Workshop Words "From Without and Within"
Excerpts. Translated by John Barrett
"ballet-tanz" magazine, issue February 2004 / page 28-31 / www.ballet-tanz.de
"Kazuo Ohno's World: From Without and Within" will be published by
the Wesleyan University Press in June 2004
(www.wesleyan.edu/wespress).
The book can be ordered in Europe at the European University Press Group,
orders@edsbups.co.uk
Introduction : by Toshio Mizohata
Kazuo Ohno's workshop studio in Kamihoshikawa, a suburb of Yokohama, stands on a plot of ground at the rear of the Ohno family home. In 1961 the authorities at the Soshin Baptist Mission school gave him the discarded wooden planks from the school buildings that were being demolished at the time. With these he constructed the roof, floor, and windows of his white wooden space, some seven meters in width by fourteen meters in depth, which serves as his personal rehearsal space and is home to the twice-weekly workshops. This is no typical dance studio: costumes and props lie scattered about the floor and hang on the walls; there's neither a practice barre nor wall mirrors. On stepping into the studio, a visitor might feel that he or she has entered Ohno's private living quarters.
It would be no exaggeration to state that some 120 hours of his speeches during the workshops have been taken place for a considerable number of those who attend as his students. They come from every walk of life, for the workshops are not exclusively designed for dancers or performers. They come from near and far; many have even traveled from overseas to study with Ohno. Some attend a single session; others come faithfully to every workshop. Some simply watch and listen; others actively participate. No qualifications or stage experience are required. On any given day it's impossible to predict who, or how many people, might attend. Regardless of these variables, Ohno's way of conducting the workshops never changes.
Perhaps the most confounding thing of all is that Ohno himself makes it perfectly clear to whoever attends that he has "nothing to teach." As a rule, he prepares his talk on the morning of, or possibly the day before, a workshop, by jotting down some ideas and rough sketches on a specific theme. When, however, it comes to actually addressing those present,
everything that he has prepared just slips out of his mind. In his own words, "It simply vanishes." In his anxiety to get his message across he ends up talking on a completely different subject to the one he had prepared. Ohno nonetheless speaks with such overwhelming conviction that one feels that he is putting his life on the line. He gives the impression of desperately trying to create something new and not merely deliver a prepared speech.
Photo : Peter Sempel
Sliding about or rolling over on the floor doesn't pose you any particular difficulties. Yet these, or any movements for that matter, are not the building blocks with which dance is created. Haven't you ever stumbled upon some extremely perilous situation in performing where you're forced to come face to face with yourself? On reaching that threshold, we all come across emotions that we feel are better kept to ourselves. But we can't lock them away. Should we keep our feelings to ourselves until we depart this world? Or should we share them with those around us? The more I perform, the more convinced I've become that we ought to share our inner life with others. _
When asked for a definition of butoh, [Tatsumi] Hijikata replied: "Butoh is a dead body risking its life by planting its feet firmly on the ground." His answer might lead you to conclude that butoh is a dance form that transcends all technique. If we examine the matter closely, it becomes clear that our creative powers are not of our own making. Our imagination not only feeds upon our personal life stories but also our collective subconscious memory. During that incredibly long period spanning from the genesis of heaven and earth right up to the present day, our ancestors, along with all the spirits of the universe, have with each successive generation, embedded themselves in our souls. I am, you are, we all are, nothing but the next layer upon all those things that have already happened in a never-ending chain of events. Seen from that perspective, our imaginative force is being constantly consolidated by the gradual accumulation of knowledge we inherit. _
I don't think that technical skills are so easily acquired within the limits of a single lifetime. On questioning myself as to the proper use of technique, I've come to the conclusion that it should endow us with the wherewithal to confront whatever problems we face. The term, however, usually designates the methods we employ to structure our work; the underlying assumption being that the more we rationally structure it, the more comprehensible it becomes. But, in reality, the more we shackle ourselves with technical skills, the more difficulties we face, and before we know it, we find ourselves not knowing where to turn with all our techniques. _
Let your movements spill out of you; do your utmost to make them spontaneous. If asked to dance a song by, say, Elvis Presley, you couldn't do so unless you went beyond an intellectual appreciation of the music. I'm now going to put on a piece by Presley, so try to move in any way you please while listening to it. Don't figure it out in your head; nobody wants to come to see such a lifeless performance. _
Start from scratch; discard all you've worked out so far. Once you abandon a rational approach, your dance will leap to life. And while the shapes that rise to the surface might be amorphous, they will truly reek of you. Dance doesn't need a structure, but it must be as detailed and lifelike as a miniature portrait. Performing inevitably involves the use of intentional and no intentional elements. We won't get a clear glimpse of your inner life unless you let go of yourself. Your dance now embodies that formless yet distinct presence surging forth from the depths of your soul. Look. What's happening with the sky? Accept with good grace all that spontaneously emerges from inside of you. What on earth is happening to those clouds? Spread your limbs freely. Your hands and feet will move of their own accord as soon as they are no longer fettered by conscious control. Your limbs must move in unison, with your heartbeat. _
