Major Dance Pieces
When imagination intertwines with bodily senses,
I encounter things that are brewing,
I receive messages that slip in unexpectedly,
and I get help from something beyond human power.
This morphs into dance pieces over time.
JOMON (1967)
The sound of the raging wind.
The sound of a live tree splitting as it still stands accentuates the silence.
A war cry of ancient times echoes throughout.
Dogu, which are humanoid figurines shaped in clay,
were found in Japan’s ancient ruins.
I wanted to express the vitality of the primitive land of
the primitive age of Jomon.
Before dogustarted being used to accompany the dead,
people were apparently buried alive underground
and their screams could be heard at the earth’s surface.
Such stories helped to shape my image.
I vied with dancers of the West
who disperse their energy externally without
the slightest of doubt in doing so.
This is a piece in which I would gradually descend,
carry myself on my knees, lie face down, crawl, collapse,
and then end up standing as an object.
I first performed this piece in Kaufman Hall in Manhattan in May 1969.
I also performed it in Toranomon Hall in Tokyo later that autumn and received that year’s the Ministry of Education Art Festival Prize, the 10th Annual Dance Award from Dance Critics Club of Japan, and the Best Performing Artist of the year 1967 in the modern dance field presented by the Ongaku Shimbun newspaper.
My Voice or Somebody Else’s Voice
That strange silence immediately before the conductor raises his/her arms, after the murmur of the audience dies down and the tuning of instruments ceases.
I am taken aback by the fear that almost makes me scream.
Enigmas that suddenly appear are terrifying.
So are voices that I suddenly hear out of nowhere…
Then again, ideas that grow out over time like messages from above (or other side) would feel familiar and resonate with my body sometimes.
The messages from above were hard to capture but touching and valuable.
I was happy to receive them.
I had experienced such things since I was young. In the summer of 1967,
I was struggling to choreograph “Jomon” for the New York performance.
But all of a sudden, the movements came together quickly, one after another,
and the piece was completed.
I then got married, got pregnant, and started raising children. The next dance piece was “Bird” in early summer of 1975. I saw a vision of me dancing.
I played the music three times and all three times,
I saw visions of the same exact movements.
Did something at the bottom of my unconscious emerge?
Or was it instruction from the heavens?
Time passed without me really understanding.
Bird (1975)
I first performed “Bird” at Barnard College in New York City in September 1975.
Once I performed it, I got one request after another to perform it at other venues. “Bird” was performed under various conditions, from small 100-seat theaters to Central Park’s Delacorte Theater, an open-air theater that can accommodate 2,000 people.
It was reborn each time as a new piece. In each moment, my body fought against something like an undulation that disperses and breaks. I strongly desired many times to experience that mysterious space on stage, which was indeed a different dimension, again and again. I danced the piece until the autumn of 1994.
Pablo Casals who passed away at the age of 96 is said to have always played “Song of the Birds” for encore. The melody is from a folk song from his native Catalonia. It is a short simple number that is pure and transparent with a touch of bitter sweetness. As I listened to it repeatedly, I came across movements that occurred from my inner self. The will to fly regardless of whether you can…
The theme spiraled up amid repetition. Inevitable movements flowed out.
After dancing “Bird” for two decades, from 1975 to 1994, I retired from dancing the piece on stage.
Gift from Improvisation
While inspired by works of modern artists, I was heavily influenced by
the abundant luxury of European civilizations.
I was especially drawn to the magnificent beauty of instrumental pieces and
eventually tilted towards classical music as well as music with strong ethnic flavor.
Even if the melody and rhythm are Occidental, they mesh with my body and calm me
when I move between breaths. There are many beautiful Gothic-style cathedrals in
New York City. I had many opportunities to dance inside great halls as well as
cathedrals made from marble that are no longer used for worship.
Although I was a modern dancer, I turned away from modern music early on,
and tilted towards pre-classical and ethnic music. I came up with ideas for several of
my dance pieces just by being in these cathedrals and great halls.
I think those were the results of more than 25 years of attempting improvised expression repeatedly on a daily basis to try and loosen up my rigid consciousness as much as possible.
Even within the rigid structure of classical music, freedom sought out
the inevitable from within me.
Maybe I used classical music just as they are because
I was never fond of electronic music that was popular back then.
Duet for One (1983)
I danced improvisation every day as my heart desired. I waited until my movements naturally and gradually blended with the music. I panicked that I was turning 50 and told myself, “I will dance to the music I love while I still can!” I listened to Brahms every day.
