Speaking only to us

Gostan Forward
A Solo Performance Lecture by Marion D’Cruz
Five Arts Centre
8-10 May, Annexe Central Market

“Is it dance?” Marion D’Cruz is sick of the question. In her long and varied career  — the topic of discussion and demonstration at her masterful solo performance Gostan Forward at the Annexe last week — Marion was never afraid to take her art where she needed it to go, bending, breaking and redefining the boundaries of the discipline. Semantic quibbles over where to place her work on the continuum of theatre and dance mean little to her, for clearly they miss the point.

But there is another question, to some now equally trite and tired, which for Marion has been a lifelong source of inspiration, and we might phrase it thus: “Is it Malaysian?” Marion, like many members of her generation, has been consumed by the desire to participate in the process of a nation actively imagining itself. Her work has always been interlinked with the state of the nation, our politics, crises of identity, traumas and joys. Marion sought to create a vocabulary of dance and theatre that is uniquely Malaysian, and  she’s done better than most.

The degree to which she has succeeded can, I think, be measured by audience reaction. I went to Gostan Forward on Saturday night, accompanied by a non-Malaysian friend. At the performance I met another friend who, though Malaysian, was raised in the cultural bubble of international schools. He didn’t know what gostan meant. My friend from overseas was even more mystified – what sense could she make of this wild woman on stage, moving her audience first to laughter then to tears, speaking first in this language and then that, pulling disparate cultural and political references from here and there and weaving them into her narrative? Marion and Five Arts Centre, like Instant Café Theatre, have made a space for this irreverent style that only Malaysians (and, perhaps, older Singaporeans) can understand. For Malaysians, Marion’s performance was so clear and straightforward (despite its gostan topic), so accessible, that it requires little interpretation. During the performance, she wondered briefly, “What if I had not come back from New York?” Well, she might have been speaking to a more global audience, but she would not be speaking so directly to us.

Marion’s presentation was humorous, illuminating, frightening, always engaging, but never confessional. Some members of the audience thought that she could have spoken more about her relationship with her husband Krishen Jit, but I disagree. There is enough of the public Marion, the Marion that we already know in bits and pieces, to keep an audience sated when it is all brought together – why ask for more? Many of the people in the audience were younger than I am, and we didn’t really know much about Marion’s artistic activity in the past. But what we discovered, what Marion told us, about her life and its role in our history, came to us as easily as something from our collective subconscious – oh, of course!

Marion has reached a stage in her career when, although she is far from dead, it is useful for her and the audience to consider her legacy now and how it will be handed down to posterity. I grew up with another figure, seminal in the search for the Malaysian vocabulary, who was also energized by the optimistic nationalist visions of the 70s: my father. Which will prove more lasting, I wonder, his edifices of concrete, or Marion’s ephemeral presentations? These things are unpredictable. I am reading the diaries of Virginia Woolf at the moment, and it interests me how she compares her state of small but rising fame with that of contemporary bigwigs, Prime Ministers, lords and ladies. She would not have predicted that a hundred years later we would be reading her diaries, and all those lords and ladies dead and forgotten. But now, as the ongoing discussion on Arteri indicates, the idea of nationalism as a driving force seems to be spent in the younger generation of artists in Malaysia. So where now? And whither Marion?

Reading Woolf is instructive. “Now, with middle age drawing on, and age ahead, it is important to be severe on such faults. So easily might I become a harebrained egotistic woman, exacting compliments, arrogant, narrow, withered. To correct this, and to forget one’s own sharp absurd little personality, reputation and the rest of it, one should read; see outsiders; think more; write more logically; above all be full of work.”

Marion is nothing if not full of work, as the program for Five Arts Centre’s 25^th anniversary this year shows. She is building a reputation as a teacher, too, although not as a guru – I think Marion has too much of a sense of humour, too much questioning self-awareness for that. What she gives us is not an authoritative sense of “This is how you do it,” but quite the opposite: an example of daring to which we can aspire, a pattern of action which may reverberate in our cultural consciousness for a long time to come. As she says herself, speaking through, from, with the orang tua mask which she assumes so comfortably, “Buat saja, lah, ’nak!”

[For a more straightforward, and less gostan, account of what happened during Marions’ performance, check out Choy Su-Ling’s article in AsiaDanceChannel. And for a more hard-hitting discussion, Simon Soon's piece on ARTERI. ]

Wait until it comes out on video

Seven Skins
The exhibition opening of ‘The Light Show 2009′
The Annexe Central Market
16 April 2009

Most dance productions have to be seen in person. No video, no matter how accurately captured and carefully edited, can compare with the ability of the human eye to encompass the width of the stage in one instant, then hone in to focus on the swivel of an eyeball in the next. That said, there are a few occasions when watching a dance production in person is so frustrating and uncomfortable that a video comes as a welcome blessing. ”Seven Skins’ at the launch of The Light Show at the Annexe Central Market was one such instance.