Photo : Peter Sempel
Differences in Time and Space
Nowadays, it strikes me that dance is often structured in such a way that the spectators are meant to comprehend readily what's happening onstage; the structure is meticulously worked out so that they clearly understand the story line. In my way of looking at things, however, such a programmed approach ensures nothing more than an illustration of the ideas that go into the making of a performance. Besides, do I really need to step out onstage to get my ideas across to an audience? Wouldn't they grasp them just as easily by reading a book? _
Let me put it this way. There are considerable differences in the way people in East and West [Germany] think on certain issues. While my personal experiences, opinions and ideas might well differ from others, I do nevertheless share something in common with them. For me, certain phenomena are by their very nature beyond human understanding; we could never work them out no matter how much we ponder over them. If, say, we ask ourselves, "What is the meaning of life?" it's not something that can be understood within the confines of an individual lifetime. Despite the contrasting ideological and political systems in place in East and West Germany, their citizens do share a common bond. As they assembled in church that day for a music recital, the individual members of the congregation were free to sit wherever they pleased: in the first, second, third, fourth row, or wherever. At that time, I was forcefully struck by the fact that while every person present had his or her individual perspective on the proceedings, they nonetheless were all deeply united by a mutual concern for their spiritual welfare. _
I'm straying somewhat from the topic of dance in speaking about Swedenborg's theological writings, William Blake, and that Tokyo University professor and Japanese literary critic who wrote about differences in time and space. When traveling by plane, say, we cross from one time zone into another. Depending on where the plane lands, local time is different. In such a context, the time difference signifies nothing more than the disparity in clock time between two different time zones. Time and space differences are measurable entities. In our rational, everyday world we can calculate these variances precisely. If it's such-and-such a time in a certain country, then it must be another time somewhere else. By using our brain, we can measure time difference and distances in those worlds that readily lend themselves to comprehension. _
(...) When conversing with our mothers, we've no need to voice our thoughts to discern each other's feelings. The same applies for a child; it doesn't have to utter a single word for its mother to understand what's going on in its mind: "But mother, please understand what I'm saying to you now!" Am I here not confronted with a real time difference? We're separated from each other, both in time and space. Whenever I dance indifferently or carelessly, I end up becoming forgetful of the problems posed by these differences, of time and space. While it might seem quite simple, this problem is complex and difficult to resolve in practice. _
Photo : Peter Sempel
An Encounter in Israel
During our stay in Israel I visited the plateau that looked out over the Dead Sea, though it wasn't of any great altitude. Not a single blade of scorched grass grew there; a few isolated flower-bearing trees were scattered here and there over the hillside. Just as I was remarking to myself that no living creature could ever possibly survive in so a desolate a place, something chanced to move. I was stunned. There was movement about two or three hundred meters away from where I stood. Whatever it was, it kept scampering and bustling about until it drew my attention. And then it would abruptly stop dead still. It occurred to me that this restless scurrying about had something to do with my presence there. The bustling would then suddenly start all over again. I sensed a creature's presence; some type of long-tailed animal. The only way it could possibly survive in such an inhospitable terrain was by digging an underground burrow. But, whatever it was, it wasn't alone, for as soon as I paid closer attention, there were many more of them scurrying here and there all over the hillside, shouting for joy. For some inexplicable reason, I felt a closeness and strong affinity with them.
A blinding sun blazed relentlessly down on that hillside, which offered hardly any shade. Standing there, it dawned on me that those creatures would never expose themselves to such daytime temperatures; naturally, they would remain in their cool burrows by day, to emerge only by night. And yet they had come out of their shelters into that mid-morning sunlight. They can instinctively tell if somebody is related to them; that's why they started to scamper and scurry about on sensing my presence. As a token of their affection, they emerged from their burrows to greet me on my arrival into their world. I felt a natural liking for them, too. Although they mightn't have whiskers and their eyes were spherical, they survived in their mother's womb by digging themselves an underground burrow. My world was turned upside down on coming into close contact with them. There on that barren hillside, where even a fly could barely survive, I once again felt the compassion and warmth that embraced me while being carried in my mother's womb. As that scurrying and bustling started all around me, I was spirited away and carried back to life in the womb. Until the moment I opened myself up, there wasn't a living creature to be seen on that plateau looking out over the Dead Sea. But not only was that hillside home to thousands of creatures; they were also closely connected with me. All this scurrying and scampering about suggested to me that they might be squirrels, as they greeted me in the way that squirrels do. This was far from being a world of ghosts. As I said a moment ago, this was a completely different world from the one I'd taken it to be. Just as I began thinking what an inhospitable place it was, they started to scamper about. It was another world, once I opened myself up to it. And, what a different world it was!
