. 1488-1521. Figures associated with the ten Buddhist hells often combine the dress of Confucian officials with a deliberately fearsome appearance: staring eyes, tense brows, and a greenish complexion. This seated attendant seems to be presenting a record of a deceased person’s offenses, held in his left hand, to the judge of hell. Such figures, sometimes made almost life-size, stood in special temple halls together with painted scenes showing the punishments of the different hells. They served as vivid reminders to follow Buddhist moral discipline. At the same time, these halls offered worshippers a place to seek mercy and a quicker passage through hell for themselves or their ancestors through prayers and donations.
Child attendant with phoenix (kor.: Deongje), Pine wood polychrome pigments, Korea, Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910), 17th/18th c. This well-preserved, finely carved pine-wood figure shows a young attendant holding a phoenix and once formed part of a larger ensemble linked to the Ten Kings of Hell. In Korean Buddhist temple halls concerned with hell, figures of this kind stood between the kneeling devotee and the more intimidating images of judges and punishments. Their childlike form made the scene less threatening, while the ritual purpose remained serious: through offerings and prayers, worshippers sought to reduce the time their deceased relatives would spend in hell.
Between cult images of Buddhas and bodhisattvas and the bureaucratic imagery of hell, the exhibition introduces another important ritual figure: the Luohan, the enlightened disciples of Shakyamuni. Unlike Buddhas or bodhisattvas, Luohan are not cosmic saviors. They are exemplary witnesses of the teaching, figures whose authority derives from proximity to the historical Buddha and from their continued presence in the world after his passing.
Seven of the group of Eighteen Luohan, Chalkstone, traces of colour coating China, Song Dynasty (960-1279).
A group of Chinese stone sculptures representing seven of the Eighteen Luohan illustrates how this authority was materialized. These figures were not conceived as isolated artworks but as parts of ritual ensembles, likely installed in temple halls or cave sanctuaries. Their slightly individualized features and expressive postures reflect a tradition in which Luohan were imagined as active, almost uncanny presences endowed with extraordinary powers. Ritual festivals explicitly invited them to descend and partake in offerings, and images served as the necessary points of address for such encounters.
Seven of the group of Eighteen Luohan, Chalkstone, traces of colour coating China, Song Dynasty (960-1279). The Luohan, known in Sanskrit as arhats, are enlightened disciples who followed the historical Buddha on the Buddhist path. Early Buddhist tradition first emphasized individual disciples such as Ananda and Kashyapa, and later grouped them in sets of four or ten. A group of sixteen Luohan became authoritative through the Record of the Abiding Law (Fazhuji), translated by the Indian pilgrim Xuanzang. From the Song dynasty onward, this set was enlarged to eighteen. The two added figures show Daoist influence and are accompanied by a dragon and a tiger, symbols of the eastern and western directions. Around the same period, devotion to the Luohan became more prominent. They were credited with extraordinary powers, including flight and the preservation of the body after death, and images of them were used in ritual feasts to which the Luohan were invited. Caves also became associated with Luohan worship. This idea was strengthened by the legend of the monk Zhu Tanyou, who was said to have encountered a mythical arhat in a cave. Comparisons with Luohan figures from the Feilaifeng cave temples near Hangzhou suggest that these seven museum figures may originally have belonged to a similar sacred setting.
The exhibition then shifts from sculptural presence to reproduction as a mode of ritual authority. Stone rubbings after Luohan depictions by the Tang dynasty monk painter Guanxiu demonstrate how copying functions not as a loss of authenticity, but as its multiplication. By transferring relief images into ink impressions on paper, the Luohan could circulate across regions, contexts, and generations. The exhibition’s comparison between black and vermilion rubbings reveals that such reproductions were embedded in political and imperial practices as well. Emperor Qianlong’s inscriptions and commissions assert control over lineage, authorship, and sacred heritage, while at the same time extending the ritual reach of the images.
Four Luohan Depictions after Guanxiu, Stone rubbing, black ink on paper, China, Reliefs: 18th c., rubbings: early 20th c. These black-ink rubbings reproduce reliefs connected with the famous Luohan images attributed to the Tang painter Guanxiu. In the 18th century, the Qing emperor Qianlong had stone versions of these Luohan made for Shengyinsi Temple in Hangzhou, and many later rubbings were taken from such reliefs. Recent research has shown, however, that the Hangzhou set was not the only one. A second, identical series of reliefs also existed in the Ningshougong, the Palace of Tranquil Longevity, within Qianlong’s garden in the Forbidden City in Beijing. The exhibition therefore compares four early 20th-century black rubbings with a vermilion rubbing made in the second half of the 20th century. The comparison suggests that the museum’s vermilion Luohan rubbing may not come from Shengyinsi, as once thought, but from the Ningshougong reliefs. In the black rubbing of Panthaka, a break in the stone appears in the upper part, whereas the later red version does not show it. The red rubbing also has rounded upper corners, probably reflecting the arched frames used for the Ningshougong reliefs. By contrast, the relief panels on the Shengyinsi lantern were fitted together without frames. The two sets also differ in their numbering and in the transcription of the Luohan names.
What emerges is a model of religious efficacy that does not depend on singular originals. Authority is stabilized through repetition, standardization, and controlled variation. The Luohan remain ritually present not because one original image survives, but because their forms can be faithfully reactivated through copying. In this sense, the Luohan section deepens one of the exhibition’s central claims: Buddhist images do not merely represent sacred figures. They are ‘technologies’ for producing presence, even when that presence is mediated through reproduction.
Luohan Depictions after Guanxiu, Stone rubbing, vermilion-red ink on paper, China, Reliefs: 18th c., rubbings: 2nd half 20th c. Unlike the usual black-ink technique, these stone rubbings from the “Sixteen Luohan” series were made with auspicious vermilion pigment. In a rubbing, ink is tapped onto paper laid over the carved surface; the raised areas take the colour, while the recessed relief remains white. The images go back to the celebrated Luohan paintings of the monk and painter Guanxiu, whose unusual portrayals of the Indian disciples of the Buddha became famous in China. Beside the sixteenth Luohan, Nandimitra, appears a long inscription written and sealed by the Qing emperor Qianlong. It records his visit to Shengyinsi Temple in Hangzhou in 1757, where he saw the original hanging scrolls and was so impressed that he ordered sixteen stone reliefs to be made. The names and character descriptions of the Luohan were added above each figure, to the right or left. A further inscription by the Shengyinsi abbot Mingshui appears at the lower right of the Nandimitra image. It states that the sixteen relief panels were mounted on the outer sides of a lantern in a separate hall.
The Luohan thus anticipate what becomes fully explicit in the Korean consecration practices shown later: images gain authority not by being made once, but by being ritually activated, reproduced, and institutionally anchored.
The exhibition treats objects such as incense vessels, vajras, and bells as instruments rather than ornaments. A lotus-shaped incense container embodies the logic of sensory offering: fragrance as a medium of devotion.
Incense-container in the shape of a Lotus bouquet, Bronze, Japan, Meiji Period (1868-1912). The two lotus buds on this bronze incense container can be opened and served as chambers for burning incense. In Buddhist symbolism, the lotus has a central place: it grows from muddy ground, yet its flowers emerge clean and luminous on the surface of the water.
In esoteric Buddhism, the vajra and bell function as paired tools that materialize cosmic principles and are used in specific ritual sequences. The exhibition includes a rare nine-pronged vajra and bell with elaborate animal motifs, as well as a one-pronged vajra with demon masks that can be read as intensifications of elemental power. The point is not to decode every symbol, but to understand that these objects were designed to be held, sounded, and coordinated with mantras and gestures. They presuppose a choreography of practice.
Nine-pronged ‘scepter’ and bell (Sanskrit: vajra), Bronze, China, Yuan Dynasty (1279-1368). The vajra and bell are among the key ritual implements of esoteric Buddhism, appearing in different forms according to the ritual context. Used together, they express complementary cosmic principles, including masculine and feminine, joined in a transcendent unity. The vajra also has an active protective function: it overcomes harmful forces and brings beneficial effects into being. This nine-pronged vajra is an unusual type in Japan. Together with its matching bell, it was used in rites of the Wisdom King Yamantaka, known in Japanese as Daiitoku Myōō. The form is more common in Tibet and was also known in China during the Song and Yuan dynasties. Its elaborate points are shaped as paired dragons and phoenixes, and the bell handle follows the same design. Although the set was made in China, Frieda Fischer, collector and former director of the Museum of East Asian Art in Cologne, recorded that it was acquired in Japan on Mount Kōyasan, the sacred centre of the esoteric Shingon school.
