Everyone is sweating. A Japanese shinae whistles through the air and the sword-like bamboo weapon smashes into a stack of rubber mats. The students spring out of their tucks, balancing on their bottoms, legs extended, feet and backs inches off the floor.
Obviously, this is no ordinary Euripides. As the students snap in and out of their tucked position, repeating the passage over and over, Suzuki, a quiet man who looks years younger than 44, chuckles frequently when spotting a student who is not correctly positioned or whose face is not impassive and cool. His method focuses on the body, especially the feet. At UCSD, the students parade through a variety of walking figures to percussive voodoo music--slow and fast, forward and backward.
In an effort to address this situation, Suzuki has strived "to restore the wholeness of the human body in performance, not simply by creating variants of such forms as the Noh and kabuki, but by employing the universal virtues of these and other pre-modern traditions.
The above points, in a way, sum up Suzuki's views on the loss of animal energy, the dismembering of our human faculties from the body, the destructive effect of such conditions on the actors' art, and the value of certain virtues of pre-modern theatre in recovering this loss.
More importantly, they provide us with an understanding of Suzuki's emphasis on the actor's body in his method of actor training. The actor's point of view refers to the fundamental essence of acting in which actors convey the desire to make people re-evaluate what they see. As mentioned, the Suzuki Method of Actor Training is carried out using a series of physical exercises known as disciplines.
Its objective is to develop three crucial aspects of the actors' body. They are, 1 energy production, 2 breath calibration, and 3 centre of gravity control. By choosing to live this way—struggling against innumerable obstacles and pushing forward at whatever cost—it may seem like I'm promoting traditional Japanese concepts of martyrdom.
But there are real differences. In many ways, the life of a theatre director actually does resemble the life of someone like the mayor of Toga, in that we always want to try new things.
Even when the human resources at our disposal seem limited, we put everything we have into what we do. Without the villagers, the mayor would not exist. Similarly, without actors, the director does not exist. The function of a theatre director is not like that of other artists in other forms, where the final product takes on an independent visual or textural form. He can never rest on his laurels, but must tirelessly re-invent his company to face new challenges while also maintaining their relationship with the constantly changing outside world.
He must relentlessly renew his vision, then strive towards it on a trial-and-error basis. To facilitate this, he must also generate a shared way of working with his company that allows each individual to undergo a continual transformation both as artists and individuals.
Finally, on the basis of those transformations, which are difficult to stop once set in motion, he must devise a communal hope for the future. As the director executes his work over time, not only do his goals evolve but he also experiences personal changes, while his creative impulses manifest themselves in new, unpredictable ways.
He must constantly make choices regarding casting and, in certain circumstances, the text and performance venue as well. In my case, as a founding director, I am also responsible for the economic welfare of my company. I cannot simply make decisions based on some personal whim. I must observe changes in our audience, even in society itself, and base my agenda on what I ascertain. I cannot simply amuse myself with my work in some narcissistic fashion.
I live in the world, and as such tenaciously make connections with everything around me. To what extent should I try to wrestle with these connections? This is the enigma facing the director, and herein lies his most demanding task. Put another way, connections inevitably accumulate between a theatre director and the society in which he abides.
The director who is aware of the influences acting upon him can use that knowledge to make artistic choices that will consistently engage his audience. Such continuity validates his work, ensuring him a genuine vocation. Perhaps, in another sense, the very notion of continuity or consistency in theatre work is outdated. One might even argue that such an idea runs counter to the creative impulse, which spontaneously springs up and then vanishes as quickly as it came, and that from this very impermanence emerges the true theatrical moment that transcends time.
I agree that a continuity of the creative impulse can never be anticipated. It is, like human life, essentially ephemeral—here one moment, gone the next. Thus, the theatre director, or any artist for that matter, can never consistently predict how and when inspiration will surface. However, what artists can do, in fact what we must do, is create continuity in the environment that surrounds us. For me, this has meant maintaining a group of people that shares a common worldview and collaborates over long periods of time in the same context.
Without this continuity of artistic infrastructure—space, theory, training, company, artistic vision, philosophy, and the like—the creative impulse cannot blossom.
However spontaneous and inspired such impulses may feel in the moment, there is simply no accumulated history to support them, and hence no way for this spontaneity to become inevitability. In the world of competitive sports, great, inspired plays are only able to take place because the athletes have spent years continuously preparing for such extreme moments. We often think of inspiration as something that happens in the beginning of a creative process.
But for me, true inspiration only happens after a long period of training, when such impulses can be processed in a skillful way. Take the case of acting. Under these conditions, the creative impulse inevitably leads the artist closer to his or her ideal state of being, where he or she may experience freedom.
It is for this reason that, until my death, I will continue to focus my efforts on exploring the innumerable artistic possibilities that exist within the continuity of human actions. Whatever their views on artistic continuity may be, theatre professionals in Japan face a grave dilemma because the scope of their discourse is hermetically sealed within the realm of purely theatrical concerns, while the larger philosophical and sociological aspects of the theatrical act go unaddressed.