We relate to the world around us in many ways. Well then, when it comes to dance, what happens? I've been speaking about how my original impression have on occasion been mistaken. We're going to dance shortly. [Spoken while dancing:] Will we keep performing as we did before, following set sequences like this, or that, in doubt and bewildered as to what to do? Or alternatively, will we abandon such a rational approach and make a thoroughly fresh start just as though we were discovering a new world. It doesn't matter, if initially we go astray and can't find our bearings. Whatever your expectations, don't concern yourself with creating something new; it will emerge of itself, despite the despair you might be subjected to at times. I've been through that experience countless times. A hitherto unknown world unexpectedly emerges just like this, just as it did during my visit to that plateau looking out over the Dead Sea, where not even a blade of growth was in sight. You'll reach the point where you forget yourself. Remember, the visible world is only one of many. _
Photo : Naoya Ikegami
Some members of the audience occasionally come up to me after a performance and tell me exuberantly, "Sensei, I was able to understand what your dance was all about". What did they understand, I wonder? I must confess that I'm a little disappointed to be told that. I'd much prefer they understood nothing at all. If anything, I'd rather hear them say, "Watching your dance made me feel good to be alive." Or, "I was moved to tears even though I couldn't figure a thing out." But, as soon as someone says to me that they understood my performance, I become instantly discouraged. _
Inside the chrysalis a caterpillar prepares to undergo a radical change in body form before it escapes its confinement. On completing its metamorphosis, it turns into a fully developed butterfly. I must admit that I'm unfamiliar with the internal changes occurring during that combustion-like process. But as I watch you here, I can see how you're inclined to say to yourself, "I can't go any further; I can't take another step." Yet remember, we evolve constantly. By surmounting self-imposed constraints, we can transform ourselves. Just in the same way that a butterfly finally breaks out of its cocoon and transforms itself into a free spirit, so too, can you traverse that pupal-like phase in which you are now confined. In performance, our capacity to transform ourselves is truly critical. Note how a butterfly's compressed wings are extremely brittle on first emerging from the chrysalis. Moreover, nature has created a butterfly in such a way that it's physically impossible for it to take to the air immediately; it must wait some time before it is capable of flight. I wonder how it feels on its first contact with the external world, during those agonizing moments in which it finds itself unable to expand its wings to their full breadth and fly away? How does it physically respond? Does it ponder over how it should open its wings? No, how could it? There's no way I can explain what's going on inside its body. Yet those precarious moments, that short period in which a butterfly is completely helpless, is pure dance. It's an extremely moving moment. A master craftsman could never create a work of such intensity; no matter how much skill he invested in the endeavor. What can we learn from this? _
Regardless of how insignificant your relationship with the world might seem to you, it still has the inherent capacity to utterly destroy it. Even the way you handle something as ostensibly harmless as a pebble could generate great destruction, so take great care with how you use it. _
What's truly essential is that my work will someday mean something to somebody. It's of little consequence that no one accepts what I have to offer right now; it's immaterial if I've to wait a thousand, or even ten thousand years before somebody can relate to it. Yet if my dance will never have anything to offer, I'd better take a good hard look at it. _
The question we all need to ask ourselves is: Are we genuinely free when crammed into a sack? You there, your eyes are filled with longing. What are you seeking after? And yet, the freedom you enjoy while crammed into a sack is by far greater than that you'd have without one. For all you know, my body could be a sack. _
"Kazuo Ohno's World -
from without & within"
at Wesleyan University Press
official website : Kazuo Ohno
Kazuo Ohno Archiv at the University of Bologna
Japan Times : Butoh dance with and of death
Dance Form in Focus : BUTOH Russian Filmarchiv
'KAZUO OHNO : I DANCE INTO THE LIGHT' : by Peter Sempel
Poems by Kazuo Ohno : at Danza-Butoh.com
PETER KOWALD : 365 μέρες στο σπίτι του Σπύρου Φέγγου