Consciousness, Literature and the Arts
Archive
Volume 4 Number 3, December 2003
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The
Healing Power of Butoh
By
The Meaning of Butoh
It was serendipity functioning at its very best that on September 11, 2001, we had on the Louisiana Tech University campus as a special guest, Hikaru Otsubo, Butoh dancer from Tokyo, Japan. All who came in touch with Hikaru-san during the days that followed the attacks in New York, Washington, and rural Pennsylvania were profoundly affected by his art, his personality, and his enormous heart.
“Bu” in Japanese means “dance;” “toh” step; translated to mean, literally, “stamping dance,” or “the art of stamping one’s feet,” according to Hikaru Otsubo. Butoh is an art form developed in Japan following the end of the Pacific War, influenced in a significant way by the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. With these two events and the subsequent surrender of the Japanese homeland came the demise, at least for some, of most pre-existent Japanese traditions. In theatre, this meant that such ageless forms as Noh, Kabuki, and Bunraku had been rendered antiquated. They, like so many Japanese traditions, had become part of the Japan that had been altered irrevocably. Noh, Kabuki, and Bunraku are today treated as historical treasures while Butoh continues its emergence as a new tradition that reflects post war Japan and its people. The dance form has found a more receptive audience abroad than at home. It is being accepted throughout the world as a valid and effective performance art, attracting participants and practitioners from many non-Japanese cultures.
The first Butoh performance occurred in Tokyo in 1959 with the presentation of Kinjiki with Yoshito Ohno and Tatsumi Hijikata, the creator of the dance movement. The performance was sufficiently unusual to be called shocking, physical, spiritual, erotic, grotesque, violent, cosmic, nihilistic, cathartic, and mysterious with Hijikata, its creator, being banned from further dance projects. In fact, some do not feel that Butoh is dance at all as it requires little training and even less discipline. It is improvisatory, shaped from the outside in, and detailed by human emotions. It has devised its own traditions, including the use of full body make-up (white) in an effort to create the image of bone; the shape of the Butoh dancer’s body is a traditional dancer’s nightmare as in Butoh the dancer negates the beauty of the human form and replaces it with the grotesque; and often, the dancer performs nude in an effort to explore the full potential of the body to express the soul.
There is no firm definition of Butoh as each practitioner tends to determine for him or herself exactly what the dance is to accomplish, its purpose, and its design. Tatsumi Hijikata defined Butoh as “a corpse struggling to stand.” Hikaru Otsubo calls it “clinging to the earth with the soles of the feet.” Kazuko Kuniyoshi states, “Butoh is not only performance, but also the embodiment of one of the most precise critical spirits in the history of the consciousness of the body, with a strength of thought which impinges deeply on the history of the human spirit. . . In Japan, ‘Butoh’ is understood to mean a conventional style of dance defined by . . . make-up, contorted limbs, and grimacing facial expressions.”
Butoh, first introduced to the west in 1978 two decades after its development in Japan, is more than Eastern aesthetics or an exhibitionist language of form or shape. It is a reflection of the body about the body, a confrontation between the immortal soul and the mortality of the flesh; in it, the dancer strives to become something else, not simply represent something else. It was this art that Hikaru Otsubo brought with him to Ruston, Louisiana, in September, 2001, the art that left a profound impact on all who witnessed it, all who were fortunate enough to find a seat in our intimate theatre space.
Butoh and Me
I was introduced to Hikaru Otsubo in April, 1997 as the Tokyo-based theatre organization, KSEC (Kokusai Seinen Engeki Centre), under the direction of Akira Wakabayashi premiered on the campus of the University of South Dakota the English translation of Takeo Fujikawa’s effective drama, Scarred Hands. Hikaru-san’s role, less than five minutes in length, was that of a victim of the atomic bombing of Nagasaki. Fujikawa’s play is based on the life and literary works of Japanese hibakusha poet, Sumiko Fukada. As a young woman, Sumiko-san was victimized by the dropping of the plutonium bomb, scarring her for life. After the war, she dedicated herself to the political question, “no more war,” using her poetry as her principle weapon. She spent a goodly portion of her adult life in prison for her published writings as publication of material related to the atomic bombings was prohibited by the occupation forces. Hikaru-san’s depiction of the victimized poet was profoundly moving as he appeared in white body make-up, a loin cloth, and pieces of gauze attached to his finger tips, recreating for those of us in America the image of the Japanese victim whose skin has melted and is following from his fingers into the charred earth. Hikaru-san was beyond human in his performance: he was the epitome of pain and anguish, horrifying for us to see but impossible for us to look away. Everything else about Scarred Hands has, for me, faded away, but the image of Hikaru Otsubo’s excruciating pain remains. His accomplishment was sans verbal language; it was merely him, his body and soul, alone on stage, in a single spot of light, unforgettable.