One-pronged ‘scepter’ (Sanskrit: vajra), Bronze, fire gilding, blue-green patina, Japan, Kamakura Period (1185-1333). With its sharp, weapon-like form, the vajra is also known as a “scepter” or “thunderbolt”. Together with the ritual bell, it belongs to the central implements of esoteric Buddhist practice and stands for the force that breaks through obstacles. The demon masks at the centre may represent the elemental deities of earth, water, fire, and air, intensifying the object’s ritual power.
Another vajra.
A smaller but conceptually important group of works concerns ritual requests and protections within ordinary life. The Mother of Demons, Hariti, appears in sculptural and painted form as an example of a deity whose narrative transformation from threat to protector becomes a guarantee of efficacy. The scroll format that combines image and ritual instructions suggests that such works operated as manuals and devices, not only as depictions.
The Mother of Demons (jap. Kishibōjin; Sanskrit: Hariti), Wood, colours and gold applications, Japan, Edo Period (1603-1868). This carefully carved sculpture is richly decorated with colourful patterns and gold. An inscription on the base, not yet deciphered, connects the work with the tradition of a well-known Japanese family of master carvers. Hariti, known in Japan as Kishibōjin, originated as a Hindu deity and was described as the mother of thousands of demons who preyed on human children. After her conversion by the Buddha, she became transformed into a protective figure. Her foreign origin is suggested by her flowing, brightly coloured robes, which recall Chinese dress, and she holds an infant in her arms. In Japan, Kishibōjin continues to be worshipped in many temples as a guardian of children, families, and pregnant women.
Related household concerns appear again in the Chinese porcelain depiction of Songzi Guanyin, Avalokiteshvara as a bringer of children. Here the exhibition quietly shows how Buddhist devotion intersects with family structure, gender expectations, and the desire for continuity. Even when modern viewers resist these social assumptions, the objects remain valuable evidence for what people wanted, feared, and prayed for.
The Mother of Demons (jap. Kishibōjin; Sanskrit: Hariti), Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink, colours on paper, Japan, Edo Period (1603-1868). This coloured sketch comes from what was once a longer ritual manuscript showing individual deities in their proper liturgical setting, probably within the Shingon or Tendai tradition. Hariti, known in Japan as Kishibōjin, had once been a Hindu child-devouring deity before being converted by the Buddha and absorbed into the Buddhist pantheon as a guardian of children and families. Here she appears among her offspring and holds a pomegranate, a symbol of fertility. The lined sheets attached to both sides preserve ritual instructions and mantras for recitation. Although the image was made for ritual practice, it was probably later mounted as a kakemono for the art market.
Apart from the Mother of Demons motif, a very common focus of household devotion in East Asia concerns fertility and childbirth through the figure of Avalokiteśvara. In China, this bodhisattva was venerated in the specific form of Songzi Guanyin, Guanyin as a giver of children. The porcelain figure from Dehua shows Avalokiteśvara seated calmly with a child in her lap, accompanied by youthful attendants. Such images addressed concrete, socially embedded concerns: the hope for offspring, family continuity, and security within the household.
Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara with a Child (chin. Songzi Guanyin Pusa), Porcelain, cold painting, China, Dehua, Fujian province, Qing Dynasty (1644-1911), 18th c. In China, Avalokitesvara was often approached by women seeking a safe birth and, ideally, a son. From the Song dynasty onward, popular texts and images increasingly presented the bodhisattva in female form. Here Guanyin appears as Songzi Guanyin, the child-giving Guanyin, with a child seated on her lap. She sits on a rocky, dragon-entwined throne and is accompanied by her two child attendants, Longnü and Shancai. The setting refers to Putuo Shan near Shanghai, Guanyin’s Chinese sacred island and one of the major pilgrimage sites devoted to this bodhisattva.
The popularity of Songzi Guanyin reflects a broader transformation of Avalokiteśvara in Chinese religious culture. From the Song dynasty onward, the bodhisattva was increasingly perceived as female in popular devotion, particularly in contexts related to compassion, protection, and childbirth. While rooted in canonical Buddhist tradition, these images respond directly to everyday anxieties rather than abstract soteriological goals. The rocky throne and dragon motifs refer to Guanyin’s abode on Mount Putuo, situating domestic devotion within a wider pilgrimage landscape.
Together with the Hariti images, Songzi Guanyin illustrates how Buddhist ritual practice extended deeply into private life. These works were not primarily intended for doctrinal contemplation, but for repeated acts of address, offering, and hope. They demonstrate how Buddhist imagery mediated between religious cosmology and lived social realities, making divine compassion available within the intimate space of the household.
The exhibition culminates in a Korean practice that makes the activation of images explicit: the Bulbokjang ceremony, an eye-opening or consecration ritual that transforms an artwork into a powerful cult image. The key idea is that a Buddhist image becomes effective through ritual installation of sacred contents and accompanying acts performed in a spatial order aligned with the cardinal directions.
Votive Bag for the ‘Enshrined Objects’ (kor. bokjang), Various textiles, Korea, modern. This modern bokjang bag illustrates the form and range of textiles used for Korean consecration bags (kor. bokjang translates to “consecrated objects”). Once ritually filled, such bags are placed with Buddhist sculptures or paintings as “enshrined objects”. Their historical contents are still not fully understood, since ritual manuals and archaeological finds do not always correspond. They regularly include small bottles in the five colours of the cardinal directions, filled with medicinal or aromatic substances; relics and Buddhist texts may also be added. Consecration rites, i.e., Bulbokjang ceremonies, also known as eye-opening ceremonies, make an image into an active Buddhist cult object. On 17 May 2025, the Museum of East Asian Art in Cologne hosted a Korean Bulbokjang ritual, the “Consecration of Objects in a Buddhist Image”. This form of ceremony is today preserved only in Korea. In an altar space arranged according to the five cardinal directions, precious substances, texts, and relics are prepared in a consecration bag, accompanied by secret ritual actions. The filled bag is then inserted into the hollow interior of a Buddhist sculpture or attached to the reverse of a Buddhist painting. The Cologne ceremony was conducted by Master Gyeongam together with nine other monks. The image consecrated was a copy of the Yeongsanhoisang-do, the “Sermon of Buddha Shakyamuni at Vulture Peak”. A second copy displayed in the exhibition shows that seed syllables in siddham script can also be attached to the back of the painting in order to empower the deity.
The exhibition presents modern examples of votive bags and related materials, facsimiles of paintings used in consecration contexts, and rubbings of esoteric texts connected to the ritual. Particularly instructive is the attention to the back side of paintings, where inscriptions and seed syllables can be applied. This reveals something that museum display often hides: the ritual “engineering” of images includes what is not meant to be seen frontally.
Sermon of Buddha Shakyamuni at Vulture-peak Mountain (kor. Yeongsanhoisang-do), Facsimile, Korea. Original hanging scroll: Haeinsa temple (Joseon Dynasty 1392-1910) dated 1729. This facsimile reproduces a 1729 Korean painting of Buddha Shakyamuni preaching at Vulture Peak, known in Korean as Yeongsanhoisang-do. The original was made by the monk painter Euigyeom, celebrated as a master and remembered by the epithet “brush wizard” (Hoseom). Shakyamuni is shown touching the earth with his right hand, calling it to witness the truth of his enlightenment. Around him gathers a vast assembly of bodhisattvas, monks, and deities. A long inscription beneath the throne records the donors and the participants in the consecration ritual of 1729. The original hanging scroll was painted for a hall of Haeinsa Temple and is now preserved in the temple museum. Haeinsa is also famous for housing the woodblocks of the 13th-century Korean Buddhist canon, the Tripitaka Koreana.
