Garrett Kam

When international artists collaborate, some questions arise. What problems in the process are due to artistic differences or personalities? How do artists present themselves, and how did they differ from their personal and public images? What things cannot cross cultural boundaries, and why? What are the effects of working for a limited time in a highly stimulating environment? The issues examined here are based on observations, participation, notes, interviews, conversations, discussions, letters, and videotapes.1

Garrett Kam
PHOTO: EKO SUPRIYANTO

Problem-solving is important for creativity, but when several individuals are involved, their methods and solutions may be conflicting. While some tension can enhance creativity, too much hampers it. For example, “Reunion and Return” developed out of proposals for a workshop on traditional monkey dances known by artists. It finally became a piece based on the Indian Ramayana epic, with two heroes in Thai and Okinawan dance and three monkeys in Javanese, Cambodian, and Tibetan2 styles. In the first version, humans and monkeys worked separately then joined together with surprisingly few problems.

The piece grew to include three human roles in different styles; five kinds of monkeys, including one using post-modern improvisation;3 and a butterfly.4 With group consensus, Ida Ayu Wimba Ruspawati (Bali) and Mao Tip Moni (Cambodia) switched roles to highlight differences in their styles.5 The first version showed the monkeys assembling and then joining the heroes to rescue the abducted princess. The second version performed the reunion of the princess with her husband and the return home with the monkeys. The change appeared to go smoothly, as most performers knew the story. However, because Higa Norihiro (Okinawa) and Tsering Dorjee (Tibet) were unfamiliar with the tale, they assumed that the first version episode still was being performed in the second one. There even were differences among those who knew the epic.6 Thus, a common reference point did not exist and led to differences in mood, but discussion soon established a common basis.7

Other problems were solved quickly. The butterfly was changed to a bird because the Moni found it difficult to create a butterfly dance, so she used traditional bird movements. The two Cambodian artists, Moni and Soeur Sophea, stressed their role in maintaining their heritage and featured classical dances in their presentations.8 During his introduction, Sophea stated, “I really admire the senior artists who had survived the Khmer Rouge and worked really hard to preserve it, to make sure that the dance tradition was preserved and passed on to my generation. And as a teacher now, I have the same mission.” Using written comments, the bird in “Reunion and Return” also was more integrated.9

Peng Jingquan in “Oedipus”
PHOTO: LARRY LOEHER

However, Pradit Prasartthong (Thailand), who had missed the rehearsal when changes were made, felt that they were done without his consent. Tensions came from musical problems because the musical director, Danongan Kalanduyan (Philippines), was not used to accompanying a dance drama. Dancers suggested mood music, and I Nyoman Windha (Bali), experienced in accompanying dance dramas, helped solve some of these difficulties. Could some of these problems been avoided with a director? Perhaps there was the need for leadership in a group this large, but since the intent was to show dance styles and not a story, the participants may have felt that a director was unnecessary. Some difficulties were resolved with help from the program director, Judy Mitoma. While this may have not been the best solution, it defused a tense situation and led to a better creative environment.

“Oedipus”—with five performers—benefited from the experienced directorship of Peng Jingquan (China), who also took on the role of the father killed by his son, played by Ettumanoor Parameswaran 10Kannan (India). While these two strong performers had differences in approach to the Greek tragedy of incest, this may have contributed to the uneasy relationship between their roles. Story was essential, so direction was needed, unlike “Reunion and Return.” On the other hand, “Voices” did not need directing for its multiple narratives. By interweaving personal stories about death or near-death situations, three performers created conversation with movement and sound. Parameswaran noted that, “Structure is needed in Kathakali, but the performer stands in the center of the structure to let things happen.” Denise Uyehara (U.S.) said that, “I like to tell stories in any shape or form.” The third artist, Josefina Baez (Dominican Republic), pointed out, “My art at this point is not to entertain. If I want something specifically, it is to start a dialogue.” With a unified approach, they worked through their differences.