To be fair, the Annexe probably didn’t predict the crowd that showed up that night, but they should have. Not only were the art installations created by an accomplished and gregarious crowd with plenty of trendy friends, but ‘Seven Skins’ was directed by no lesser personage than Aida Redza, Malaysian dancer-choreographer extraordinaire who for the past several years has been performing extensively in Denmark. I went because I had never seen any of Aida’s work, and I was curious. Apparently, so was the rest of KL’s dance community. And it didn’t help that the inclusion of Suhaili Micheline and Shafirul Azmi Suhaimi brought out all the Aswara dance students, while Sukarji Sriman’s performance lured the dancers from University of Malaya. Add to that all the theatre buffs who came to check out Anne James in an uncharacteristically non-speaking role, and there you have it: two rooms of the Annexe packed to the brim.

Crushed into the centre of the room, trying hard to keep behind the black lines on the floor that separated audience from performers, and becoming more and more aware of the pins and needles in my legs, I found it very hard to concentrate on the performance, even when I was able to see it any of it. Most of the time it was hidden in atmospheric pitch darkness, or concealed by the crush of bodies. When the dance moved to the second room and the audience surged after it, blocking both the doors, I gave up entirely and headed for the food queue. So I was relieved to hear that a video would be made and displayed for the benefit of those who missed out.

Chris and Desmond from Lifetale, with editing and post-production by Nazim Esa, have produced a stylish little video that you can view at the Annexe until Sunday. They opted for an impressionistic approach, rather than strict documentation, which was probably a pragmatic choice rather than an artistic one given the challengingly low levels of light at some points, and the scattered nature of the performance at others. On video the camera swoops in close to the action, and the heaving swell of spectators fades to background. Reduced to two dimensions, my relationship with the work became much less fraught. I wasn’t worried that Suhaili’s flying elbows would land in somebody’s face. I wasn’t constantly craning my neck to catch this moment here, while suspecting that I was missing something rather more important over there. The great impersonality of video, the way it dials physicality down, benefits rather than hinders this dance work. It’s rather like admiring a picture of a bustling colourful market scene, and not having to worry about purse snatchers or avoiding that pile of fish guts.

On video, everything is reduced to light, which is particularly appropriate for this exhibition. Someone asked Suhaili why the piece is named ‘Seven Skins’. She replied because there are seven bodies, and Aida wanted the dancers to focus on their skins, the facade of their bodies rather than their content. [The person then said, no, there are only six dancers, but there are in fact seven, though it was not obvious to most of the audience during the performance – Aida's mother, wearing bright red baju kurung, was seated on one of the raised platforms, tranquilly twisting her hands to the music.]

The idea of describing dancers as skins reminded me, rather unfortunately, of the Jews in the Holocaust whose skins were transformed into lamp shades. After all, the entire exhibition was really about lamp shades. We didn’t come to see electricity flowing through a twisted filament and making it glow, we came to see the multiplicity of things that can be put around the glowing filament.

If the body is a lampshade, then what is the light that shines from within? In the video, freed from the physical reminders of my own body, I became aware of the different characters the dancers were allowing to emerge through their skins. First there was Aida, chatty one minute, fey the next. Sukarji exerted a moderating and calming influence, but he was not above taking on the belligerent Shafirul in a fight. Suhaili was a whip-end of wild abandon, who reared like a horse when Anne James blew at her. Foo meanwhile was a cool figure, smiling beningly, but also a crawling creature like a fractured Chinese New Year dragon.

If you have the opportunity, go and see the video, but don’t overexert yourself. Although it’s better on the small screen than in real life, I suspect this particular production was also better in rehearsal than it was in performance. With such an interesting cast of characters let loose in a playground of shining delights, you can imagine that rehearsals were interesting affairs. Suhaili described the process to me as two hours of talking, followed by one run-through. For her it was a particular pleasure to work with such an encouraging and caring choreographer, one who trusted you to produce something memorable without having to drive you towards it. In the end, Aida’s compassionate flexibility may have rather endangered this work, which seemed to diffuse light rather than focus it. But see for yourself; view the video.

