Moving sculpture

The Japanese butoh artist walks on stage casually as any dancer would during a rehearsal. But this man commands reverence. He is clad in a long-sleeved shirt and dark brown pants. He walks deliberately with his head down, in deep thought, as if wondering what to do next. At once, as if an idea has formed in his mind, he embarks on a strange appearance. He evokes the image of a larva desperately wanting out of his cocoon. The austere light traps this strange unborn butterfly against the wall. His hands look hideous, his head pathetic, his right foot sickled. Time drifts. The audience holds its breath. Thus begins the mighty performance of Ko Murobushi.

Is it theater? Dance? Many say, neither. A few say, both. Butoh is feeling. It is an enigma that strips itself layer by layer down to its awkward naked form. At no other time can distortion be poetic and beauty repulsive. Ko wrings out pain every human being might hide and when one sees his own pain performedit can be revoltingly beautiful.

In a one-hour spectacle called Edge/Manila, Ko becomes a life form, a creature, a thought. He exorcises the man within and, not illustrating but converting, becomes whatever the mind chooses to think. There is an exchange of feelings, memories and theories between Ko and his audience. A Japanese experience becomes a Filipino experience.

Unlike a conventional dancer who expresses a concept, a butoh artist becomes the concept. I would not encourage young artists to perform butoh without a deep understanding of its essence. Every twitch, warp and deformation is a truth and anything outside of that truth is a farce. Butoh stipulates that the only thing the soul must express is its own purity. Ko transforms so purely that he compels the audience to transform with him.

He is a fetus. He is a panther. He is an insect. He is contemplative agony. He is the peak of excitement. He is a corpse. He is life springing from the bowels of the earth. He is our Philippine political situation - I doubt if he wanted to be that in particular but the idea entered my mind furtively - and that is butoh. He hobbles on a linear beam of death. He slams his back on the floor. He is contorted figure livid, pitiful, acidic, intriguing, nasty, yet dazzling.

He uses onomatopoeia to capture movement in sounds - incomprehensible noise trickling in, never calling attention to itself but becoming adverbs describing the verb. He removes his clothes. Sinewy strips of muscle taunt the audience. Michaelangelo would have loved to chisel this 57 year old Japanese Adonis on a fine piece of marble. (57 is young. A Japanese butoh dancer is still dancing at the age of 93.)

He skulks then slinks towards the edge of the floor. He sinks his teeth on the jagged wood. He buries his face on a small heap of sand and deliberately consumes a few grains. His wizended face turns ashen. He points to a strewn flier on the floor and says, "that's me!".

Yes he is! Ko Murobushi is butoha human experience.

There is always one question and answer I dread whenever I come out of a performance. What was the artist trying to say? The answer is almost always, nothing. When I came out of Ko's performance I asked myself the same question: what did he tell me? My dance-weary mind replied: nothing much. But my heart said: everything! The montage of images that came from Ko's body did not articulate one detailed statement. The movements were far removed from the so-called Western technique. But I did feel satisfaction.

For the first time in my life, I did not see a show. I felt it. And that is butoh. (Taken from SUKI the Official Newsletter of the Japan Foundation, Manila)