Some contemporary artists avoid telling stories, while traditional ones find it hard to break away from narratives. The Javanese and Balinese dancers directed projects from mythology, which meant that other participants needed to know the characters, plot, and issues.11 In Nuryanto Susanto’s (Java) “Karna and Kunti,” it was difficult for Cheng-Chieh Yu (Taiwan/U.S.) to understand a mother who attempts to reconcile with her abandoned son before his death. Their duet used the essence of the story from the Indian Mahabharata epic by focusing on feelings, so it became a lyrical piece instead of a narrative.12 Yu did not want the relationship to read as one between lovers, so she avoided showing that kind of intimacy, a challenge due to cultural differences. She had commented that “to become an American modern dancer has been a constant evolving identity for myself, and there was a constant cultural clash. And I’m always trying to adapt and try and fit in.” The tension between the two dancers due to her insufficient knowledge of the story may have enhanced the mood of uncertainty in the ambiguous relationship between the characters.

Performers in “Bhisma,” another Mahabharata episode, attempted to do movements given to them by Ruspawati but were unable to be convincing in an unfamiliar style. Roko Kawai (Japan/U.S.) improvised because she refused to do literal gestures. Her character was ambiguous: the guilty conscience of the priest, the ghost of the woman he accidentally killed, or both.13 In these projects, narratives were important for understanding emotion. “Karna and Kunti” succeeded because it only had two dancers who could intensify their interactions to create feelings not confined to the narrative. The larger number of dancers and roles in “Bhisma” made it a narrative, but one that was not familiar to most of them.

The Tibetan “Ache Lhamo” reached a wider audience due to its universal themes of jealousy, suffering, and healing.14 Many cultures also have stories about incest as in “Oedipus,” unlike the more limited Mahabharata episodes. When familiar tales are performed, it is the way they are done that is important because the audience knows the stories. In the widespread “Bird Maiden” folktale, artists created a surprise ending with the celestial mother rescuing her children from their abusive human father.15 The Cambodian “Goddess and Giant” gave a humorous twist to a story with ritual significance.16 Fables also have universal appeal in their directness and moral messages, thus making collaboration easier. In an early session, artists told folktales in groups and then selected one to perform. These four fables, presented without discussion between groups, mostly used animals.17 The presentations were spontaneous, humorous, and revealed cross-cultural attitudes about animals as metaphors of humanity.

Some presentations used personal narratives, as in Yu’s “My Father’s Teeth in My Mother’s Mouth,” which included recorded dialogue with her dentist along with images of her dental chart. This autobiographical work became meaningful to others due to detailed program notes and lengthy verbal explanation prior to performing.18 She often made comments about verbal, visual, and movement languages, which she viewed as interdependent. “Language is so full, not only spoken language,” she noted. “We communicate through the whole body. When someone does not speak English well, I read and see more of the whole person…I’m interested in using different creative forms that are organized like language.”

She was a guiding force in the non-narrative “Time, Emit Time.”19 Her involvement in Cristian Amigo’s (Chile/U.S.) “Transitions” showed strong belief in her ideas. The musical idea arose from coming to terms with the serious illness of a relative and a poem on death and dying. In her introduction, Yu brought her suitcase, and Uyehara developed this idea by asking each dancer to imagine going on a journey with a suitcase, approaching a bridge, and choosing one thing to take to the other side.20 Participants used personal stories that were never verbalized. Yu did not want the piece to be literal, but focused on interactions. She emphasized that “less is more” and had participants reduce their movements. Artists responded to each other by imitating, mirroring, and contrasting their movements. Discussions were held each time after the piece was done.

Sophea Soeur and Peng Jingquan in the final performance of “Sleeping with Strangers”
PHOTO: LARRY LOEHER

In a workshop, Yu had artists speak to each other in languages not mutually understood by explaining, “If we don’t speak English, what are we communicating?…Our main creative purpose is to explore the freedom of expression, and we each must treat our whole bodies like the living instruments that they are…To listen with the whole being…To hear not only with the ear, but also with the mind, heart, and thoughts, and take the whole person in. To look not only with the eyes, to see the whole person and all the body language.”

This approach succeeded in “Sleeping with Strangers.” The first version dealt with humorous cultural miscommunications in English between Peng and Higa, using actual incidents as roommates. Peng also performed in the second version, but with Soeur, who spoke Khmer. Unfortunately, he came across as victimized because the audience understood English and could predict what would happen. Upon the suggestion of Uyehara, Peng switched to Mandarin. Without a shared language, and using ones which few audience members knew, the performers communicated through movement and expression. This final version expanded personal experiences to a universal level.