This final section reframes the entire exhibition. A cult image is not simply made by an artist and then used. It is manufactured, filled, empowered, and only then allowed to function as a living node in a network of rituals.
Another facsimile of the Sermon of Buddha Shakyamuni at Vulture-peak Mountain (kor. Yeongsanhoisang-do), Korea. Original hanging scroll: Haeinsa temple (Joseon Dynasty 1392-1910) dated 1729. This second facsimile of the Yeongsanhoisang-do shows the reverse of the image. On the back, sacred formulae are inscribed, revealing a part of the consecration practice normally hidden from view.
Copies of Esoteric-Buddhist Texts, Rubbing, red ink on paper, Korea, Rubbing: modern. Original text: Haeinsa printing blocks, 13th c. The study of the Bulbokjang ceremony has not yet been completed. Ritual texts such as different versions of the Chosang kyŏng, the “Sutra on the Production of Buddhist Images”, give instructions for the consecration of images, but surviving objects do not always follow these prescriptions, and the rules themselves can be open to interpretation. For this reason, the Society for the Preservation of the Bulbokjang Ceremony is also examining which scriptures, sayings, formulas, and protective texts were commonly placed inside consecration bags. The three red-ink rubbings shown here reproduce esoteric Buddhist texts and amulets from the Haeinsa printing blocks, containing mantras and dharanis that Master Gyeongam was able to identify as elements of the Bulbokjang ritual.
Let’s recap what the exhibition reveals about the relationship between Buddhist art and ritual practice in East Asia.
What surprised me is that across China, Korea, and Japan, Buddhist art seems to have developed in close and sustained entanglement with ritual practice. Images, texts, and objects were not primarily conceived as autonomous works, but as components of structured actions unfolding in time and space. Calendrical commemorations, daily offerings, funerary rites, esoteric ceremonies, and household devotions all relied on material supports that made religious concepts operational. Art, in this context, functioned less as representation than as infrastructure.
Despite regional differences, I see kind of a shared logic behind these practices. Sculptural and pictorial images of Buddhas and bodhisattvas were not “just” art objects, but served as focal points of presence. They anchored (ritual) attention as well as bodily orientation.
Scriptures operated simultaneously as teachings and as “powerful” objects whose copying, storage, and installation was and is meant to generate merit. And reproduction, whether through woodblock printing, stone rubbings, or manuscript copying, did not weaken their (spiritual) authority but extended it, allowing ritual efficacy to circulate across distance and generations. Even bureaucratic visions of hell and judgment translated moral concepts into administrable systems that linked ethical conduct, donation, and communal responsibility.
One of the exhibitions rooms. Here: The Seven of the group of Eighteen Luohan (China, Song Dynasty (960-1279)). See further images in the text for a more detailled caption.
At the same time, the exhibition makes clear that East Asian Buddhist ritual culture was never monolithic. Esoteric ritual technologies centered on mandalas, mantras, and implements coexisted with accessible devotional practices such as Pure Land recitation. Public temple rituals intersected with domestic concerns, including childbirth, protection, and memorialization (i.e., funerary rites). In Korea, consecration practices such as Bulbokjang foregrounded the process by which images were ritually “activated”, making explicit what elsewhere often remained implicit: That an image became effective not by virtue of form alone, but through structured acts of installation, filling, and authorization. We can find similar Buddhist practices in other regions of Asia as well.
A brief comparison with Western religious traditions may help to get a closer perspective on this. Christian ritual objects such as relics and reliquaries, icons, or consecrated altars likewise derive their significance not primarily from artistic originality, but from ritual authorization, proximity to the sacred, and repeated liturgical use. Yet in many Western art-historical contexts, these objects are more readily separated from their ritual functions and reclassified as artworks, symbols, or historical artifacts. The East Asian materials assembled in this exhibition resist such a separation more strongly. Here, ritual activation, reproduction, and material handling remain visibly integral to meaning, making it harder to abstract the object from the practices that sustain it. Something that I really enjoyed during the exhibition.
Taken together, the exhibition raises important questions about the relationship between materiality, ritual, and meaning in the Buddhist context. It invites us to look beyond the “front” of an image and to consider how objects were made to function in a network of practices that extended across time and space. As for other spiritual contexts, Buddhist objects were made to last, but more importantly, they were made to be used. Their meaning emerged not in isolation, but through ritual cycles that structured memory, ethics, and hope across centuries and across regions. And we can find such practices in other religious traditions as well, including Christianity, Islam, and Hinduism. The exhibition thus offers a valuable case study for understanding how material culture can be deeply intertwined with religious life, and how objects can serve as active participants in the ongoing creation of meaning and community.
Further recommended reading: In our post From Gothic to Zen: Comparing medieval Western and Eastern wooden sculptures, we have previously compared how wooden sculptures were used in medieval Christian and Buddhist contexts. If you want to learn more about this topic, have a look at that post as well.
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Horse and groom, bronze, China, Eastern Han Dynasty (25-220). The elegant, long-legged form of this horse, together with its high-tied tassel, suggests a connection with the celebrated horses of the Ferghana Valley in Central Asia. In 128 BCE, Emperor Wudi of the Han sent a large military expedition to that region in pursuit of the famous “heavenly horses” (tianma). These animals were later bred for generations in imperial stables and became the subject of poetic praise. The bronze horse was cast in eleven separate sections and is a striking example of technical skill, with walls only about 4 mm thick. Traces of pigment show that it was once vividly painted. As a tomb object, it was intended to provide the deceased with the luxuries and prestige of life beyond death. The small booted groom reaching toward the reins may represent a prisoner of war, possibly from the Xiongnu.
Rather than focusing on a single tradition, the exhibition traces how the horse appears across East Asian cultures as a mythological being, military asset, social marker, and artistic motif. Paintings and woodblock prints are shown alongside ceramics, bronzes, lacquerware, and ritual objects, forming a dense visual narrative that moves between everyday life, religious belief, and imperial representation.
In this post, I’d like to summarize my impressions and insights from the exhibition.
Before we begin, a brief note on the calendrical framework that gives the exhibition its title and temporal structure. The Chinese lunar calendar, introduced during the Spring and Autumn period (722–481 BCE), structures time through a cycle of twelve zodiac animals. Each year is associated with a specific animal whose perceived characteristics shape cultural expectations and symbolic meanings. The Year of the Horse begins on February 17, 2026, and ends on February 6, 2027, when it will be replaced by the Year of the Goat.
Chinese Zodiac carvings on ceiling of Kushida Shrine, Fukuoka, Japan. The twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac are depicted in a circular arrangement on the ceiling of the main hall of Kushida Shrine in Fukuoka. Each animal is intricately carved and painted, showcasing traditional Japanese craftsmanship influenced by Chinese culture. The shrine, dedicated to the deity Amaterasu, is a significant cultural site in Fukuoka, and the zodiac carvings add to its rich artistic heritage. Note: The image is mirrored. Source: Wikimedia Commons (license: CC BY-SA 4.0).
Here is a table listing the twelve zodiac animals and their corresponding years in the 21st century:
| Animal | Hanzi trad. (/simp.) | Years |
|---|---|---|
| Rat | 鼠 (shǔ) | 2008, 2020, 2032 |
| Ox | 牛 (niú) | 2009, 2021, 2033 |
| Tiger | 虎 (hǔ) | 2010, 2022, 2034 |
| Rabbit | 兔 (tù) | 2011, 2023, 2035 |
| Dragon | 龍 / 龙 (lóng) | 2012, 2024, 2036 |
| Snake | 蛇 (shé) | 2013, 2025, 2037 |
| Horse | 馬 / 马 (mǎ) | 2014, 2026, 2038 |
| Goat | 羊 (yáng) | 2015, 2027, 2039 |
| Monkey | 猴 (hóu) | 2016, 2028, 2040 |
| Rooster | 雞 / 鸡 (jī) | 2017, 2029, 2041 |
| Dog | 狗 (gǒu) | 2018, 2030, 2042 |
| Pig | 豬 / 猪 (zhū) | 2019, 2031, 2043 |
Within this calendrical system, the horse is traditionally associated with strength, mobility, endurance, and independence. These qualities are not abstract attributes but are grounded in the animal’s historical role in warfare, transport, hunting, and long-distance exchange. The exhibition uses the zodiacal framework as an entry point rather than as an explanatory endpoint, allowing the broader cultural history of the horse in East Asia to unfold across regions and centuries.