I encountered Butoh a second time in 1997 as I traveled to Tel Aviv, Israel, part of a two week theatre study tour. The waiter at the Thai restaurant where I took most of my meals discovered my interest in theatre and introduced himself as a Butoh dancer and invited me to a special workshop held in Tel Aviv later in the week. I took him up on the invitation, arriving with nearly a hundred Israelis at a small theatre in a section of the city that felt unsafe. I sat in the audience and watched. A mistake. There is little to be learned about Butoh from a distance. It is an art form that requires participation. Leading the workshop was a shriveled Japanese sensei of inestimable age, long gray hair that reminded me of a lion’s mane, and dressed in a tan robe, something similar to a kimono. I watched as all others moved with painful slowness through the theatrical space. There was no action; there was no point, not one I could observe. So I left early still at a loss as to what Butoh really meant. Later in the week, I attended a production with a story line drawn from the first few books of the Bible that used Butoh techniques as a movement base. I was enthralled by the event. A memorable moment (one of many) was the seduction of five Adams by five Eves, each managing the apple of temptation in a unique manner. Another moment was the movement of Noah and his family out of the clouds and into the light, a ponderous and painful process that seemed interminable, yet unavoidable. It was this production that convinced me of the enormous power to be found inside Butoh dance.
In 1999, Akira Wakabayashi produced in Tokyo in a Japanese translation that he had devised my drama, Atomic Field. I was invited to Japan to see the production and to offer a series of lectures on the subject, “The American Hibakusha.” It was here that I once again crossed paths with Hikaru Otsubo. The text of my play had been altered in order to provide Hikaru-san a dramatic moment similar to that in Scarred Hands. And once again, he was the highlight of the production, his non-verbal enactment of the horrors of nuclear war rendering the rest of my play non-essential. In his all-too-brief appearance as a victim of nuclear warfare, Hikaru-san succeeded in communicating what my two hour drama could only hint at. Following opening night of Atomic Field, I was invited to accompany the cast and crew to a Tokyo bar for fun and relaxation. It was there that I had a chance to speak with Hikaru-san and share with him my intense appreciation for the work he accomplished in the performance. His humility was as deeply felt as his passion for Butoh. It was at this time that he mentioned his strong desire to come to the US again, only this time as a solo performer, to present his art before American audiences and to offer workshops in Butoh technique. That his proposed American tour was realized is a tribute to his persistence and determination. In fact, he paid for his travel out of his personal resources since I was unable to secure a grant to assist him. And the rest is now part of my personal history.
The Healing Power of Butoh
Hikaru Otsubo arrived in Ruston, Louisiana, on September 8, 2001, following a flawed Butoh performance of “Icarus” at Arkansas State University the night before. I attended this performance to gain a clearer indication of what we might expect at Louisiana Tech the following week. I call the performance at ASU “flawed” because the producers there were concerned over the prospect of a nude performance and insisted that Hikaru-san wear tights. His performance was workmanlike but uninspired. During the talk-back session at which time Hikaru-san took questions from the audience, it became apparent that he had not succeeded in sharing the intense power inherent in Butoh. Even the producer who had protected the modesty of her audience by forcing Hikaru-san into a more modest presentation regretted her decision and expressed to me her wish that she had not been quite so protective.
Accompanying Hikaru-san to Ruston was Hisako Nishimiya, a fourth year international student from Tokyo studying American Theatare at Arkansas State. Hikaru-san’s English was not as dependable as he desired; so we engaged with Hisako-san to serve as his translator. On September 9, my wife and I introduced Hikaru and Hisako to the traditional South by taking them to Melrose Plantation, part of the Cane River National Park complex near Natchitoches, Louisiana. On Monday, September 10, Hikaru-san met with several classes and offered an introductory workshop. Then on September 11, everything changed.
Shock is too mild a word to describe the impact felt throughout the University on that fateful day. The exact word most likely does not exist. I recall thinking: This is how my parents must have felt on December 7, 1941. I have heard others share the same thought: 9/11 became this generation’s “Day of Infamy.” It seemed only natural that our thoughts turned to that fateful day when America was forced into war with Japan by the sneak attack made on Pearl Harbor. In addition, the media began referring to what had been the World Trade Center as “Ground Zero.” Prior to September 11, “Ground Zero” was the label assigned to the hypocenters and the immediate blast plains of the atomic bombs which had been dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Thus, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 were linked, at least in our thinking, to Japan as perpetrator of horror and Japan as the recipient of same. At first, I was concerned, having Hikaru Otsubo and Hisako Nishimiya as guests on campus. I could feel the growing anger being spread not just at Louisiana Tech but throughout the entire country; would this anger, needing an outlet, find a focus on our Japanese friends?