Other projects that relied mostly on English text were “Oedipus” and “Voices.” Parameswaran, who participated in both, spoke while performing, which broke from his Kathakali tradition where the actor uses movement and expression while a narrator chants the text. He found that he used less force while acting because of a need to coordinate movement with speech. “In life we always have to be conscious of others. In art we learn to do it with dancers and musicians,” he commented. “In collaboration we learn to do new skills and adjust, but we must be ready and receptive.” He discovered more about himself by working with others.

Language created some barriers because English was the main mode of communication. Non-native speakers often said that Americans spoke English too quickly for too long. Asian artists were economical in words and expressed important ideas. This made some Americans aware of speaking too much. Musicians also commented that they talk less than dancers, so dancers were encouraged to show rather than tell what they wanted. Uyehara admitted that, “I’ve learned how to use less words and say more, especially in an international multilingual group…there are many people that encourage quietly, and we still move forward and create wonderful works.” To encourage performers in “Voices,” she had them perform images with few words.21

Classical dance appears mechanical if the right feelings are not expressed. Parameswaran wrote, “In India, we consider theatre as yoga (practice to gain peace of mind through self-realization). Theatre is something that gives self-awareness (knowledge about one’s own psychic complications and inner energies) to the viewers as well as to other artists.” Interestingly, the four encore workshops all had traditional forms.22 While the Balinese gamelan (musical ensemble) and Cambodian and Okinawan dances were successful the first time, Peng’s movement session was difficult, with many watching rather than risk injury.23 As a returning program artist, he had learned to do more and say less. In his encore workshop, he admitted having given too difficult things the first time and thus taught simpler movements.

Two artists made interesting observations about tradition. An accomplished Japanese classical dancer, Yamazaki Kazuko (Japan/U.S.), commented, “I can move and stand like a Nihon Buyo dancer…but once outside the dance studio I will walk in large gaits and stand tall and hold my head straight up…I learned that kind of body language as my second language, and I learned to switch between those two different body languages.” In the first version of “Voices,” she dealt with the conflict between these body languages, using mostly non-traditional movements and mocking her wide-open legs by slapping them and scolding, “Japanese girls do not sit that way!”

Kawai explained that, “Some of us come straight into a tradition…while others adopt a tradition and take it on fully…I’ve taken a break from my own usual work and gone back to studying traditional Japanese dance…How can you find the richness of that exact position?…How can you find freshness inside of repetition? And with these ideas, I want to practice improvisation.” In a solo performance, she began with a very traditional kimono-clad image and speaking softly in polite Japanese. Then she “deconstructed” herself through loud American slang, removed her kimono, and improvised post-modern movements.

For a session on artist training, both Japanese women simultaneously performed different versions of a Japanese classical dance while Peng interacted with them through comic improvisation. In one project, Kawai rolled across the back of the Balinese drummer Windha, an idea that he suggested.24 “In Bali, composers have to know the tradition first,” he explained. “If they don’t know the tradition, they cannot develop it or make something new.”25 Kawai had not studied Balinese dance and denied inspiration from the dance of Ruspawati, her Balinese roommate, a few days earlier that included interaction with this drummer. However, she admitted, “It’s possible that on some subliminal level, we (herself and the two Balinese) felt freer to experiment with contact, music/dancer interaction…The Balinese dancer and the musician seemed both so open and full of humor; whether I perceived that from them individually or from their art forms, who knows.” She said that she would have been uncomfortable using an idea from another tradition without studying it.

The limits of experimentation were exceeded for a project in which Susanto stepped over some small kettle chimes from the Balinese gamelan placed on the floor. He leapt over Windha’s head, which culturally was offensive. Since this had not been done during rehearsals, the musician admitted that he lost his concentration. The dancer also lay upon the big gong and rolled it around. This showed disrespect, which was what everyone had learned in the Balinese gamelan workshop about stepping over instruments.26 Some people pointed out that since the gong was not his, it should have been handled with great care.27 The Javanese artist’s idea was to dance with the gong as though it were a person, even a god.28 He felt that the prayer in the piece was his way of asking forgiveness for doing anything improper. But is it valid to show respect by being culturally disrespectful? The same idea could have been handled in a more sensitive way; Ruspawati said that although the idea was good, she found the presentation offensive. For those unfamiliar with the tradition, the debate educated them about respect for instruments.