Across East Asia, the horse occupies a central position at the intersection of myth, state power, and daily life. As a means of transport, it enabled territorial expansion, military defense, and communication over vast distances. As a living being, it became a companion to rulers, warriors, scholars, and travelers. As an artistic motif, it carried layered meanings that differed according to cultural context, religious tradition, and historical moment.
Photo of reintroduced Przewalski’s horse taken at the “Seer” release site, managed by the Association pour le cheval de Przewalski: TAKH, in the Khar Us Nuur National Park Buffer Zone. The Przewalski horse (equus ferus przewalskii), also known as the Mongolian wild horse or Takhi, is a rare and endangered wild horse native to the steppes of Central Asia. It represents the only extant horse population that did not arise from domesticated ancestors and is therefore often described as the last truly wild horse. Genetically, it forms a distinct lineage within the horse complex, separate from the ancestors of modern domestic horses (equus ferus caballus). Source: Wikimedia Commons (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
The exhibition makes clear that while China, Korea, and Japan share certain symbolic frameworks, each culture developed its own visual language for representing the horse. These differences are not merely stylistic, but reflect distinct political systems, religious beliefs, and social structures.
In Chinese art, the horse is among the most long-lasting and symbolically charged motifs. Archaeological and zoological evidence suggests that horses were first domesticated in China during the Neolithic Longshan culture (ca. 4800–4000 BCE), with genetic links to the so-called Przewalski horse (a wild subspecies native to Central Asia). Artistic representations can be traced back to the Shang dynasty (ca. 1600–1046 BCE), where bronze sculptures, chariots, and ritual sacrifices attest to the horse’s importance in elite and funerary contexts.
From the Han dynasty onward (206 BCE–220 CE), horses appeared widely in tomb art, wall paintings, and sculpture. Contact with Central and West Asia introduced new, highly valued breeds from regions such as Ferghana, whose physical characteristics shaped the idealized image of the horse in Chinese art. These animals gave rise to the myth of the “Heavenly Horse” (tianma), sometimes depicted as a winged being capable of transporting the deceased or even the emperor to the heavens.
The Tang dynasty (618–907) marked a high point in the visual culture of the horse. Economic prosperity and vibrant exchange along the Silk Road fostered an unprecedented diversity of depictions, from monumental tomb figures glazed in sancai colors (“three colors”) to court paintings portraying individual horses, hunts, polo games, and foreign grooms. Horses functioned simultaneously as military assets, trade commodities, and diplomatic gifts.
Later periods expanded the symbolic register. Song dynasty scholar-painters explored new genres, while under Mongol rule during the Yuan dynasty (1271–1368), horses became vehicles for veiled political commentary. In the Ming and Qing dynasties, Western painting techniques introduced by Jesuit missionaries, most notably Giuseppe Castiglione, reshaped courtly horse portraits. In the 20th century, artists such as Xu Beihong reinterpreted the horse as an expression of modern dynamism and national strength.
Fragment of a tomb slab, terracotta, pigment paints, China, Eastern Han Dynasty, 1st c. This tomb brick comes from Luoyang in Henan province and shows a winged tianma, or “heavenly horse”. Such horses were associated with immortality and with the journey of the deceased to heaven. The animal’s form reflects Central Asian breeds from the Ferghana Valley, indicating how far-reaching the contacts and trade routes of the period already were.
Saddled Horse, Earthenware, three-colour glaze (sancai), China, Tang dynasty (618-907). In Tang-period China, richly glazed horse figures served as prestigious tomb furnishings for the imperial family and senior officials. Their lifelike appearance, elaborate tack, and scale expressed the social rank of the person buried with them.
Figure of Palden Lhamo, Gilt copper, pigment colours Tibet, late 18th c. Palden Lhamo is shown here in her fierce protective form. She belongs to the eight Dharmapalas, once-dangerous beings who, according to Buddhist tradition, were subdued and made guardians of the sacred teachings. Her mount, a Himalayan mule, is decorated with the same terrifying imagery: snakes form the bridle, human skin serves as the saddlecloth, and skulls hang as a necklace.
Figure of Palden Lhamo, Gilt metal alloy, pigment colours Tibet, 19th c. Palden Lhamo appears here as a wrathful guardian figure. She is counted among the eight Dharmapalas, fearsome beings who were brought under Buddhist discipline and became protectors of the sacred texts. The Himalayan mule beneath her is fitted with equally macabre ornaments: A bridle of snakes, a saddlecloth of human skin, and a necklace made from human skulls.
Altar ewer, Porcelain, enamels sur biscuit, China, Kangxi Period (1662-1722). This porcelain ewer was made in China for export to Tibet. Its shape recalls the cap of a Tibetan monk. The “flying wind horse” (rlung rta) is known in Tibetan tradition as an older shamanic symbol that was later incorporated into Buddhism. As a sign of good fortune, it appears on prayer flags, textiles, and paper talismans.
Tributary Horse and Groom, Hanging scroll, ink and colours on paper, China, probably late Ming or Qing dynasty, 17th/18th c. This hanging scroll belongs to a later tradition of Chinese horse painting inspired by Li Gonglin’s Five Horses from the Northern Song period. That earlier horizontal scroll showed five prized horses with their grooms, offered to the emperor as tribute by vassals from the western regions. Works such as this one continued to draw on that influential model.
Horse under a Willow Tree, Hanging scroll, ink and colours on paper, China, Qing dynasty, mid-19th c. The poem on this hanging scroll celebrates Fang Bingcao’s strong and courageous “Hu horse” from the northern border regions. Its quality lies not in physical bulk, but in its inner spirit and alert temperament, described through images such as sharp bamboo-like ears and star-like eyes. Portraits of this kind could also reflect the virtues their owners wished to associate with themselves.
Saddled Horse with Groom, Earthenware, traces of pigment colours, China, Tang dynasty (618-907). In Tang funerary art, horse grooms are often shown as foreigners, identifiable through details such as their headgear, clothing, boots, facial features, or heavy beards. Central Asian horses were highly valued as markers of status, and a foreign groom helped underline their distant origin.
Ridge Tile in shape of an Immortal, Stoneware, coloured glazes, China, Qing dynasty, late 19th c. Figures like this once decorated the rooflines of rural temples and shrines. In a Daoist setting, the immortal’s flying horse marks the passage between the human world and the celestial sphere.
Saddled Mongolian Horse, Bronze, China, late Ming/early Qing dynasty, 17th c. The compact body, long mane, and short, powerful legs identify this as a Mongolian horse. This hardy breed influenced many later horse types in China and Japan. Beyond riding, it was also valued for milk, meat, and its robust coat.
Fitting, Bronze, China, Xiongnu Culture, c. 100 BCE. This bronze fitting comes from the Xiongnu cultural sphere around 100 BCE. Following their submission to the Han emperor, some Xiongnu groups were settled on the Ordos Plateau in Inner Mongolia, a region that served China both as pastureland and as a frontier defence zone. The scene shows a sleeping horse beside a saddled mule.
Pair of Plates, Porcelain, famille rose enamels, China, Yongzheng period (1723-1735). These plates show scenes from the story of Wang Zhaojun, a famed court lady of the Han dynasty. Sent by imperial order to marry the Xiongnu leader Huhanye, she is shown leaving for the north while playing the zither. The companion plate depicts Huhanye and his brother Zhaki waiting for her arrival.
Grazing Mongolion Horse, Bronze, China, early Qing dynasty, 17th c. The Mongolian horse is a small but exceptionally hardy breed, usually standing around 129 to 135 cm at the shoulder. Domesticated about 5,000 years ago, it later became central to the military expansion of Genghis Khan. Today, Mongolian nomads still keep around three millions of these horses.
Consecrating Stallon, Earthenware, traces of cold paint, China, Tang dynasty (618-907). Among Tang tomb figures, horses shown in such a tense and animated pose are unusual. The raised head, neighing expression, and bent hind legs may refer to one of the prized horses kept in the stables of Emperor Xuanzong (reigned 712-756), said to have been trained to dance to drum rhythms.