I heard Brahms’ Waltz when I was a young girl and it stuck with me since. It is like a folk song from Tyrol. Time passes by quickly…I must dance now.
I told myself, now that I am turning 50, I can finally dance to this music. Titled “Duet for One”, I danced to Brahms’ Waltz, Ballade, and Intermezzo. I thought I should dance to the music I love while I can still move. I continued creating dance pieces such as “Aria”, “Canon” and “Lullaby”.
Lullaby (1987)
This dance piece is based on images derived from fragments of works by Paul Celan, a Jewish poet that committed suicide by drowning in the Seine River. The piece was a “lullaby for the wandering soul”.
At the end of the piece, the music would suddenly shift from a female vocalist singing an old Israeli lullaby to Dvorak’s march. I made this choice because of a story that was stuck in my body. The story of a mother waiting for the return of her son who died on the battlefield. She would wander the streets like a mad woman once she hears a march.
This was a dance piece that slipped inside of me unexpectedly, with my perceptions and memories recalled and brewed.
Voice (1985)
Dance drama in all black costume of kurogo (kabuki stagehand dressed in black from head to toe) By the time my children were 10, I had completed my Dance Theory Series and moved on to my VOICE Series, which was fun in terms of making costumes and masks. In the summer of 1986, we performed “VOICE VII” in Tokyo, Osaka and Nagoya. We used 60 masks for the piece. No, we actually used all 100. Dancers put masks on both their faces and the back of their heads or held them with their hands. Some used two or three masks at a time. Japanese people worry too much about what others think of them and have rigid minds. How much they were able to liberate themselves by covering their face with masks!
Some danced completely different from the personality they had thus far presented. I felt like I witnessed the true nature of Japanese people who love to party but cannot cut loose without the help of alcohol.
A long line of people walking forward in silence. Nobody knows where they came from and where they are going. But the endless line of people proceeds on the path destined by fate. There are ups and downs. People travel on the uncharted path. I wanted to portray that in my dance piece. Each dancer was allowed to create his/her own movement and dance freely under one condition. They had to dance rhythmically, incorporating freezes (halting all body motion) so that each step looked like a single frame in a film. As long as the movement utilized the rhythm, the dancer could extend the beat, be on the beat, move slowly, or cut in front of another dancer. However, as if to go by a law of the universe, as a general rule, you must always follow the predetermined path.
One may obey or disobey the way of the world, roll on the floor laughing, hesitate, fall down, fall asleep sometimes, slack off, get into a fight, or deviate the path. But he/she is following the path paved by predecessors. They proceed in a line like Japan’s traditional “march of the ants to Kumano” (lines of pilgrims making their way to Kumano shrines likened to ants). I inserted moments where time stops: when someone stops, everyone stands still without any body motion. When someone starts walking again, everyone follows suit.
Bon festival dance (traditional folk dance to welcome the spirits of deceased ancestors) of Japan in the distant past had been engraved in my mind like the dead in the form of a silhouette. It played out in front of my eyes through this dance piece. At the beginning of the piece, I dressed everyone, children and a dog included, in an all-black kurogo costume. Their heads and faces were covered with a hood with a face cover attached. They were dressed in black from head to toe and wore coverings for the hands and wrists and gaiters. The only skin showing were their wrists, hands, ankles and feet.
The all-black kurogocostume is unique to Japan and is based on a premise that the stagehands are invisible to the audience members. On a kabuki stage, kurogo is a stagehand that assists the actors on stage. In my dance piece, I made kurogo the main character. In order to bring out the invisible spirit inside a person and highlight the abstractness of movements, no other costume is as effective as a kurogo costume that makes the dancer faceless and bodiless.
Indeed, by covering the body skin and face, expression of inner life became more vivid. At first glance, you got the impression of something uniform and abstract. But just like every dancer’s face is different, their individuality jumped out of their movements in a more pronounced way. Thanks to the lighting, the exposed hands and feet punctuated their movements even more.
I used religious music from 13thCentury Spain. I altered the speed and the music sounded like both angels and devils. The mixed voice of six male and female vocalists echoed along with the sound of string instruments. When the music was about to reach the middle section, I suddenly cut it off. Amid the silence, the dancers paused and kept silent. Eventually, the dancers moved in slow motion to surreal singing voices as if they were being sucked in to the ground. Retaining their shape, they descended by gradually bending their knees and sinking into the ground. All of them laid face down on stage. In a time of metamorphosis, they crawled on the floor as they wriggled and laid on top of each other. Amid the chaotic sound of a mixed-voice ensemble, dancers shed their costumes as they crawled. The color black peeled off of them.