How far can an artist go in being creative? Is someone from the culture more entitled to experiment with it? It cannot be presumed that insiders know everything about their own traditions, and what statements are being made.29 Uyehara commented that part of performance is to go further, but it is up to the artist to have a clear dialogue with the audience. Mitoma privately commented, “For me…art is not everything. Art is something, but not everything. Some things are more important than art; some things are more important than self-expression, even though I am in the arts…If the intent is to shock, then that is not what APPEX is about.”

Some artists did not feel challenged in collaborating, particularly those who usually worked alone or were used to being directors. Challenges could lie in working with others in new ways, reaching out to different people, or seeing their art in different perspectives. Kawai commented, “I have to trust that I am making the best choice for myself, my community, and my work…Now I feel that all this output…has emptied me, and I want to come back in here and listen again to those small sounds and feelings.” Uyehara similarly noted, “After working so hard, I felt a little empty inside. So recently I’ve been trying to sit still and be inside my body.” Musician Ricardo Trimillos (U.S.) said, “It is important to see what is possible, that there are new ways to do things and new audiences to reach.” Yu appreciated how much artists made self-sacrifices so that they could work together. When artists collaborate, they learn to adjust to each other in productive ways. During a filmed interview, I referred to something learned in the program as a metaphor for this: “People are trying to find the halfway point, the meeting ground…It’s a process of adjusting to each other, and that’s the first stage of collaborating…It’s like the sight lines in Kathakali; no one’s looking at each other, but somewhere the sight lines are invisibly meeting.”

Denise Uyehara and Ida Ayu Wimba Ruspawati take a break from non-stop APPEX activities
PHOTO: EKO SUPRIYANTO

Artists trained in classical forms maintain their purity. Trimillos explained that identity is mediated or championed; one should have self-respect and not compromise one’s values to fit into the perceptions or preconceptions of others. Higa wrote in his letter, “I want to compare Asian arts and Ryukyu Buyo (Okinawan dance); to study the similarities as well as the differences. It is my desire to put new ideas to Ryukyu Buyo. My dream is to create new works of kumiudui (classical dance drama).” He commented that he did not want to change his tradition by incorporating new ways of artistic expression, but he wanted to create something new based on his tradition. What kind of collaborations can be done with self-imposed limitations? In Higa’s “Dream,” participants mostly used traditional movements that were woven around his traditional dance. Most of the music also relied on traditional Okinawan melodies and included a narrator. The original “Dream” was a short solo for a session in which artists were asked to show something that reminded them of home. By using a sash, fan, and music, Higa performed a dream sequence of what it means to be Okinawan.

A second group version included another dream by using similarities with the first one.30 Weaving in another story fit in with the thread-winding movements in the Okinawan dance, and also included a Balinese weaving dance. It reinforced the theme of carrying a homeland in the heart, a tapestry of memories.31 However, Higa felt that this made it confusing and so only his dream was told in the final version. To make it more collaborative, he added a few more elements. In his introduction, he had commented, “I’ve been performing and teaching just traditional Okinawan dance so far, but…I feel I should break away shells and try new things and learn a lot.” The success of “Dream” came from giving freedom to the dancers without directing them, and incorporating their suggestions with ideas from the musicians.

Most artists relied on established skills rather than develop new ones because of time.32 To prevent boredom, last-minute changes added some artistic tension and extra energy. While most projects were developed within a few days of the final showings, some were set a week earlier and these could have been “over-rehearsed,” yet artists continued to fine-tune these pieces. Time was on everyone’s mind, for it also appeared early as a theme in a piece on coming and going that included related ideas of arriving and leaving, starting and finishing, birth and death.33 Baez said, “I have, in my present, [both] my past and my future.” Amigo also commented, “I always like to forget the past and keep moving, but I have to start thinking about my past as well.” Time was the concept behind the music he created for “Time, Emit Time,” in which a single moment could be stretched or compressed, moved forward or backward, and sped up or slowed down.