As a result, these so-called artists have not integrated the theatre into their own spiritual lives, and thus fail to experience the passion that drives true artists to brave impossible odds. Their attitude is rather one of capitulation toward both life and art. With no greater purpose propelling them, they have conceded to a theatre bereft of spontaneity and risk, where they, like children afflicted with attention deficit disorder, strike serious and gloomy poses for their own amusement, creating little that transcends the boring and the tedious.
They do not engage the historical legacy of artists who have tenaciously pursued their ideals. They have never discovered the joy of challenging themselves to do the impossible, which in turn galvanizes a commonality of spirit with their audience. Rather, these artists have, through their apathy, fallen into fragments of individual interests, concerned with nothing more than their own satisfaction. At best, their work has a cramped and febrile sense of purpose. The theatrical diversions they create, one after the other, simply wound and betray their original artistic dreams.
Instead of confronting the travesty of this trend, they evade it in a fit of denial. For this reason, they can never see how feeble their dreams, through neglect, have become. The spiritual laziness—lacking the interest or will to transform the situation—is perhaps the most alarming feature of this trend. Often we hear acting referred to as a form of play. In the case of professional sports, when an athlete plays, he or she is striving to set new records.
The athlete concentrates, unwaveringly, on a specific goal and makes maximum effort to attain it, prepared for success or failure. The actor uses this same sense of play to focus on a fiction and then strives, always risking failure, towards discovering a collective epiphany with the audience. They work within the parameters of a course that has a guaranteed audience response, perpetuating an environment that lacks discovery.
While many of these artists begin their careers with lucid, far-reaching goals that have social impact, along the way they become distracted by their personal fears and desires. Such artists do not fully realize the symbiotic relationship of failure and success nor the vital need for risk-taking.
Their fear of failure traps them in the lukewarm sphere of mediocrity, preventing any possible transformation of themselves or the audience.
Having lost sight of their original ideals, they often feel a sense of remorse and so mollify their regret with the opium of work that is comfortable and copacetic. The fear that drives these artists into mediocrity is unwarranted. We must never forget that, in the end, we are all only mortal human beings.
However powerful we may feel we have become, in the end we are never able to change very much. The theatre, too, has a limited impact on the world we live in, however revolutionary and influential our work may seem. We must have courage then to continue pushing forward without doubt, despite the fact that we will never achieve what we set out to do.
We must pursue our ideals until our dying day. In fact, it is this link between the ephemeral quality of both the theatre and of human life, this common relationship with time, which binds them so inextricably together. If I had to choose one thing I am most thankful for since having come to Toga, it would be the opportunity to encounter certain courageous individuals who understand that, despite whatever desperate conditions they may face, they must continue the quixotic pursuit of their impossible dreams.
Armed with this knowledge, these spiritually enlightened artists have achieved a self-awareness that allows them to lead fulfilling lives. To paraphrase Sartre, I have finally been able to see at close range a few individuals who truly understand that life is a futile, passionate play; who are nevertheless driven by the desire to battle on, fighting the lonely fight of the defeated, in the face of hopeless odds. In my opinion, a cultured society is one in which the perceptive and expressive abilities of its people are cultivated through the use of their innate animal energy.
Such animal energy fosters the sense of security and trust needed for healthy communication in human relationships and the communities they form. The distinguishing characteristics of an animal-energy-based society essentially differ from those of a society sustained by non-animal energy, such as electricity, petroleum and nuclear power.
Most people would automatically consider this society reliant on non-animal energy to be the more civilized. For me, however, a civilized society is not necessarily a cultured one. If we consider the origins of civilization, we can see that its rise was intrinsically tied to the bodily functions.
Its development may even be interpreted as the gradual sensory expansion of the eyes, ears, nose, tongue and skin. Inventions like the telescope and microscope, for example, arose from the human aspiration and endeavor to see more, radicalizing the sense of sight. Over time, the accumulation of such achievements has come to be called civilization.
Consequently, when we analyze the kind of energy required to realize such aspirations, the issue of modernization inevitably surfaces. In fact, a criterion some sociologists in the United States apply to differentiate modernized from pre-modernized societies is the ratio of animal to non-animal energy employed in production processes. Animal-energy here refers to the organic physical energy supplied by human beings, horses, oxen and the like; while non-animal energy again refers to electricity, petroleum, nuclear power, etc.
In many countries of the Near East and Africa, for example, the amount of non-animal energy consumed is very low compared with such countries as the United States and Japan, where non-animal energy predominates in virtually all production processes. If we apply this criterion to the theatre, we notice that most contemporary stage productions are modernized and rely heavily on non-animal energy.
Electricity powers the lighting, sound equipment, stage lifts and turntables; while the theatre building itself is the end product of various industrial activities powered by non-animal energy, from the laying of the concrete foundation to the creation of props and scenery. Japanese Noh, on the other hand, survives as a form of pre-modern theatre that employs almost no non-animal energy. In the case of music, for example, most modern theatre utilizes digital equipment to electronically reproduce pre-recorded or live sound through amplifiers and loudspeakers, whereas in the Noh, the voices of the principle actors and the chorus, as well as the sound of the instruments played on stage are projected directly to the audience.
