Embodied Transmission

As mentioned above, kamigatamai is transmitted via the traditional Japanese master disciple-system, which is based on imitating the live performance of the sensei. In Nao sensei’s classes, if the taught dance piece is new to the student, the sensei starts by performing it herself in front of the student, while the student simultaneously tries her best to imitate her movements. At this first step, the sensei and the student dance next to each other, whereas the student locates herself right behind the sensei. This is repeated a couple of times, and the sensei gradually adds some oral clues—short explanations about the form, direction, strength, quality, or speed of movements, posture, timing, etc. After a while, they continue dancing together face-to-face so that the sensei can see the student, who mirrors her. After the student memorises the basic movement flow, the sensei starts the class by watching the student dance alone so that she can make the necessary corrections. She does these corrections by speaking, giving clues with hands, singing the lyrics of the song and/or indicating the beats in the music, explaining the movements further, and even touching/manipulating the body. In these further stages, the sensei continues to use the dancing together technique as well. Here, the aim is that the student’s performance resembles the original choreography of the learnt piece as best as it can. Gradually, the teacher dances less and watches more, and her corrections become more and more detailed.

At early stages of learning a new piece, the student is expected first to accommodate, in outline, to basic stage traffic, the series of movements, and musical timing. Meanwhile, s/he struggles to keep his/her posture right, move his/her body—hands, arms, feet, head, neck, fingers, eyes, etc.—in the correct way, control the sensu, and memorise the choreography, all these at once. In time, the sensei starts to call attention to more details. For instance, there might be three consecutive arm or foot movements that look the same at first sight, but the third one should be performed a little slower/faster, or a little bigger/smaller, or with a short pause in between the second and the third. The posture at one moment should be more curved towards the front or the back. The timing of a stamping should be a little before a syllable in the jiuta or a bit after a finger movement. The gaze should be directed more up/down, right/left, or far/close; the eyes should move faster than the arms or slower than the neck. This process of adding more details goes on and on, as if it will last forever. The duration of the learnt pieces changes from 5 to 20 minutes, and learning one piece usually takes from three to 6 months, and sometimes more, according to the skills and abilities of the student.

As is well seen, the mode of transmission in kamigatamai is highly body-centric. Although verbal explanations are employed, these are primarily for shaping the body according to the strict patterns of the tradition. Deschênes and Eguchi (Reference Deschênes and Eguchi2018) attribute this embodied, non-verbal characteristic in traditional performing arts training to the influence of Zen Buddhism on Japanese culture. As they argue, in teaching/learning processes, the Japanese give prominence to the body over the mind, as Zen considers knowledge acquired through the mind as imperfect, incomplete, and distrusting. The main goal is self-cultivation through disciplinary training of the body, as the body is considered what shapes the mind, whereas the ideal is to attain a state of unified body-mind (Deschênes and Eguchi Reference Deschênes and Eguchi2018:64–65).

Interplay between Action/No-Action

Kyō no Shiki (The Four Seasons of Kyoto) is a well-known kamigatamai piece, which one of the students of Nao sensei used to learn during my fieldwork period. It begins with quite a long moment of no action. Within the first 45 seconds of the song, the performer stands completely still in a pose in which her back is turned halfway to the audience, her arms and hands folded on her chest, hidden in the sleeves of the kimono. Although the body is in an introverted and seemingly noncommunicative position, the pose is full of energy and pregnant with action; the dancer keeps the abdominal area quite strong, and the chest is pulled forward up to the sky, whereas the shoulders extend backwards, with the shoulder blades extremely bent in the opposite direction to the arms towards the audience; although the knees are bent and the feet are kept close to each other, the heel of the left foot is slightly up in the air, as if the performer is frozen in the middle of a step. When the beats in the music give the hint, without changing the position of the upper body, the dancer first lowers her hip, then makes a serene pivot turn towards the audience.