Creativity needs spare time. For artists, the time spent outside scheduled sessions may allow them to come up with other approaches. They need opportunities to see other performances, do research, review videotapes or films, listen to music, socialize freely in an unstructured environment, think up new ideas, or just rest. Windha observed that he could not work all the time in Bali as he did in the program, and sometimes he lost his focus. Owan Kiyoyuki (Okinawa) said that it was difficult to keep up with the pace of events. Higa commented that he was used to working on one thing at a time, so it was difficult for him to do something new almost every day while leaving previous projects unfinished. Yet he was surprised at how fast he adapted. The program planted the seeds for new ideas, as many of the collaborations could become more finished pieces.

Traditional dance and music cannot be mastered in six weeks, nor can post-modern improvisation. Individual training had an impact on what artists presented, which showed consistent or different images of themselves as performers and individuals. If artists usually worked independently or directed, then dynamics could change dramatically when collaborating with equals. Some participants became leaders while others were followers; these roles sometimes changed within a project and led to tensions that hindered or contributed to the process. The amount of time spent in workshops, topics, labs, forums, rehearsals, and projects not only exhausted artists but also strained their emotional states. Sometimes this made them more sensitive to things that probably would not have bothered them.

Nevertheless, APPEX created an environment of trust that encouraged creativity. In a joint workshop conducted by Yu and Peng, the intent first was on non-verbal trust with participants moving on random paths and falling, interacting only through touch and, later, including sound. This created an environment conducive for spontaneous reactions, which led to a natural kind of group rhythm and dynamics through awareness of what others were doing. Much of this energy oscillated from individual to group and vice versa. In the same way, collaborations developed through awareness and trust, and each person arrived at a personal collaborative point at different times. Their levels and kinds of involvement showed insights into the possibilities of collaboration, especially for artists with limited abilities in the shared language of communication in the program. While most artistry was expressed in movement or music, verbalized concepts might have gotten lost in translation. These things need to be considered in other cross-cultural and interdisciplinary programs devoted to discovering creative answers through artistic collaboration.