For the second half of the piece, the dancers wore underneath their black costumes flesh-colored masks and costumes of various designs in different shades of beige. The stage lighting started to illuminate all of the dancers clad in beige costumes, each with a different design. A golden glow of life emerged vividly from the all-black costumes. Having received a new life, they formed a line again, walked, and started to dance.
There were scenes where they became mischievous devils or gods. A group of beige-colored masks soared in the air. The music reverberated endlessly. Everything on stage shimmered in gold. The lighting effects gradually covered the stage with what looked like flames burning and flickering bright red. The line of dancers was uninterrupted. The masked dancers continued to dance like crazy. They slowly dissolved into the darkness and the piece came to an end.
Sho (1988)
The sound of the fue (Japanese bamboo flute) inviting god cuts through the sky. My body certainly was aware of my attraction to the sound of the nohkan (bamboo transverse flute in noh theater). In the early summer of 1987, the 11thgeneration iemoto (head) of the Fujita school of noh theater fue requested a meeting. As soon as I met the iemoto, I was overwhelmed by the tremendous sound of the nohkan that he produced. The sound of the nohkan is intended to invite god and feels dangerous to the human body. I was invited to perform in a show at the Atsuta Shrine Noh Theater Stage.
In the autumn of the year I turned 54, I performed on a noh stage for the first time in my life. It was the first of a solemn project titled “Sanjo Mariko Dances in Yugen (profound grace and subtlety)” with a subtitle “Symphony with Noh Stage.” It was extremely terrifying. The organizer wrote on the event program: “The origin of performance is prayer to god. Performing arts series unfolding in the land of god.” Those words were heavy. I learned the significance of the corridor connecting the backstage to the noh stage and its relationship to the stage. I was amazed by the inevitability of the shape and size of the stage. I received power from my predecessors on the well-used stage.
Noh stage has a long tradition and values style and symbolic beauty. I wore on my head and face a half mask with a white plain-weaved kumihimo (braided cord). I danced with my eyes covered so I can disrupt senses that are familiar to me, have less control of my awareness, and focus on what radiates from within. That different dimension is full of darkness and overtones and terrifying. I trembled with fear that my body may lose its balance. However, I was immersed in a chilling thrill that helped me to soar to a place that is clearly separate from myself just moments ago.
As I stood in the darkness with my eyes covered, a space full of light suddenly emerged around me. I was fully exposed to the energy of the audience. Amid an abundance I cannot fully take in, both my body and soul went straight towards something invisible.
In the jo-no-mai (Noh dance prelude), I converted an image of a chigo(divine child) and danced with the appearance of an enchantress. After the jo-no-mai, I suddenly rode the high-pitched sound of the nohkanand transformed into a wild hawk.
Making Every Day Count
I repeated improvised movements every day to make sure I never lost
my first impressions of my ideas for dance pieces.
I think this goes for both dance and writing, but I have been blessed
with new ideas one after another.
I have added objectivity and artistic modulations and exposed myself
on stage over time.
Over the years, I have been blessed with opportunities
to keep on trying my dance pieces on numerous stages until I was satisfied.
Having been devoted to saraband for a long time,
I performed group dance pieces “Premonition” and “Chorale”
as part of my White Series. But I couldn’t help but realize my limitations
and completely changed the way I choreographed and directed my pieces.
In order to elicit authentic movements from the dancers who are performing my pieces, there is no other means but improvisation.
This realization led to “VOICE VII”. I used religious music from
13th Century Spain with voices of a mixed-voice ensemble.
This piece broadly captured the reason why human beings dance
and brought together the dancers and audience members.
It was performed numerous times in the US and overseas.
It effectively became the last of my Dance Theory Series.
It is quite natural that my dance pieces were limited to “hymns” and “dirges”. I sincerely appreciate the tremendous legacies left behind
by many from ancient times.
It was only after I turned 50 that I lived life like I wanted to.
I have experienced the fun of wavering.
I have been intrigued by changes from day to day.
I reached my peak, both physically and mentally, in the several years of
my mid-50s. I soon grew old.
Finally, in 1996, I finished my career as a dancer with a piece called “Passage”. It was a group dance with 20 female performers in white robe walking the white path (to the netherworld in Buddhism).
I used music by contemporary composer Ushio Torikai that incorporated shomyo (Japanese Buddhist monks’ chants).
