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| Sunday, October 19, 2003 |
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| Sunday, October 19, 2003 |
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'ART AND SOUL
A beauty nowhere else Though transient, insubstantial As this little wooden fence From which he used to brush the dew. I whom he visited And he, my lover, too, The whole world turns to dreams, To ageing ruins. Whom should I pine for now? ONE can only imagine the effect that the brittle elegance of these words would have on an emotionally charged audience, when recited or sung on the stage by a forlorn woman as she moves across the wilderness, remembering, searching. She could easily be the spurned woman who follows the man she loves to a temple where she hides under a bell, then turns into a serpent and burns her way through the bell to try and reach him. Or a noble but disenchanted court lady who is on the verge of giving everything up and turning to a life of prayer and penance. But she would certainly be the shite, the principal character in the kind of play that has been called the "very essence of the Japanese soul": Noh. |
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I was reminded of Noh when I came the other day upon an announcement of an exhibition of Noh costumes, with the evocative title "Sculpture in Silk": a show of robes and accessories, some of which go back to the Edo period of Japanese history (1601-1868), and each of which should be able to recall to the viewer's mind the nobility and the exquisite beauty that marks this great theatre. In some ways the flamboyance and the radiance of Noh costumes run counter to the tenor of the theatrical form, which is understated, minimal and sparse. But who is it that knows better than the Japanese how to fuse diverse, even opposing, elements together? In the show, these costumes - all put together or recreated by a centre exclusively devoted to Noh costumes, the Yamaguchi Noh Costume Research Centre based in Kyoto - would surely dazzle the viewer, with their refinement and their craftsmanship, but in some curious manner they would also bring back memories of all the melancholy and nostalgia that form the substance of so many Noh plays. One thing is certain: there is nothing in Noh—the first among the three great theatrical forms of Japan, which include Kabuki and Bunraku —that does not have its precise place in the scheme of things. The exquisitely crafted wooden masks, which the principal characters wear, might vary in respect of finish and detail, but the characters can be recognised at first glance. Themes, often whole plays, go back to some 500 years. There are five kinds of plays, for instance, as everyone knows: 'God plays', 'warrior plays', 'woman plays', 'demon plays', and 'others'. And, within each, there is an established sequence: thus, the orchestra enters first, then the chorus; it is time soon for the waki - main supporting actor, often a priest whose intervention causes the plot to develop - to come in, crossing a bridge singing 'a travelling song'; after this, the shite appears, and the waki converses with him/her, asking the shite to tell his/her tale; a commoner recapitulates the story then, emphasising the emotions underlying the situation; and the shite returns in a new costume, a major change having come about. There is wonderful variation in the costumes, and they all communicate 'information'—as in our own Kathakali, for instance—about the character being played. Thus, as I read, a gauzy dancing cloak open over a red kimono with double-width sleeves worn open over a divided skirt with large pleats in the front can suggest the majesty of an 11th century noble woman in a 12-layered costume. But the same kimono worn snugly wrapped around the legs can serve as the costume of a woman of a different station in life. Again, robes containing red are used for young people while older women are portrayed with less colourful robes. Within these carefully laid-down frameworks, everyone remains in character, and everything is woven in: the feudal code of ethics, the elegant manners of the nobility at the court, the asceticism of Zen Buddhism. To the outsider, the uninitiated, it might all look very repetitive, predictable. But for the cognoscenti, there are delights hidden in every movement, every step. Take the case of 'women plays' - the roles of women incidentally are all played by men - which are easily the most poetic, achieving the highest level in expressing yugen, an aesthetic term suggesting quiet elegance and grace, subtle and fleeting beauty. There is dancing involved, of course, in which leaps are taken across the stage. But the path in space, both of parts of the body in gesturing and of the whole body in movement, is "cursive", as has been said, unlike the linear movements seen in western ballet. Movement—kata—is very carefully studied, and one of the kata is to dance without moving, something that is likened to "the flat surface of a turbulent stream". The most impressive of kata is walking, and the highest compliment that can be paid to a player is that "his walking is good". Expressions of the body While reading about the
Noh, I was naturally reminded of our own masked dance-theatres: the
Chhau, for instance, from East India. And two things surfaced instantly
in my mind. The mask has, naturally, a fixed expression. Our dancers
perform outside, in an even light, and all expression comes from the
body, not the face. In the case of Noh, however, actors use and exploit
the shadows that the stage lights cast on them for altering expressions.
Again, I was reminded of what a guruji, who came to our part of
the country with his Chhau troupe, said years ago. "The first thing
that we teach our students", he said, "is to stay within the
limits of the body". Wonderful words, I think.
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