Imperial Autumn Hunt, Anonymous court painter in the style of Qiu Ying (1494-1552), two Scrolls, ink and colours on silk, China, Qing dynasty, 18th c. These two scrolls depict the Qing imperial autumn hunt at Mulan in Inner Mongolia. Held in peacetime, the hunt combined court ceremony with military practice in riding and archery. It also affirmed the Manchu identity of the ruling house before Mongol, Manchu, and Turkic groups, for whom collective hunting carried political and cultural significance. The scene presents the different military banners as part of an ordered imperial world, while Han Chinese participants were excluded. The hunted game included wild animals, big cats, wolves, foxes and bears, with the emperor or crown prince usually killing a tiger personally. The number of horses taken was always much greater than the number of hunters, and those who accidentally injured a horse or hunting dog with an arrow or spear were severely punished.
Saddled Horse, Earthenware, three-colour glaze (sancai), China, Tang dynasty (618-907). In Tang society, large horses brought from Central Asia were valued above all for display and as signs of status. Their build made them less suited to warfare or long, demanding journeys. To make the figure appear more lifelike, real horsehair was inserted into the top of the sculpture’s trimmed mane.
Figure of a Falconer on Horseback, Earthenware, partial green glaze, China, Ming Dynasty (1368-1644). Falconry reached China from Central Asia through the Silk Road and is attested there from the Han dynasty onward. For common people it was a way of hunting for food, while at the imperial court it became both a sport and a form of military exercise. Hunting with falcons on horseback was especially suited to open landscapes such as deserts and plains, including areas of northern Shaanxi and Shanxi, where hunters needed to travel over considerable distances.
In Korean culture, the horse carries strong mythological and military connotations. Myths, folk tales, poetry, and songs attest to its role as a mediator between heaven and earth. The founding legend of the Silla kingdom (57 BCE–935 CE), in which the first king Park Hyeokgeose descends from heaven on a white horse, established the animal as a sacred intermediary.
This belief shaped funerary practices. Horses appear in tomb murals, terracotta rider figures, and ritual vessels, guiding the souls of the deceased to the afterlife. As mounts of protective deities, horses were also venerated in local shrines, where sculptures and paintings were believed to ward off disasters and wild animals such as tigers.
In Joseon dynasty painting (1392–1897), horses acquire a more explicitly social meaning. In official portraits, they symbolize loyalty to the state; in landscape scenes, they evoke the fluctuating fortunes and burdens of human life. Beyond imagery, the horse permeated Korean material culture. Horsehair was woven into hats and headbands, leather was used for drums, bones served medicinal purposes, and meat and milk formed part of everyday sustenance. Artistic representations can thus also be read as gestures of respect and gratitude toward an animal that supported human life in multiple ways.
Vessel in Form of a Rider, Earthenware, Korea, possibly Three Kingdoms period, 5th c. In elite burials, vessels shaped as riders often appeared in pairs. One showed the nobleman himself, identified by his tall hat, jewellery, and robe; the other represented a smaller servant carrying a bell. The horse was understood as a guide, helping the deceased reach the afterlife safely.
In Japanese culture, the horse is deeply embedded in religious practice, particularly in Shinto, where it serves as the sacred mount (shinme) of the gods (kami). From the Nara period onward (710–794), shrines accepted live horses as offerings tied to specific prayers, such as rain or good weather. Where live animals were impractical, substitutes such as clay figures (haniwa) or painted votive plaques (ema) were donated.
Buddhist and Daoist traditions further expanded the horse’s symbolic range. In esoteric Buddhism, the fearsome deity Bato Kannon protects horses and humans in the animal realm, while Daoist figures such as Chokaro Sennin are associated with conjured horses. The veneration of white horses may also connect to Buddhist legends surrounding Siddhartha Gautama’s horse Kanthaka.
The samurai class cultivated a particularly close relationship with horses. This is reflected in sword fittings, riding equipment, and military imagery that emphasizes courage and loyalty. From the late Edo period onward, horses entered more secular visual contexts, appearing in ukiyo-e prints as racing animals, packhorses, or companions to historical and literary figures. Through the shin-hanga movement of the early 20th century, these motifs continue to inform modern visual culture, including manga and anime.
Groom with Bridled Horse, Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink and colours on paper Japan, Edo period, 18th c. This expressive kakemono shows a stable boy leading a black horse offered to a Shinto shrine. In Shinto practice, horses were held in special esteem from early times and could be donated by nobles when making requests to the gods. A black horse was associated with prayers for rain, while a chestnut horse was offered in hopes of fine weather.
Protective mandala against fire, Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink, colours and gold on silk, Japan, late Muromachi period, 16th c. This protective mandala centres on Atago Gongen, shown seated on a white horse. In Shinto belief, this figure combines Izanami-no-Mikoto with the bodhisattva Jizō and is associated with protection against fire, especially for the city of Kyoto. Samurai also revered Atago Gongen as a deity of war and victory. The composition surrounds him with further protective figures: Jizō and a tengu above, Bishamon and Fudō Myōō in the middle, and an unidentified deity between two komainu dogs below.
Horse and Rider, Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink and colours on paper, Japan, Muromachi period, 16th c. From the Muromachi period onward, images of horses in training, dressage, or stable settings became popular among samurai and other members of the warrior class. Their often humorous character follows an older pictorial tradition, going back to a 13th-century scroll in which imperial bodyguards (zuishin) are shown playing with horses.
Sliding Door with Kyoto Horse Race, Ink, pigments, calcite and gold leaf on cedar wood, Japan, Edo period, 18th/19th c. This sliding door depicts the Kamo Kurabeuma, a ritual horse race held at Kyoto’s Kamigamo Shrine every year on 5 May since 1093. In the race, the shrine’s riders compete against a team from Iwashimizu Hachimangū Shrine in nearby Yawata. Each duel begins with one horse given a one-length lead; after six laps, victory is judged by whether that distance has grown or been reduced. The event also includes mounted archery.
Landscape with Men on Mules (‘Thousand Miles Journey’), Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink and light colours on paper, Japan, Edo period, 2nd half 18th c. In this kakemono, riders on mules leave a valley and cross a bridge toward the mountains and wilderness beyond. The inscription draws on a poem by the 8th-century Chinese poet Wang Changling, describing a lord whose generous hospitality placed his guests under an obligation to accompany him.
The Eremite Pan Lang, Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink on paper, Japan, Muromachi period, mid-16th c. Pan Lang served King Mu in the 10th century BCE. The king possessed nine extraordinary horses, believed to embody a constellation, but Pan Lang’s praise of them broke a royal taboo. As punishment, he was exiled to Mount Huashan, where he lived as a hermit. When he was later pardoned, a horse was sent together with the order recalling him to court. Unwilling to leave his place of exile, Pan Lang is said to have ridden back facing the wrong way.
Su Shi Riding a Horse , Hanging scroll (kakemono), ink on paper, Japan, Edo period, 17th c. Scenes from the life of the Chinese poet Su Shi were a frequent subject in Japanese painting. This kakemono probably refers to an episode from his time in southern China, when he was caught in the rain and borrowed a farmer’s straw hat and coat.
No mask, Cypress wood, horsehair, gilt brass, Japan, Edo period (1603-1868). The Hanakobu akujo mask, whose name means “grim old man with a humpy nose”, belongs to the classical Nōgaku theatre tradition. Its facial features and light-brown horsehair beard gave it an appearance perceived as foreign in Japan. For this reason, it was used for foreign characters as well as for the dancing Dragon God.
Fukai Shidoken on a White Horse, Woodblock print, multi-colour print, Japan, Edo period, late 1760s. Fukai Shidoken, a former Shingon priest, became known as an itinerant professional storyteller. His reputation rested on humorous and ironic tales, which is reflected in the deliberately caricatured treatment of both rider and horse in this woodblock print.
A Japanese general overlooking Julien Chang by Kobayashi Kiyochika (1847 – 1915), Woodblock print triptych, multi-colour print, Japan, Meiji period, dated November 1894. This woodblock print triptych shows an episode from the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895, with Japanese field artillery firing on the enemy camp at Julian Cheng. Amid rain, cannon smoke, and the flashes of enemy guns, the horse is presented as the general’s steadfast and brave companion.