1 The participants are identified through their backgrounds and disciplines to make the context clearer and the analysis available to a wider audience. It is not my intent to nationalize or reduce them to ethnicities.
2 As there were no traditional Tibetan monkey movements, the dancer used motifs from a ritual deer dance.
3 Kawai was called home for a family emergency and so missed the process of the piece, but she returned on the day of the performance and was included during rehearsals. This allowed her to make full use of her improvisational skills.
4 The butterfly role was adapted from a Thai project.
5 Moni originally was cast as Sita, but her style appeared too similar to the Thai-style Rama, so the Balinese dancer Ruspawati, who was playing the butterfly, exchanged roles with her.
6 Ruspawati’s (Bali) and Susanto’s (Java) point of reference for “Reunion and Return” was the episode of Sita waiting to be reunited with Rama after the battle to rescue her has ended. While Moni, Sophea (Cambodia), and Prasartthong (Thailand) knew this scene, their point of reference was Rama exiling Sita due to doubts about her love for him. After realizing that she was faithful, Rama fabricated news of his death from a broken heart so that Sita would come back to him. Sita came to pay her respects, but upon discovering the deception she fled in anger to the underworld. With help from the gods, Rama apologized to Sita and she accepted him back.
7 I had a separate meeting with Higa, who was least familiar with the story because it was not a part of his tradition. I explained the epic to him using the illustrations from my book Ramayana in the Arts of Asia, which he also borrowed for a few days.
8 Compare this with the situation in China, where four top government officials did not allow personal creativity during the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976), with dire consequences if one strayed from their ideology. Peng said, “The Gang of Four held their end products as examples for art for everything, and all other artists had to mimic or copy them. You created nothing, you just learned from their examples, and you copied. No slight mistake could be permitted; otherwise, one could be thrown into great trouble. If you copied them and made any mistake, disaster dropped on your head. You could be jailed suddenly. They crashed on your door at night and took you away, put you in jail. You could not make mistakes.” In this decade, only six operas, one ballad, and one piano piece were created and performed.
Tradition is tied to identity for other artists. Tsering made clear that his art is a political statement when he said, “Culture is my weapon, my defense. Whenever you go anywhere, it symbolizes yourself, your country, your nationality.” Caribbean-American musician Daniel Diaz stated, “What I don’t buy into is the philosophy of saying: I’m half this, and I’m mixed. I’m not mixed, because I’m not mixed up, and I’m not half of anything. I’m everything that my ancestors are.” Amigo commented, “I feel that I don’t really have a tradition, so I try to invent one or remember one.” As an Asian-American, I feel that my identity is the sum of the traditions that I grew up with and the ones that I studied while living abroad, rather than based on my ethnicity.
9 Performers asked observers to look for particular things. They wrote their comments on slips of paper with the option to remain anonymous. This was to encourage criticism and give everyone a chance to participate, as group discussions tended to be dominated by those fluent in English. Most artists identified themselves.
10 The three stories in “Voices” centered on the death of Baez’s close friend, the suicide Uyehara’s grandmother, and Parameswaran’s horrific traffic accident. The first version of this project used the latter two stories in addition to one about the conflict between Asian and Western body language by Yamazaki, and another about my near-drowning as a child.
11 As with the Ramayana scene in “Reunion and Return,” a common point of reference had to be established. I helped by explaining these stories and their ambiguous issues, as there was almost no time for the artists to read the epic or view videos, even if such resources were available.
12 In “Karna and Kunti,” princess Kunti learned a magical spell to ask any god to father her child. In doubt, she tried it and called down the god of the sun, who supernaturally impregnated her. To preserve her maidenhood, she gave birth to a son through her ear and so named him Karna. Embarrassed at having an illegitimate child, Kunti floated the child away in a basket down a river. A commoner family raised him, although he was of royal and divine parentage.
Kunti later married and had other gods father her sons, who mocked Karna’s low upbringing. However, their opponents welcomed Karna as a powerful ally. In the battle to decide who would get the kingdom, Kunti finally felt motherly concern for Karna’s life and tried to convince him not to fight. Karna refused to listen because she never was a mother to him, and he felt loyal to those who accepted him, even though he knew that he would die in battle.
13 When Bhisma was a young man, his father wanted to marry a woman who insisted that her sons from a previous marriage and their descendants inherit the kingdom. Bhisma vowed to remain unwed and became an ascetic. His two stepbrothers were weaklings, however, so Bhisma won three sisters as brides in a contest. This left one without a husband, so she insisted that Bhisma marry her in spite of his vow. He tried to discourage her by threatening her with his bow and arrow, but his finger accidentally slipped from the bowstring. The arrow pierced the woman, and with her dying breath she predicted her return as a woman warrior to kill him.
The woman was reincarnated as Srikandhi, the wife of Arjuna, whose teacher, Bhisma, supported the side of Arjuna’s opponents. In battle, Arjuna stood behind Srikandhi as she held the bow and arrow and aimed the weapon for her, as Bhisma would not fight against a woman and Arjuna would not fight against his teacher. Bhisma fell wounded but did not die; Arjuna shot a bed of arrows for him to lie on so that his holy body did not touch the ground. Only until the war was over did Bhisma finally die.