Noh costumes and masks are made by hand, and the stage itself is built according to pre-modern carpentry techniques.
Although electric lights now illuminate the Noh stage which I still object to—in the old days it was done with tapers , this is kept to a minimum and never resembles the elaborate, multi-colored light designs of the modern theatre.
In its essence, Noh is pervaded by the spirit of creating something purely out of human skill and effort—so much so that it can be thought of as an epitome of the pre-modern theatre. It is an endeavor driven by animal energy. In both Europe and Japan, the theatre has developed along with the times and thus, in an effort to increase its audience appeal, has employed non-animal energy in nearly every facet of production.
Paradoxically, this shift to non-animal energy has caused considerable damage to the art form. The automobile replaces the act of walking. The computer takes the place of directly seeing and hearing. In vitro fertilization eliminates the need for sexual contact. As a consequence, the potential of the human body and its various functions has undergone a dramatic downsizing, weakening the communication between people that is based on animal energy.
Regrettably, this trend has also taken its toll on the expressive skills of the actor. Only by committing to do so can we ensure the flourishing of culture within civilization. It can also be seen as a kind of game that intrinsically motivates us—visually through the human physique and aurally through the spoken word. Dating back some 2, years to its origins in ancient Greece, the rules of this game have come to differ vastly depending on geography, history and culture. Acting is an art form, creatively examining how human beings exist within the systems and groups that maintain social life.
Thus, either for their own sake or on behalf of a particular group, the actor incarnates the written word via a physical and vocal exploration that follows a specific set of rules. If this effort succeeds in sharing a unique point of view on the written text with many people, we call it acting.
Even though actors may not be able to see themselves or the others sitting in front of them, they can still be aware of a presence—be it human, animal or god—that is watching their movements and hearing their language. Once actors perceive this presence outside of themselves in space, they quickly form a desire to communicate their point of view, stimulating this presence with a written text made flesh through physical and vocal craft.
When the accumulation of these efforts is distilled into a clear, effective form, acting begins. Thus, for performance to take place, the presence of the other is indispensable.
The human body has certain essential needs that must be met to support life. An infant can survive without any kind of body-awareness, but it heavily depends on the help of others. Even though its heart beats automatically, it must still be given food. For the infant to become independent, it must learn to consciously control the key physical functions required to achieve its daily needs, the most important of which are 1 energy production, 2 breath calibration and 3 center of gravity control.
Since none of these phenomena—energy, oxygen and center of gravity—can be seen with the naked eye, they do not receive a lot of attention in our daily life. However, as soon as we have problems with any one of them, it becomes difficult to maintain our health and participate in modern society.
This is due, in part, to the interdependency of these particular functions. The more energy the body produces, the more oxygen it needs, which in turn intensifies the breathing.
Training exists, then, not only to grow our capacity in each of these functions independently, but also to deepen and fortify their interrelation.
The more we are able to fluidly expand the process of producing energy, taking in oxygen and maintaining balance with our center of gravity; the more variety of movement becomes available to us, which in turn increases the stability and sustainability of life. Essentially the same principle can be applied to acting on stage. The current trend of contemporary society, in this so-called age of globalization, can be characterized by two commonly used phrases.
In other words, one can easily say that our way of living is strongly prescribed by a system symbolized by these two terms: market economy and digital communications. First, it is possible to estimate all forms of human activity on the basis of their economic worth. Even the location in which they take place and the time that they encompass are regarded as a form of economic activity known as consumption, to say nothing of the products resulting from such activities.
All our actions and even our very existence are from the start open to valuation in terms of monetary worth. This is the hallmark of the market economy system that prescribes our contemporary life, now caught in the maelstrom of globalization. Second, our means of perceiving the world increasingly depends on the agency of non-animal energy sources such as electricity, petroleum, and nuclear energy , while at the same time we rely more and more exclusively on our sense of sight when placing value on things.
Even concerning the actions individuals take in their private lives, there is a tendency to be guided more and more by situational judgments made solely on the basis of visual recognition. It is getting more and more difficult for us to use all of the five senses sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste in conjunction when sizing up a situation, taking action, or forming human relationships.
Whilst SITI use Viewpoints essentially as a tool for generating composition, the Suzuki Method is applied largely as a rigorous physical and vocal training method for the actors in the ensemble. Actors need concentration, imagination, and energy to perform their jobs effectively. These problems are designed to heighten concentration and awareness. The Suzuki Method works on disrupting patterns of movement to achieve heightened body awareness.
In the interval of stillness created by a stopped movement, a creative and psychological tension builds which heightens the next movement. The Suzuki-trained actor must be able to speak in precarious positions whilst also maintaining their poise in stillness.
On the stage time is fictional; two days are compressed into two hours, for instance. How does the actor shift time so that the audience experiences days instead of minutes? One way is through modulating speed, breath and focus. To achieve these extraordinary feats the actor must achieve a deep state of awareness, a visual focus aligned with their centre and a fictional focus.
When working in ensemble, he or she must also achieve a focus in alignment with the other players.
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