Temple Servant who was thrown from his horse, From the series ‘A Broadcast of the Miracles of Kotohira’ By Tsukioka Yoshitoshi (1839 – 1892), Woodblock print, multi-colour print, Japan, Meiji period, dated 20.12.1884. This dramatic woodblock print by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi shows a riding accident at the Shinto Kotohira Shrine on Shikoku in 1774. Black horses were offered there in prayers for rain. After being thrown from his horse, the temple servant tries to avoid being trampled, while another attendant hurries toward him to help.
Hodogaya at the East Sea Road, From the series ‘36 Views of Mount Fuji’ by Katsushika Hokusai (1760 – 1849), Woodblock print, multi-colour print, Japan, Edo period, 1830s. Hokusai’s view of Hodogaya shows several forms of movement along the East Sea Road. Porters rest beside their sedan chair while the passenger inside sleeps. Nearby, a mounted traveller’s horse is guided by an attendant; its saddlecloths bear a lucky symbol, giving such animals the name “lucky horses”. A travelling monk moves in the opposite direction.
Celebrating the lunar year of the horse succeeds through its careful balance of breadth and focus. By juxtaposing funerary objects, religious images, courtly paintings, and everyday artifacts, the exhibition demonstrates how the horse moved between symbolic registers without losing its central role. The inclusion of sculptural grave goods, dynamic hunting scenes, ritual mandalas, and humorous Woodblock prints underscores the animal’s versatility as both subject and symbol.
A contemporary dimension is added through a video installation by filmmaker Jie Lu, who animates a section of the 18th-century scroll Autumn Hunt. This intervention bridges historical material and present-day visual language, reinforcing the exhibition’s theme of movement through time and space.
In my view, the exhibition presents the horse not as a decorative motif, but as a cultural constant that shaped artistic expression across East Asia for more than two millennia. By placing Chinese, Korean, and Japanese works in dialogue, it highlights both shared foundations and regional distinctions. As a Lunar New Year exhibition, Celebrating the lunar year of the horse situates the horse within a long continuum of East Asian cultural history rather than treating it as a seasonal symbol.
The exhibition runs until January 31, 2027, at the Museum for East Asian Art in Cologne. If you have the chance to visit, I highly recommend it.
Bimaran Casket, mid-1st century CE, British Museum. The Bimaran reliquary is a small cylindrical gold casket, approximately 7 cm high, crafted in repoussé and set with gemstones. It is decorated with a series of arched niches containing figures, including a central depiction of the Buddha flanked by Brahmā and Śakra (Indra). The base of the casket takes the form of a fully opened lotus with eight petals. The object is considered one of the earliest securely datable anthropomorphic images of the Buddha, and its sophisticated iconography suggests that the visual language of the Buddha image was already established by the time it was produced. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
So, what’s the story of the Bimaran reliquary?
The Bimaran reliquary was discovered in the 19th century by Charles Masson during his explorations in Afghanistan, probably in 1834, within the broader period of his work in the region between 1833 and 1838. Masson was not a modern archaeologist in the strict sense. His work belongs to an earlier phase of exploration, collecting, documentation, and excavation, before the development of controlled archaeological field methods. This matters, because the Bimaran find is exceptionally important, but its excavation context is not documented with the precision one would expect today. Even so, the basic context is clear: The reliquary came from Stupa no. 2 at Bimaran, near Jalalabad, in the Darunta region of eastern Afghanistan.
Stupa number 2 at Bimaran, eastern Afghanistan (near Jalalabad). Drawing by Charles Masson, 1841. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: public domain).
Bimaran lay within the wider Gandhāran cultural zone, one of the most important regions for the early development of Buddhist art. This was not a marginal landscape. Eastern Afghanistan and the northwestern regions of the Indian subcontinent were crossed by routes linking South Asia, Central Asia, Iran, and the Hellenistic successor worlds. The area had seen Indo-Greek, Indo-Scythian, Indo-Parthian, and eventually Kushan political formations. Buddhist communities existed here in a world shaped by movement, patronage, trade, and artistic exchange. The Bimaran reliquary therefore comes from precisely the kind of contact zone in which one would expect a complex object of early Buddhist visual culture to emerge.
Map of the Indian subcontinent, with the location of Bimaran indicated by the red dot. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: public domain).
The object was found inside a steatite container placed within the stupa deposit. This outer container was inscribed and contained the small gold reliquary, four coins, burnt pearls, beads of precious and semi-precious stones, and other small deposit materials. The inscription identifies the deposit as a donation by Śivarakṣita, son of Mujavada, connected with relics of the Buddha and offered in honor of all Buddhas. The language of the inscription places the object firmly within Buddhist relic devotion. This was not simply a precious container. It was part of a ritual act.
The Bimaran reliquary along with the found coins, beads, and other materials. Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
This context distinguishes the Bimaran reliquary sharply from objects like the Helgö Buddha and the Berenike Buddha. Those finds are fascinating because Buddhist images appeared in places where no stable Buddhist community is known. The Bimaran reliquary is different. It was not a displaced image or an exotic object in a foreign environment. It belonged to the inner devotional world of early Buddhism: stupa worship, relic deposition, donor piety, and the accumulation of merit through offerings.
The Bimaran reliquary casket, globular in shape with a lid; made of grey steatite, ca. 1st c. CE. The container is decorated with inscriptions in Kharoshthi script, which provide valuable information about the donor and the context of the relic deposit. The inscriptions mention the name of the donor, Śivarakṣita, and his father, Mujavada, as well as the dedication of the relics to the Buddha. The container itself is a significant artifact that sheds light on the practices of relic veneration and the role of donors in early Buddhist communities. It also provides important context for understanding the Bimaran reliquary casket and its place within Buddhist devotional culture. Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
That is precisely why the find is so important. The reliquary combines relic veneration with one of the earliest anthropomorphic representations of Siddhartha Gautama. A relic deposit normally works through physical presence: The remains of the awakened one, or objects associated with him, make the stupa a sacred site. The Bimaran reliquary adds visual presence to this physical presence. The Buddha is not only implied by the relics. He is shown in human form on the surface of the container itself – which was revolutionary for its time as before this, the Buddha was typically represented through symbols like the stupa, the wheel, or the footprint. The Bimaran reliquary therefore represents a key moment in the history of Buddhist art: The emergence of the anthropomorphic Buddha image within a core devotional context.
Detail view of the container’s lid with the inscriptions. Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
After its discovery, the reliquary entered the British collections through the dispersal and acquisition of material excavated or collected by Masson in Afghanistan. Masson’s Afghan finds were eventually absorbed into British institutional collections, especially through the India Museum and later the British Museum. The gold reliquary is now held by the British Museum under registration number 1900,0209.1ꜛ, while the associated steatite container and other related materials are also preserved in the same broader collection context. This modern museum history is of course inseparable from the colonial history of 19th-century collecting. The object now appears in London as a masterpiece of Gandhāran art, but its original meaning was not that of an isolated artwork. It was a relic container, buried inside a stupa, donated by a named individual, and embedded in a Buddhist ritual landscape in eastern Afghanistan.
The limestone container’s inscriptions, which provide valuable information about the donor and the context of the relic deposit. The inscriptions mention the name of the donor, Śivarakṣita, and his father, Mujavada, as well as the dedication of the relics to the Buddha. The container itself is a significant artifact that sheds light on the practices of relic veneration and the role of donors in early Buddhist communities. It also provides important context for understanding the Bimaran reliquary casket and its place within Buddhist devotional culture. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
The Bimaran reliquary, detail view with Buddha figure in the center, flanked by Brahmā (left) and Śakra/Indra (right). Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
The reliquary is a small cylindrical gold casket, approximately 7 cm high, crafted in repoussé (a technique of hammering metal from the reverse side to create a design in low relief) and set with gemstones. It lacks its original lid. Around its surface runs a series of arched niches, often described as caitya arches (a reference to the architectural form of Buddhist shrines), although their framing also recalls architectural conventions familiar from Greco-Roman and Gandhāran visual culture.