14 In “Ache Lhamo,” an ascetic dreamed of a beautiful woman and had a seminal emission. He woke and washed his soiled garment in a pond. A deer drank the water, became pregnant, and gave birth to a girl who grew up to be a lovely maiden. A king was hunting in the forest and fell in love with her. He married the deer maiden and had a son by her. When the king was away, the jealous and childless first wife sent someone to kill the baby while his mother was asleep. The king returned and accused the second wife of murder. She was taken to the forest, tied up, and left for the wild animals to devour. The deer (a monkey in the presentation) came and rescued her daughter. The good forest spirit was not a part of the original tale, however. I wish to thank Tsering for telling me these details.
In the presentation, Sophea played the murderer and the monkey. While another artist could have been the murderer, the double casting actually added another layer of poignancy to the story by making the murderer appear to regret his deed by reappearing as the monkey. In addition, the first version of this project showed the baby (a doll) being killed on stage, while the final showing did not. This lessened the violence of the act and made the murderer appear more sympathetic to the audience.
15 In the folktale of the “Bird Maiden,” a celestial maiden descended to earth to bathe in a pond, but a young man secretly took away and hid her magical clothing so that she was unable to fly home. They married and had a child (a girl and a boy in the presentation based on the Okinawan version), but eventually the maiden found her garments and flew away, leaving the father to raise their child alone.
16 In “Goddess and Giant,” a god gave a crystal ball to a celestial maiden and an axe to a giant, who was envious and tried to steal the ball. He chased the maiden throughout the sky, but she flashed light from the ball into his eyes, blinding him when he threw his axe at her so that he missed. This resulted in lightning and thunder. The Cambodian classical dance of this story, one of the oldest and most sacred in the repertoire, is ritually performed at the end of the dry season to encourage rainfall. It also shows greed and anger of a cruel person towards an innocent victim, and the vanquishing of evil in the end.
17 In “Earthworm and God” from Okinawa, an earthworm worried that its food would run out, so it ate greedily. God intervened and sent a storm as punishment, which is why earthworms get washed away or drowned during heavy rain. The lesson is not to worry about something that has not yet happened.
In “Rabbit and Snail” from Cambodia, a snail living by a pond became angry at a rabbit for drinking water without asking permission and challenged it to a race around the pond. The rabbit felt it could easily win, but other snails around the pond and fooled the rabbit into thinking that they always were ahead. In the end, the snails won the race, and the rabbit always had to ask to drink from the pond. The lesson is that the weak can overcome the strong by cooperating, and to show respect to others no matter how small they are.
In another Cambodian folktale called “Monkey and Crocodile,” a monkey (a farmer in the original story) found a crocodile stranded in a drying pond of water, and out of compassion took it to safety in a larger pool. The ungrateful crocodile, who wanted to devour the monkey, lied that it had been tied too tightly to the oxcart for the journey. A rabbit came by and asked them to reenact the incident. To prove his point, the crocodile asked to be tied so tightly that he could not breathe and died. The lesson is to beware of whom you trust, for there are many who are dishonest.
In “Why” from Tibet, buffaloes living on the lowlands gave their hair to another one to keep warm for a journey up to the cold mountains. This is why buffaloes face the mountains, waiting for the return of the longhaired yak so that they can get back their hair. This is a lesson about remembering a debt of gratitude.
18 In the program notes for “My Father’s Teeth in My Mother’s Mouth” Yu wrote, “I had to have a lot of serious dental work done. There was too much crowding and misalignment of my teeth, which were difficult to clean and repair. My dentist urged me to take out the unnecessary teeth and to get braces. I felt that his painful transformation of my dental identity needed to be understood on a deeper level…My dental surgery provoked internal questions about my own gender nature…my masculine identity—my father’s teeth—was also diminished. But this is not a literal sex change…My project is less literal. It is a gentle one, but deeply felt.”
19 “Time, Emit Time” is described in the program notes as follows: “Our diverse backgrounds and aesthetic vocabularies constantly challenge us to find common ground…we have woven together an intercultural coincidence of exchanges from our encounters. Exchanges, communications, and miscommunications occur like clusters of uncontrolled punctuation…we can’t avoid noting this unusual coincidence with its own patterns of occurrence. Time becomes extraordinary in its multi-faceted nature…‘Condensed Time,’ ‘Expanded Time,’ and ‘Dream Time’ are three states treated in this piece.”
20 Journeys and suitcases reappeared in the entire group collaboration on homelands that served as a prelude and interlude in the final programs. Yu helped to direct these pieces.
21 In “Voices,” Uyehara had three artists put their own personalities into ordinary gestures without speaking, silently explore physical space and objects in the room, and then write non-stop for five minutes. Each person acted out their text, and then interwove their stories for the project.
22 Encore workshops were selected through balloting. Artists wrote on slips of paper two or three of their choices in order of preference, and they were assigned to one of two simultaneous sessions that received the most votes.