My fears were unfounded and were soon put aside. Instead, their presence on the Louisiana Tech campus was actually comforting in an unusual way. Within our midst were two representatives, Hikaru and Hisako, from a nation which only fifty six years before had been our most dreaded enemy, an enemy against which we waged the bloodiest war known to human kind. Yet on that fateful day in September, 2001, Japan was and remains one of our America’s most cherished friends. The message became clear, at least for me: today, our most heinous enemy, the Islamic extremists, those who perpetrate terror and strive to overwhelm the entirety of Western civilization, may, like the Japanese, be our closest ally in fifty years. There is hope. That hope on 9/11 was manifest in simply having Hikaru-san and his interpreter on hand, to share our grief and know our pain.
When I met Hikaru-san at his motel the morning of September 11, he was traumatized not only by the images he was seeing on his television screen but also by the fact that his facility with the English language left too many holes within his understanding. He was full of questions; nobody had any answers. After basic concerns, such as would classes be canceled at the University and had the final attack actually been made, were resolved, we asked the most pressing question: should the performance of “Icarus,” scheduled for September 13, be postponed or even canceled? A final decision regarding this matter was not reached until the morning of the next day, September 12: yes, “Icarus” not only should go forward; it had to go forward. We needed it.
None of us realized just how much we needed it until the evening of September 13. Half an hour before the performance was to begin, every seat in the Arthur W. Stone University Theatre was filled. By seven thirty, curtain time, there were at least one hundred and fifty more people in the lobby, longing to get in. We held the curtain and asked our student majors to forfeit their seats and to stand in the light booth. This opened approximately twenty seats in the auditorium, which were filled immediately but did not resolve our need. Then Hikaru-san, realizing the phenomenon that was occurring, announced that he would be pleased to perform “Icarus” a second time, that if those patrons in the lobby would return at nine, he would present his Butoh performance just for them.
The re-telling of the Icarus myth, Butoh style, begins with Hikaru-san imbedded inside a cocoon, a sheathing of hand-made paper, and proceeds with his freeing himself, gaining access to his “wings of wax,” and initiating his flight toward the sun. He is dressed in a loin cloth of unbleached muslin, his body covered with white make-up. Smeared across his abdomen and along one leg is a waxy substance of pale blue, representing the sea. The telling of Icarus’ story involves eight movements, each set to different kinds of music, each with a differing feel. Near the end of his performance, Hikaru-san stands at the edge of the stage, empty except for him, and begins to quiver in a slow but unforgiving way. Before the moment is complete, his entire body is quaking, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, his eyes as white as his bone-like body. I had seen this moment in his performance in Arkansas a week before, but there it had not been the same, not in the least. There, on the stage of the Arthur W. Stone University Theatre, we in the audience were witnessing the horror of inevitable death. Most in the audience had come to the theatre to escape the sickening images of airplanes crashing themselves into stately buildings. As Hikaru-san’s body quaked uncontrollably, as his passion for life was being sliced away by external forces (for Icarus, the force of the sun itself), we were not escaping the television images at all; instead, we are on the other side of the television cameras. We are inside the World Trade Center. We are seeing the unseeable, feeling the unfeelable, exploring the unknown country that television on that particular day and at that particular hour is only able to indicate. The sheer unmitigated power of that tiny Japanese man was beyond words, and I left the theatre not simply moved, not merely affected; I left with my inner being having been shaken, with my soul having been touched, with my entire consciousness having been cleansed. I felt healed. My numbness was gone.
Once was not enough. At nine that evening, over a hundred expectant people returned to the theatre, determined not to miss Hikaru Otsubo’s rendition of “Icarus.” And again, I experience the same power, the same cleansing power. I feel that most of those privileged to the Butoh experience on that particular evening return home at least in part, like me, healed.
The Greeks speak of catharsis, a purging of the soul. As an academic, I have studied the concept and tried to teach it. After “Icarus,” I am convinced that only the idea of catharsis can be taught; the actual power of it must be experienced. Catharsis, for me, has ceased to be a simple idea; it has become a state of being, a healing. And I have Hikaru Otsubo to thank for this revelation.
Itto Morita, a professor of psychology at the Hokkaido Institute and founder of GooSayTen Butoh, performed with his Butoh troop in Kalamazoo, MI, October 5-6, 2001. As preparation for the performance, almost a month after the terrorist attacks, Professor Morita stated: “The therapeutic nature of Butoh may be especially intense for American audiences in light of the recent terrorist attacks. . . I would say that Butoh is a way to find the faintest light or hope in the dark side of our world or our existence by digging out our own suppressed dark sides such as anger, grief.”
So I am not alone in my recognition of the healing power of Butoh. It had been developed by Tatsumi Hijikata in the 1950’s as a way to help his people, the Japanese, heal after the end of the Pacific War. It worked then. It works now. Carol Snapp, Executive Director of Wellspring in Kalamazoo, sums up the power of this new dance form when she writes: “Butoh speaks to the dark part of the soul, but also to the process of healing and the rebirth and renewal that follows.”