Detail view of the inside of the Bimaran reliquary, revealing details of the repoussé work and the arrangement of the figures. Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
What immediately sets this object apart is not just its size, but its density and level of elaboration. While Gandhāran reliquaries range from very small and simple to more substantial examples, this piece stands out even within the latter group. At around 7 cm in height, it is relatively large for a gold reliquary, and its surface is densely worked and iconographically structured. It is not simply a container, but a carefully constructed visual field.
Detail view of the bottom row of gemstones, with some of the missing (perhaps temporarily for restoration purposes) and revealing the bare repoussé work underneath.Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
The decoration is organized in repeated figural groupings. At the center stands the Buddha, flanked by Brahmā (left) and Śakra (right). Between these groupings appear additional figures, usually interpreted as devotees or bodhisattvas. One of these figures is shown with hands in añjali mudrā, the gesture of reverence, and is often tentatively identified as a bodhisattva, possibly Maitreya, although this remains uncertain.
Bimaran casket illustrated by Charles Masson (volume, flattened view, and bottom), 1841. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
A detail that is often overlooked, but materially and symbolically important, is the base of the reliquary. It takes the form of a fully opened lotus with eight petals. The lotus is not decorative in a superficial sense. It is a central symbol in Buddhist visual language, associated with purity, emergence, and awakening. Here, it quite literally supports the entire object. The reliquary rests on a symbolic foundation.
Detail views of the bottom of the Bimaran reliquary, which takes the form of a fully opened lotus with eight petals. Top: view from below; bottom: view from the inside. Source: The British Museum 1 and 2 (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
What is particularly striking is that this is not an experimental or transitional object. The iconography is fully formed. The Buddha is not implied through symbols, but clearly depicted in human form, embedded within a structured cosmological framework. This strongly suggests that the visual language of the Buddha image was already established by the time this object was produced.
Siddhartha on the reliquary is shown standing, with one arm raised across the body in a gesture related to the abhaya mudrā, the gesture of reassurance or protection. The identification of the figure as the Buddha is supported by several features that later become standard: The raised hand gesture, the flanking deities, and the cranial protuberance (uṣṇīṣa), which signals spiritual attainment.
Detail view of the Bimaran reliquary with the Buddha in the center. Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
The robe is rendered in a relatively light and body-following manner. It does not obscure the form, but traces it. This treatment differs from later, heavier drapery styles and aligns more closely with early Gandhāran sculptural conventions.
Detail of the Buddha on the Bimaran Casket along with a sketch. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
Gandhāra was not simply a passive recipient of artistic influence. It functioned as a contact zone in which multiple visual languages were actively reconfigured. Hellenistic naturalism, Iranian elite aesthetics, and Indian religious symbolism were combined into a new visual grammar suited to Buddhist themes.
This becomes particularly evident in the Bimaran reliquary. The Buddha is not only an Indian religious figure, but one shaped through a transregional artistic vocabulary. The object reflects a world in which visual forms moved as much as ideas did.
From a chronological perspective, this has important implications. If the reliquary dates to the early 1st century CE, then the anthropomorphic representation of the Buddha must have developed earlier in my view. The level of iconographic and stylistic refinement visible here does not suggest a beginning, but a continuation of an already established tradition.
The presence of Brahmā and Śakra is not incidental. Their identification follows established iconographic conventions. Brahmā is typically shown in ascetic form, with a topknot and simple draped garment, sometimes holding a water vessel. Śakra, by contrast, the Buddhist form of the Vedic god Indra, appears in princely attire, with jewelry, a turban, and a more elaborate presentation. On the reliquary, these distinctions are preserved in a condensed but recognizable way.
Detail of Brahmā on the Bimaran Casket along with a sketch. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
Their presence reflects a key doctrinal idea: The Buddha’s superiority within a cosmos populated by powerful deities. In early Buddhist texts, Brahmā and Śakra are among those who recognize the Buddha’s awakening and request the teaching of the Dharma.
Detail of Śakra (Indra) on the Bimaran Casket along with a sketch. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
On the reliquary, this narrative is transformed into a static but highly structured visual arrangement. The Buddha occupies the central axis, while the deities flank him in positions of acknowledgment and reverence. The additional figure in añjali mudrā reinforces this dynamic of recognition.
The Bimaran reliquary, detail view with a devotee in the center (most-likely a bodhisattva). Source: The British Museum (license: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
What emerges is not simply a decorative composition, but a compressed cosmology. The object stages a hierarchy: Gods attend, the Buddha stands at the center, and devotees respond. For me, this is where the object becomes particularly precise. It does not merely depict figures. It encodes relationships. It makes a doctrinal structure visible in material form and offers us a glimpse into how early Buddhism was visually and philosophically conceptualized.
The dating of the Bimaran reliquary remains contested. The deposit contained coins in the name of Azes, originally attributed to Azes II. Later scholarship has questioned this attribution, suggesting that the coins may instead be posthumous issues associated with Kharahostes or Mujatria.
The coins of Azes II found inside the Bimaran reliquary. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
This is not just a technical note. It directly affects the chronology of early Buddhist art. The presence of the coins is in fact what makes this object so central: it allows, for the first time, a relatively secure chronological anchor for an anthropomorphic image of the Buddha. Earlier representations were predominantly symbolic, and it is only through finds like this that the transition to fully human depiction becomes historically traceable.
One of the coins of the Bimaran casket, illustrated by Charles Masson, 1841. Obv. Azes riding, Buddhist Triratna symbol behind the head of the king. Rev. City goddess Tyche standing left holding cornucopia and raised right hand. Source: Wikimedia Commonsꜛ (license: CC BY-SA 3.0).
If the coins were newly minted at the time of deposition, the reliquary could date to around the beginning of the Common Era. Some scholars propose dates around 0–15 CE. Others, including the British Museum, suggest a slightly later date around 60 CE. Still others argue for a 2nd-century date based on stylistic considerations.
What is clear, however, is that even the later proposed dates place the object very early in the history of anthropomorphic Buddha imagery. The sophistication of the iconography suggests that it cannot represent the beginning of the tradition. It must belong to a phase in which the Buddha image was already established.
The political context of the reliquary reflects the complexity of the region. Gandhāra and eastern Afghanistan were shaped by Indo-Greek, Indo-Scythian, Indo-Parthian, and later Kushan rule. These were not isolated regimes, but interconnected systems linked by trade, migration, and cultural exchange.
Gandhāra in particular functioned as a major corridor along the Silk Roads, connecting South Asia with Central Asia and further west. Pilgrims, merchants, and artisans moved through the region, carrying not only goods but also religious ideas and visual forms. The Bimaran reliquary should be understood within this dynamic environment rather than as a purely local product.
The reliquary reflects this environment. Its craftsmanship aligns with Central Asian luxury traditions. Its iconography is Buddhist. Its coinage ties it to Indo-Scythian political history. Its inscription records an individual act of donation.
The donor, Śivarakṣita, bears a name associated with Śaivite traditions. This is not an anomaly, but rather characteristic of the period. Religious identities were not rigidly separated, and individuals could participate in multiple traditions. The act of donating a reliquary was therefore not only a religious gesture, but also a social one: It expressed piety, status, and participation in a shared cultural and ritual landscape.
All together, this shows that Buddhist devotional practice was embedded within broader social and economic structures. Religious objects were not produced in isolation. They were part of networks of patronage, exchange, and identity.
The Bimaran reliquary calls into question the common narrative of a clean transition from an “aniconic” to an “iconic” phase in Buddhist art. The object does not fit into a model of gradual artistic experimentation culminating in the eventual appearance of the Buddha in human form. Instead, it suggests that once the anthropomorphic image emerges in the archaeological record, it does so already as a fully integrated and functional element of Buddhist practice.
What is decisive here is not simply that the Buddha is shown in human form, but how this image is embedded. The reliquary combines three modes of presence: Relic, inscription, and representation. The Buddha is present physically through relics, textually through dedicatory inscription, and visually through the figure on the casket. This triadic structure is not incidental. It reflects a reconfiguration of devotional access. The Buddha is no longer mediated primarily through absence and symbolic reference, but through layered forms of presence that reinforce one another.