23 That Peng was selected to do an encore workshop indicated that perhaps his extroverted personality may have been a factor. He showed this by publicly singing, dancing, and doing acrobatics during a beach picnic just three days after the program started. He amazed many with his physical flexibility at the age of 42 he had put on too much weight.
24 For example, in Balinese kecak, dozens of men seated in circles lie upon one another, and in some trance rituals participants violently attack others with real daggers and must be restrained, thus increasing the physical interaction. However, contact between the sexes in performance is not common.
25 In most classical forms, only masters with strong grounding in tradition and years of experience are qualified to make acceptable changes.
26 A large gong may be centuries old and can weigh over 100 pounds (more than 50 kilograms) and measure more than four feet (1.5 meters) in diameter. It usually takes two to three strong people to lift one.
27 Owan remembered that as a child, he was not allowed to even touch his father’s sanshin (three-stringed lute). Trimillos pointed out that when modern composers and musicians started inserting objects into grand pianos to create new sounds, those who owned the pianos objected because this caused physical damage to their instruments. Mitoma added that a grand piano can be repaired and does not have the same sacred character as a gong, which has a special history and is irreplaceable. Of course, no one would even consider putting metal objects into Beethoven’s piano to create different sounds because of the damage they might cause to such a valuable musical instrument.
On another level, during the first version of the Tibetan “Ache Lhamo,” observing artists gasped when the monkey doll representing the baby was strangled. Although the doll was not damaged in any way, a “neutral” toy would not have evoked such an emotional response. While such dolls are widely available in stores, this one had special significance because it was a gift to Uyehara from her very close friend and had become a kind of mascot for the participants. Uyehara rubbed her nose with it as a reminder of her childhood and homeland in a presentation, and artists took turns carrying it around in their bags or backpacks. The doll even sat on the table with participants during meals.
28 Kalanduyan said that some sacred gongs have the power to cure hearing problems. Some Balinese and Javanese gongs have healing powers, are able to put people into trance, can sound by themselves, or even warn of danger. Many gongs have honorific names that are used for entire ensembles, and their spirits are given offerings on certain days and before performances. In fact, Windha later presented an offering to the gong and asked forgiveness for the offensive things done to it in the controversial collaboration.
29 It was brought up by Mitoma that if an outsider, especially a Caucasian, had done the same thing, the negative criticism most likely would have been unanimous.
30 In an actual dream, the Higa’s wife missed her childhood village after a long absence and returned for a visit. She was saddened by what she saw because the people and place had changed so much that she no longer recognized it. Upon waking, however, she realized that fond memories still existed, and this was the true homeland, the one in her heart.
The second real dream was about my journey up a mountain with friends. On the top, we found an idyllic forest and lake with a huge golden carp the size of a submarine swimming in it. My friends were afraid and attacked it with bamboo poles, so I chased them away and fled but got lost. I entered a village inhabited by giant wayang kulit (Javanese-Balinese flat leather puppets), silently moving but not speaking. I refreshed myself in a nearby grotto with spouts of crystal clear water gushing from the sides. An old man with white hair and beard entered, reached into his white robes, and pulled out a lontar (Balinese manuscript inscribed on dried palm leaves) that he gave to me. By following its directions, I found my way back home.
31 Several other artists expressed similar sentiments about homelands being memories. Baez found a need to self-check her ego and go back to the source, which is home. As the homeland is a place that exists only in her memory, she performs in actual living spaces, such as the apartments of friends, using the domesticity of women as a theme. Uyehara also said, “Sometimes I forget how to be a child. It’s important to me; I need to remember the homeland of my childhood inside of me.”
Other views of homeland dealt with broader issues. Diaz commented, “Homeland is something to me where people accept you, where you’re respected, and where you’re welcome.” Kalanduyan said that, “I feel like I’m a stranger to my own countrymen, because of being Muslim, born and raised in a traditional society, and my culture is very different from the majority Filipinos…It’s sad that my own people are looked down on in the Philippines because they are traditional and that they are also Muslim.”
32 While most artists learned some new skills, a few participants did break substantially out of their usual modes. Sophea discovered his natural acting skills and an expressive face that was covered by a monkey mask for many years, and Higa used his normal voice and non-dance movements for a humorous play. In several pieces, Parameswaran used speech with movement and facial-expression for the first time. Nguyen Thi Thu Thuy (Vietnam) found that she could do dramatic roles and modern dance, while Kalanduyan tried a bit of acting and accompanied a dance drama.
33 In this collaboration, time was presented as both linear and cyclical, of moments rushing, slowing, and stopping. Performers showed separation and reunion at a train station, the cycle of birth and rebirth by crawling out from under a chair (interpreted by one observer as an airport luggage conveyer belt). This was accompanied by a lullaby that reminded children to care for their aging parents, learned in Owan’s workshop and thus known by everyone. A solo modern dance about the loss of one’s mother performed to a Tibetan song about freedom expressed hope in the face of death.