Tactile Delights in Butoh Time

On Sunday evening I went to see Nyoba Kan’s new feature work She Walks in Beauty Like the Night, at the Annexe Central Market. Frankly, I am not a great fan of butoh. I blame my dislike upon being introduced to butoh at too young an age. Being forced to move across the floor at a snail’s pace was a torment not to be endured by a teenage dancer. I have not been able to eradicate that early prejudice, and even now I find a small dose of butoh can last me a long time. Therefore it was with some apprehension that I went to the Annexe, somewhat bolstered by the memory of seeing The Curse of the Forbidden Palace, Nyoba Kan’s performance last year, when the company transformed the galleries of the Annexe into grotesque depictions of the extravagance and cruelty of China’s last dynasty. But followers of Nyoba Kan do not expect to be disappointed by this small but dedicated company, and neither was I.

The first scene of the tripartite work was the most perfectly formed, expertly revealed by the lighting which came dimly from the burning filaments of naked bulbs scattered across the floor. The slow pace of butoh, what Pang Khee Teik, one of the managers of the Annexe and our compere for the evening, referred to as ‘butoh time’, allows a certain degree of attention to detail which cannot be enjoyed in other forms of dance. There is a particular sense of kinaesthetic empathy — in the slowness of the movement, you can feel what the dancer’s body must be feeling. As one flexed his little toe you feel a sympathetic twinge in the foot, as another puffed air into her cheeks you felt the stretching of the face. You appreciate the iron will which drives each movement — at this pace, bridging the gap between two low platforms from a crouched position is a marvellous feat of human engineering.

There are also wonderful textual sensations available from butoh, into which you can dive and wallow. In the first scene, as one of the dancers crouched she crushed her ostrich-like tutu around her waist, and the complex crunchings of the stiff fabric were palpable. As the dancers lifted their splayed feet into the air to display the soles of their feet covered, like the rest of them, with white makeup, I got a sense of powderiness on the skin. In the second scene, one of the dancers pressed her face carefully into a bowl of cold white rice – watching her, I was certain I knew exactly how it felt.

A sense of narrative also kept the first scene firmly on track. Swee Keong, in his familiar guise as guide and savant, sat meditating against the wall, while the demons of his fantasies cavorted like divas upon tiny individual red platforms. Gradually they become aware of the audience — it was like seeing a caged tiger turn and look you in the eyes. The yogi quelled them with a handful of flowers hurled through the air, and, mercifully, I felt, the demons’ attention shifted to the bare light bulbs dangling around them. Kuan Nam did a particularly good job here, transfixed by his light bulb with the air of a bemused cross-eyed kitten.

The second scene, in another gallery of the Annexe, was less successful. The lighting, in garish primary colours, did little to create an otherworldly atmosphere for the dancers’ demonic characters, and the geometric colour-theory video projection seemed like an unnatural imposition in a world otherwise composed of textured, organic creations.

In the third scene, Lena Ang, in a beautifully downy transparent dress, restored order and interest, blowing soap bubbles as Swee Keong tidied away the stage. It was a reworking of a similar conclusion in Nyoba Kan’s last feature performance in the Annexe, The Curse of the Forbidden Palace, in which Swee Keong mopped up after a messy durian-smothered orgy. I had also seen a similar motif in the Perfect Circle, the series of contemplative Buddhist scenes produced by Musical on Stage, in which the cast offered brooms to the audience, who were encouraged to help sweep the snow of polystyrene pellets from the stage. Surprisingly, in the Perfect Circle, some members of the audience actually declined to help, which seemed unnecessarily churlish after all the hard work of the cast, but Swee Keong’s smiling but commanding presence in the Nyoba Kan production could not be denied. The audience accepted the white floor fabrics he offered them and passed them backwards as meekly as children, delighted to be given the opportunity to be part of what was happening onstage.

The whole scene, in fact, resonated with childlike charm. Lena and Swee Keong treated every floating soap bubble with the wonder and respect that it deserved. There was also a powerful moment which dissolved the usual archetypal characters of butoh with a touch of real humanity – Swee Keong stroked his hand along Lena’s arm, and Lena, out of those enormously painted and beglittered snow queen eyes, gave him a look – and such a look! It made me long for greater interaction between the two, but it was over as soon as it began. Lena floated offstage, leaving Swee Keong in a last indulgent solo, accompanied by a video projection of his Chinese calligraphy work run backwards and sped up, so that it looked like the brush was sucking the art work off the page. In a masterful stroke, the final moment in the projection was slowed down, so that as the brush neared the last (or, rather, the first) stroke on the paper and the audience held its breath, time seemed suspended. And then, blackout.

The surprising thing about butoh is that despite the pace, I often feel as if there is not enough time to look at everything. The scale of attention shifts from the crude and flamboyant to the intimate and subtle. As in Blake’s poem, you see the world in a grain of sand. Every roll of the eye, every breath, every crooked finger, is soberly presented for careful reflection, and suddenly, I wanted the dance to move even slower.