This has a clear implication. The anthropomorphic Buddha image was not introduced as a secondary or purely decorative development. It emerges here as part of a coherent ritual system. The image does not replace the relic, nor does it merely illustrate doctrine. It operates alongside relic and inscription as an additional, stabilizing mode of access to the Buddha.
The internal structure of the deposit further reinforces this interpretation in my view. The reliquary was enclosed within a stone container (similar to the stone container found in Piprahwa), originally divided into compartments, later modified to accommodate the gold casket and its contents. This arrangement creates a nested system: Relics within container, container within stupa, image on the surface. The visual field of the reliquary is therefore not external to the ritual, but structurally integrated into it.
From this perspective, the Bimaran reliquary marks not the beginning of the Buddha image, but the point at which it becomes fully operational. The iconography is already standardized. The figure is identifiable through gesture, posture, and attributes. The composition includes deities and attendants. The image functions within a defined cosmological and ritual framework. None of this suggests experimentation. It suggests consolidation.
And this has a consequence for how we understand the origins of the Buddha image. If the earliest datable anthropomorphic representation of the Buddha already appears in such a developed form, then the origins of the Buddha image must lie earlier than the current archaeological record can securely document. The Bimaran reliquary therefore does not resolve the question of origins. It sharpens it. It points to a phase of development that remains largely invisible, but whose results are already fully present here.
In this sense, the object captures in my view a threshold. Not the invention of the image, but the moment at which the image, relic, and ritual form a stable and reproducible system of Buddhist representation.
Let’s now place the Bimaran reliquary in a broader context. Compared to objects like the Berenike Buddha or the Helgö Buddha, the Bimaran reliquary was not found in a geographically unexpected location. However, it is deeply connected to the same broader phenomenon: The movement and transformation of Buddhist material culture across interconnected regions.
In fact, it helps explain those later phenomena. Before Buddhist objects appeared in Roman Egypt or Viking-age Scandinavia, they were already being shaped in regions like Gandhāra, where cultural boundaries were fluid. The visual form of the Buddha that could later travel across Afro-Eurasia was not created in isolation, but in precisely such contact zones.
What I find particularly striking in this context is the formal resemblance between the Bimaran reliquary and later objects from entirely different religious traditions. Its cylindrical form, its function as a container for sacred contents, and its finely worked decorative surface invite comparison with the pyxis, a type of container already present in the Hellenistic world and later widely adopted in early Christianity for the storage of relics or consecrated substances.
Pyxis with Christ between the apostles and Abraham’s sacrifice, place of manufacture unknown, around 400, ivory. Bode Museum, Berlin. See more from this exhibition here.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting that the Bimaran reliquary was directly influenced by Hellenistic or Christian pyxides. The chronological and cultural contexts do not support a direct line of influence. However, the formal and functional similarities are striking and suggest that there may be shared underlying principles in how different cultures materialize the sacred. Let’s think about this for a moment. Both the Bimaran reliquary and the Christian pyxis are small, portable containers designed to hold sacred contents. They are crafted with care, often in precious materials, and decorated with iconography that signals their religious significance. They function as focal points for devotion, objects through which the sacred can be accessed and mediated. And: Their material, form, and iconography actively construct the meaning of what they hold. In the Bimaran reliquary, this logic is already fully developed: relic, image, and ornament are integrated into a single object. Later Christian pyxides operate within a comparable framework, even if the theological context differs.
Seen in this light, the Bimaran reliquary is not only an early Buddhist object. It belongs to a broader Afro-Eurasian tradition of sacred containers. Its craftsmanship, density, and conceptual clarity place it on the same level as the finest examples of later reliquary traditions. What appears at first as a surprising similarity instead reflects a deeper structural convergence in how different cultures materialize the sacred.
In this sense, the Bimaran reliquary represents an early stage in a wider process. It shows the formation of a portable, recognizable, and conceptually dense visual language that could be transmitted, adapted, and reinterpreted across regions and traditions.
For more context, I recommend to read our previous posts From Gothic to Zen: Comparing medieval Western and Eastern wooden sculptures and On the Hellenistic heritage in Christian culture and Buddhist art, where we explore similar themes of cross-cultural influence and shared visual vocabularies in different religious contexts.
The Bimaran reliquary also illustrates the limits of our knowledge. The archaeological record is fragmentary, and the conditions of its discovery, shaped by early 19th-century exploration rather than modern excavation, leave important gaps. The dating remains debated, and the relationship between style, chronology, and historical context is not straightforward.
There is a strong tendency to focus on whether this is “the earliest Buddha image”. While understandable, this question risks, however, oversimplifying the object’s significance. It reduces a complex artifact to a single chronological marker. More importantly, it assumes that the emergence of the Buddha image can be captured by a single point of origin.
I think, the Bimaran reliquary should be seen under a different light. It is not just an early example of a Buddha image. It is a fully formed example of a particular kind of Buddhist visual culture. Its iconography is already highly developed, its composition structured, and its integration into a ritual context fully realized. This does not look like an experimental beginning, as mentioned in the previous sections. For me, this looks like the visible outcome of an earlier phase that has left little direct trace.
And this is where the methodological problem begins. From my recent research I learned, that scholars often treat the Bimaran reliquary as evidence for the beginning of anthropomorphic Buddha imagery because it is among the earliest examples that can be linked to a datable deposit. But the object itself does not look like a beginning. It looks like a developed form. This means that the earliest securely datable evidence is probably not the earliest historical stage. It is only the earliest stage that has survived in a form we can still date. And this is of course no surprise. However, I think it is important to acknowledge this gap between the archaeological record and the historical reality. The Bimaran reliquary does not show us the origin of the Buddha image. It shows us a moment in which the Buddha image has already become a stable and sophisticated element of Buddhist visual culture. The origins of that image must lie earlier, but they remain invisible to us.
The real challenge is therefore not only to ask how old the reliquary is. The more important question is what its refinement implies. If an object from this early period already shows Siddhartha in a stable iconographic form, accompanied by deities, framed architecturally, and integrated into relic devotion, then earlier stages of Buddha imagery must have existed before it. The Bimaran reliquary does not solve the origin problem. It makes the missing earlier development visible precisely through its own sophistication.
The Bimaran reliquary is one of those objects that I now find difficult to look at without thinking about its broader implications. I came to it almost by accidentꜛ, but it immediately changed how I think about the early history of Buddhist images. At first, it fascinated me because it looked so unexpectedly familiar: A small, precious, cylindrical container for sacred contents, worked with extraordinary care, almost comparable in form and function to later reliquaries or Christian pyxides. But the more important point is not the resemblance itself. The more important point is what this resemblance reveals: Across different religious traditions, sacred presence is often materialized through carefully crafted containers, images, inscriptions, and ritual deposits.
For Buddhist art history, I think that the Bimaran reliquary is especially important because it stands at a critical threshold. It is not simply an early Buddha image. It is an early Buddha image already embedded in a complete ritual system. Relic, inscription, donor, stupa, image, deities, and architectural framing all belong together. This makes the object far more significant than a single chronological marker. It does not merely tell us that anthropomorphic representations of Siddhartha existed by the early centuries of the Common Era. It shows that such representations had already become meaningful, stable, and ritually functional.
This is also why the object fits so well into the broader theme of Buddhist contact across Afro-Eurasia. The Bimaran reliquary was not found in an unexpected distant place like the Berenike Buddha or the Helgö Buddha. Yet it belongs to the same larger history. It comes from Gandhāra, a region where Buddhism developed in constant interaction with Hellenistic, Iranian, Central Asian, and South Asian visual traditions. The object therefore does not show Buddhism spreading from a closed center into passive peripheries. It shows Buddhism being shaped in contact zones from the beginning of its visual history.
The most cautious conclusion is therefore also the most interesting one. The Bimaran reliquary should not be treated simply as “the first Buddha image”. It is better understood as the earliest securely datable witness to a tradition that must already have existed before it. And its sophistication is precisely the clue. The beginning itself remains hidden, but this object shows that by the time it entered the stupa deposit at Bimaran, the human image of Siddhartha had already become a powerful form of Buddhist presence. That is what makes the reliquary so remarkable: It does not close the question of origins. It actually opens it.