During the classes, Nao sensei has placed great importance on this opening pose. She showed, explained, and corrected minuscule details, sometimes by manipulating the body of the student as if it were a sculpture. For instance, she underlined and worked on the correct positioning of an imaginative point in between the belly button and the groin area, and wanted to be sure that this point does not face straight forward but higher by pushing the hips more forward, while the feet stay where they are. When this effort downgraded the bending of the shoulder blades, this time she spent time correcting this. Nao sensei also worked at length on the student’s transition from the pose into the movement and gave close attention to the timing and quality of this first turn or mau in the piece. Apparently, when this significant turn is made half a second earlier or later, a bit faster or slower, a little stronger or weaker, the effect of the piece would have weakened. At first glance, this persistent effort for perfecting a single pose and a single movement, and the transition in between, might look odd for someone who is not familiar with the methodology of training in kamigatamai. But what is aimed at here is the transmission of the sense of ma. As explained above, ma, as an essential skill of the dancer, is more than performing moments of action and no-action at one’s best, but its quality lies more in controlling the interplay between these. Moreover, the fact that the sense of ma is dictated by the heart of the performer renders it partly unteachable. Looking at some research on jiuta would be helpful to elaborate on this point further.

In his article on the history and aesthetics of jiuta, Henry Burnett argues that heterophony is a basic characteristic of Japanese classical music. As he explains, although the vocal and different instruments in the ensemble of jiuta “share a basic melodic structure”, here rhythm is more important than the melody, and opposite to what is accustomed in Western music, the rhythm does not support the melody but instead “a definite tension and release effect created primarily by the extreme syncopation of the voice against the relatively metrical shamisen [a three-stringed lute], with the koto [a plucked half-tube zither instrument] both supporting the shamisen and, at the same time, creating its own dissonant rhythmic relationships.” (Burnett Reference Burnett1980:16–17) Burnett expounds this complexity as the importance given to the “individual sound” in Japanese music, in which each agent adds newly created parts that are derived from the original but individualised as well through the use of idiomatic techniques. (Reference Burnett1980:25) In kamigatamai, the dancer’s movements are added as another individualised element that further complicates yet at the same time enriches this heterophonic texture in music.

I, as an observer, encountered a striking moment during my fieldwork. Fukujyuso (Adonis Ramosa) is a short kamigatamai piece that Nao sensei taught to her oldest student, who is in her late 70s. It is based on the character’s happy remembrance of the good old days, which requires the dancer to execute certain actions from these days, such as playing with a kendama (a traditional Japanese skill toy). At one of the classes, a more experienced and relatively younger student, who had learnt this piece years ago and was about to perform it soon, was there by chance. So, Nao sensei invited her to join the practice of the older student. Throughout the class, most of the time the timings of the two students’ movements did not match, but, to my surprise, neither of them was given a warning by their sensei for doing wrong. While their movements were clearly supposed to follow the beats of the shamisen, such as in the action of playing with the kendama, they were moving in tandem. But especially when the floating voice of the vocal was heard, each was moving in their own rhythm and timing. From the very beginning to the end of the piece, whereas the older student’s movements were softer and slower, the relatively younger one’s were sharper and quicker, which inevitably rendered her poses longer.

Although they do not exactly match, apparently, each performance of Fukujyuso was acceptable, and one of them was not truer or better than the other. What made the difference was in how the interplay between movements and poses, action and no-action was controlled. Each performer was marking out the boundaries of the gate of ma through which the light would shine differently so that what shines through was distinctive. As an observer, I got the impression that each body connected with the past in an inimitable way, thus telling the story differently. Through one’s gate shone a softer, and through the other’s a sharper light of remembrance, yet each was beautiful in its unique way. This was somehow inevitable, as their performances were being dictated by a unique heart that is in connection with the good old days in an individualised way. In Japanese aesthetics and traditional arts, this phenomenon is connected to the concept of kokoro, which, as a word, can literally be translated into English as “heart”, yet denotes much more.

