危 means danger, peril, or “to endanger” in Chinese, Japanese, and old Korean.

If you live a dangerous life or want to subtly warn others that you are a dangerous person, this may be the selection for you.

This also means “danger” and sometimes “fear” in Japanese and Korean but is seldom seen outside of compound words in those languages (as a single character, it's kind of like an abbreviation for danger in Japanese and Korean). 危 is also a rather odd selection for a wall scroll anyway. It's only here because people search for danger on our website.

危機 means crisis in Chinese and Japanese.

Separately, the first character here does mean “danger” or “to endanger,” and the second character can mean “opportunity.”

However, I want to debunk a myth that was propagated by some westerners who did not have a clear understanding of Asian languages...

While often, Chinese/Japanese/Korean compound words (words of two or more characters) are the sum of their parts, this is not always the case. The compound is often understood with a completely different meaning than the two characters individually.

Many have said that the Chinese/Japanese/Korean word for Crisis is made up of the characters for “danger” and “opportunity.” 危機 is true when phrased this way.
However, it's not absolutely correct to say that “danger + opportunity = crisis” in Asian cultures.

English example:
If I tell you that...
Bovine creature + Guy behind the plate in baseball = Locomotive train protection
...you would think I was mad. But consider that “cow + catcher = cowcatcher,” which is the device that used to be found on steam engines to protect them if they hit an animal on the tracks. When we hear the word “cowcatcher,” we don't separate the words into their individual meanings (necessarily).
The same is true with the word for crisis in Chinese/Japanese/Korean. While you can separate the characters, few Asian people would automatically do so in their minds.

The final answer:
It is a half-truth to say, “danger plus opportunity equals crisis” in Chinese/Japanese/Korean. Use this statement and concept with caution.

Also, the second character can mean “secret” or “machine,” depending on context so I guess you have to say “a dangerous machine = crisis” or “danger + a secret = crisis.” Both of these are only slightly more ridiculous than the first premise.

PS: 危機 is probably not a great word for a scroll unless you have a special use for it.

匿 means to hide, shelter, or shield.

If you imagine a safe place shielded from danger and trouble, this could be the character for you.

勇敢 is about courage or bravery in the face of fear.

You do the right thing even when it is hard or scary. When you are courageous, you don't give up. You try new things. You admit mistakes. This kind of courage is the willingness to take action in the face of danger and peril.

勇敢 can also be translated as braveness, valor, heroic, fearless, boldness, prowess, gallantry, audacity, daring, dauntless, and/or courage in Japanese, Chinese, and Korean. This version of bravery/courage can be an adjective or a noun. The first character means bravery and courage by itself. The second character means “daring” by itself. The second character emphasizes the meaning of the first but adds the idea that you are not afraid of taking a dare, and you are not afraid of danger.

勇敢 is more about brave behavior and not so much the mental state of being brave. You'd more likely use this to say, “He fought courageously in the battle,” rather than “He is very courageous.”

絕處逢生 is a Chinese proverb/idiom that talks of coming back from death's door or an unexpected rescue from danger.

Figuratively, this can be to recover from a seemingly impossible situation or to find a way out of a predicament.

If you have survived a near-death experience or severe illness, this might be an appropriate wall scroll for you.

知彼知己百戰不殆 is from Sun Tzu's (Sunzi's) Art of War. It means that if you know and understand the enemy, you also know yourself, and thus with this complete understanding, you cannot lose.

This proverb is often somewhat directly translated as “Know the enemy and know yourself, and you can fight a hundred battles without defeat.”

It can also be translated as “If you know both yourself and your enemy, you can come out of hundreds of battles without danger,” or “Know your enemy, know yourself, and your victory will not be threatened.”

Long ago in what is now China, there were many kingdoms throughout the land. This time period is known as “The Warring States Period” by historians because these kingdoms often did not get along with each other.

Sometime around 279 B.C. the Kingdom of Chu was a large but not particularly powerful kingdom. Part of the reason it lacked power was the fact that the King was surrounded by “yes men” who told him only what he wanted to hear. Many of the King's court officials were corrupt and incompetent which did not help the situation.

The King was not blameless himself, as he started spending much of his time being entertained by his many concubines.

One of the King's ministers, Zhuang Xin, saw problems on the horizon for the Kingdom, and warned the King, “Your Majesty, you are surrounded by people who tell you what you want to hear. They tell you things to make you happy and cause you to ignore important state affairs. If this is allowed to continue, the Kingdom of Chu will surely perish, and fall into ruins.”

This enraged the King who scolded Zhuang Xin for insulting the country and accused him of trying to create resentment among the people. Zhuang Xin explained, “I dare not curse the Kingdom of Chu but I feel that we face great danger in the future because of the current situation.” The King was simply not impressed with Zhuang Xin's words.
Seeing the King's displeasure with him and the King's fondness for his court of corrupt officials, Zhuang Xin asked permission from the King that he may take leave of the Kingdom of Chu, and travel to the State of Zhao to live. The King agreed, and Zhuang Xin left the Kingdom of Chu, perhaps forever.

Five months later, troops from the neighboring Kingdom of Qin invaded Chu, taking a huge tract of land. The King of Chu went into exile, and it appeared that soon, the Kingdom of Chu would no longer exist.

The King of Chu remembered the words of Zhuang Xin and sent some of his men to find him. Immediately, Zhuang Xin returned to meet the King. The first question asked by the King was “What can I do now?”

Zhuang Xin told the King this story:

A shepherd woke one morning to find a sheep missing. Looking at the pen saw a hole in the fence where a wolf had come through to steal one of his sheep. His friends told him that he had best fix the hole at once. But the Shepherd thought since the sheep is already gone, there is no use fixing the hole.
The next morning, another sheep was missing. And the Shepherd realized that he must mend the fence at once. Zhuang Xin then went on to make suggestions about what could be done to reclaim the land lost to the Kingdom of Qin, and reclaim the former glory and integrity of the Kingdom of Chu.

The Chinese idiom shown above came from this reply from Zhuang Xin to the King of Chu almost 2,300 years ago.
It translates roughly into English as...
“Even if you have lost some sheep, it's never too late to mend the fence.”

This proverb, 亡羊补牢犹未为晚, is often used in modern China when suggesting in a hopeful way that someone change their ways, or fix something in their life. It might be used to suggest fixing a marriage, quitting smoking, or getting back on track after taking an unfortunate path in life among other things one might fix in their life.

I suppose in the same way that we might say, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” in our western cultures to suggest that you can always start anew.

Note: This does have Korean pronunciation but is not a well-known proverb in Korean (only Koreans familiar with ancient Chinese history would know it). Best if your audience is Chinese.

玄人 literally means “Mysterious Person/Woman.”

In Japanese, this is associated with a “geisha,” which matches this definition of a “mysterious woman.” However, this is the colloquial way to say “professional geisha” or “expert prostitute” in Japanese. It, therefore, might not be what you want on your wall.

Notes: This is a "Japanese only" term, though a Chinese person who sees these characters will think of a geisha or an alluring Japanese female musician.
While not often seen in Korean Hanja, this would mean a "dark woman," as in a woman that you cannot easily see through.

芸妓 is how to refer to a geisha that offers “special services.”

Please don't order this, it's only here for reference. 芸妓 is not appropriate for custom calligraphy!

In Japanese, 名妓 means “distinguished/talented/beautiful geisha.”

The meaning in Chinese (and the deeper meaning in Japanese) would be “distinguished/talented/beautiful prostitute.”

I am not sure that our master calligrapher will even write this, so please note that fact if you decide to place the order. Of course, we'll refund your money if he refuses.