The Way of Kokoro

In the dictionary, the meanings of kokoro are given as “mind”, “heart”, and “spirit”, as well as “consciousness” and “thought.” (Collins 2023; Jisho 2023b) Nevertheless, it is neither of these, as it is all of these at once and even more. In his discussion on the difficulty of translating Japanese aesthetic concepts, İbrahim Soner Özdemir points out that although kokoro is translated into English either as mind, or as heart, and recently as heart/mind, philosophically, it does not have “the sense of intellection” (mind) or can be considered “as the organ of emotions and thoughts” (heart). (Reference Özdemir, Miyashita and Esen2019:169–170) Refraining from proposing a so-called proper correspondent, he puts forth three qualities of kokoro in consideration: (a) having the meaning of “source, foundation, basis, or ground”, (b) being “an ever-changing, dynamic ground” and therefore being “not substantial”, and (c) being characterised by “spontaneity” and accordingly designating “a genuine state prior to reflection, linguistic or conceptual articulation”, which renders kokoro, for him, synonymous with shizen (the Japanese word for nature), whose prominent quality is “spontaneous becoming”, or being/becoming as it is. (Özdemir Reference Özdemir, Miyashita and Esen2019:171–173) Similarly, in his article that investigates kokoro in Zeami’s theory of nō, Pilgrim dwells on different layers of meaning-content that involve (a) “the kokoro of emotion and feeling”, (b) “the kokoro of the knowing, conscious, intending self”, (c) “the kokoro of the unconscious, void, spontaneous, instinctual, a priori mind”, and finally (d) “the all-encompassing, deep and spiritual kokoro”, in which there emerges “the total involvement of the total self” so that “various layers and kinds of kokoro are unified in a spiritual/mental/emotional wholeness which arises out of and expresses the very depths of being.” (Reference Pilgrim1969:395–401) In light of the works of Özdemir and Pilgrim, kokoro can be defined by two main characteristics: spontaneity and unity. It is a state, or better to say, a process of spontaneous becoming of the unified mind/heart/spirit/total self. This is, in fact, what a Japanese performing arts practitioner strives to attain throughout their life. But what exactly does kokoro correspond to in the training? This is not easy to explain, even for the senseis.

Hahn narrates that her senseis often speak about the significance of kokoro in learning dance, which they consider

Such a description sounds ambiguous and even cryptic. What exactly is kokoro? Where is it? Is it in the body? Is it at the heart or the mind, or in between? How is it related to one’s self and personality? Most importantly, what does “to dance from kokoro” correspond to? Although these questions are not thoroughly answered, what we infer from the words of Hahn’s iemoto is that the way of kokoro is tough and strict. It necessitates a lot of practice, as well as experiencing life, so that an adjustment/correction of one’s body/head/self would take place.

During my fieldwork period, Nao sensei did not directly use the term kokoro in her classes. Likewise, in my conversations with her, although I mentioned the term, she did not prefer to explain anything about kamigatamai or its training by referring to kokoro. But I had the chance to visit once the odori class of a British friend, who was also one of the participants of the class of nihonbuyō at TTT that I attended years ago. She continued learning nihonbuyō by taking private classes from the headmaster of the workshop, Senrei Nishikawa, until her death in 2012. My friend’s current sensei now was Senrei sensei’s colleague, Chikage Nishikawa, who also used to teach in TTT. After the class, three of us had a conversation while drinking Japanese tea. Almost in the words of Hahn’s sensei, without me asking, Chikage sensei expressed the significance of kokoro in learning and practising nihonbuyō and concluded, “Once one’s kokoro gets used to it, one’s dancing changes and gets stronger.” (Chikage Nishikawa, pers. comm., 19 January 2023)Footnote ⁸ Another cryptic remark about kokoro. What gets used in dance training is the student’s body, is not it? But once again, similar to Hahn’s iemoto, what has drawn attention in relation to kokoro is a process of adjustment/correction.

Before Fukujyuso, the above-mentioned oldest student of Nao sensei studied another piece called Kurokami (Raven Hair). The character in this well-known piece is a mistress longing for her lover, who does not come on that winter day. During my interview with her, the student said that having such a story with deep emotions that impresses her renders it easier for her to put her full heart into the dance:

This testimony clearly backs up the words of Hahn’s iemoto on the precedence of the body, as well as Deschênes and Eguchi’s point on the prominence given to the body over the mind in the Japanese way of learning. As Deschênes and Eguchi elaborate by referring to Hahn, “[k]okoro comes from the training of the body, not the mind. …As dance movements become one’s own, an experience of self-freedom and self-realisation occurs, since they become natural, effortless, and spontaneous.” (Reference Deschênes and Eguchi2018:66) This explanation somehow clarifies what Chikage sensei means by the dancer’s kokoro getting used to. Apparently, in learning Japanese dance, there is a turning point that occurs after and as a result of strict bodily training. As tacitly expressed by Nao sensei’s student, when dance movements become one’s own, there emerges a sense of unity in one’s thoughts, emotions, and deeper self. This is also when an adjustment of body/mind/heart/self is achieved.

On the other hand, as mentioned by Hahn’s iemoto, a nihonbuyō performer portrays many different characters. Regardless of his/her own age or gender, s/he can be a woman, a man, an older or a younger person, a child, even an animal, a ghost, or a spirit. During performance, sensu becomes a mirror, an umbrella, a cooking instrument, a stick, a sword, a spade, a kendama, and so on, even a baby that is held in the dancer’s arms. The gestures of the dancer let the spectators imagine unseen objects such as a box, a hairpin, a tree, a flower, an animal, a lover, and many more. As is well seen, what creates abundance on stage is a kind of absence, emptiness, or nothingness, as what physically is on stage is only a solo dancer in kimono with a sensu. Creating a fictional world on stage is managed via dancers’ use of the gaze as well. In Kyo no Shiki, the gestures and the gaze indicate the cherry blossoms, the beautiful autumn view of the mountains, the snow, and so on. In Kurokami, the gaze and the gestures of the performer let us imagine the snowflakes, the room of the mistress, and even the last ringing of the bells echoing in the heavy air of the winter night. Nevertheless, a kamigatamai performer does not really look at/see a single, concrete, specific thing while dancing. As explained by Nao sensei, the choreography might be dictating to look straight forward, or downwards, or up to the sky, but this does not always mean that there is a cherry blossom, a full moon, a butterfly, or a lover in the direction of the dancer’s gaze (Nao Yoshimura, pers. comm., n.d.). While looking at/not exactly looking at the falling snowflakes, the woman in Kurokami sees/imagines her lover, who is not physically there but in her heart. The character in Fukujyuso is both in the present and the past, as while acting out here and now, she also sees the good old memories in her mind’s eye. The creation of abundance via absence hereby spreads to the inner world of the performer as well. The singular longing of the mistress in Kurokami emerges as the sensation of her beloved ones for Nao sensei’s oldest student.

What makes all these possible is that the performers experience a state of nothingness that ideally lets them enjoy what Hahn’s iemoto, Hahn, and Deschênes and Eguchi as well, call self-realisation, self-freedom, or having a sense of self. Being given a free space to incarnate multiple beings that are other and much more than one’s socially restricted self in everyday life, the kamigatamai performer experiences an extension of the self and freedom that follows. While trying to make the movements, gestures, gaze, and attitude of different characters one’s own, s/he dives into one’s deeper self, and what has been there until now but unseen, unknown, inactivated, not expressed is given courage to appear. It is now the time for the sleeping young girl, the great samurai, or the mysterious spirit to show themselves. Interestingly, this moment of self-realisation is at the same time an experience of having no-self.

In his discussion on the Japanese understanding of enlightenment in his book The Japanese Arts and Self-Cultivation, Robert E. Carter underlines the unification of body-mind that is achieved in traditional arts practice and points out that this precious state entails not only “great physical skills” but also “an experience of the unification of the individual with the greater whole. …an awareness of the oneness of self and other, and of self and universe. …the direct experience of oneness with all that exists…one seems to become one with the flower, the rocks in a landscape garden, or the sorrows and suffering with others.” ([2007]Reference Carter2008:13) This losing of one’s self within oneness is a state of self-freedom, because, as explained by Pilgrim, in it, “the conscious, rational, objective, intending mind” is overcome so that there emerges “an immediate, spontaneous mind free of objective attachments to the self or its acting.” (Reference Pilgrim1969:398) The practice of kamigatamai invites its practitioners to experience this specific state of oneness/emptiness/nothingness, which ideally promises a spontaneous being/becoming of the total self. This is an exceptional gift that Japanese dance training offers to its practitioners. In and through this spontaneous becoming that is created on stage, shine the subtleties of the human heart—the kokoro.