Susan McCormac 9/8/25 Susan McCormac 9/8/25

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: CHAPTER 16

In Chapter 16, the continuation of her Salon Series exploration, Sachiyo Ito takes us deeper into the cultural heart of Japan through her collaborative programs. Photo of Sachiyo Ito in kimono by Larry Thompson.

Since January 2024 renowned dancer, dance educator, and choreographer Sachiyo Ito has been serializing her memoir on JapanCulture•NYC with monthly installments, each chapter revealing a different aspect of her early life in Tokyo and career in New York City.

Ito offers of a profound exploration of the experience of dedicating herself to traditional Japanese dance at an early age, arriving in New York City during the tumultuous ‘70s, and making a successful career in the arts. Each chapter offers a glimpse into the complexities that shaped her journey. It is a literary examination of not only Ito Sensei’s life, but of how New York City’s culture evolved over the decades and what sacrifices one must make to achieve a thriving career in the arts.

The memoir is an invitation to delve into the layers of a creative life and career that has spanned more than 50 years. As a work in progress, it is also an invitation for you to offer your feedback. Your insights will contribute to the evolution of this extraordinary work.

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

Salon Series: Vertical and Horizontal Threads II

Cultural Introduction beyond Dance in the Salon Series

1. Literature: Poetry

While exploring different aspects of Japanese culture beyond dance, I decided to delve into the literary arts. As I am not an expert in literature, my intention was to rely on the expertise of writers and scholars. Other literary forms, such as essays and novels, felt too vast for me to connect meaningfully to dance—except when they served as the basis for dance dramas. As a result, I often turned to poetry, which has always felt more evocative and approachable as a source of inspiration for choreography.

My first attempt was a historical introduction to Japanese poetry, spanning from medieval to modern works—more specifically, from waka and haiku to Gendai-shi (modern Japanese poetry). Guest lecturers provided context and analysis while I presented classical dances inspired by waka, such as Shigure Saigyo, a Kabuki dance based on the monk and poet Saigyo. I even ventured into Western contemporary poetry—not as a formal introduction, but as a creative wellspring for choreography that explored universal themes. It was a joy to choreograph pieces inspired by poets like Rainer Maria Rilke and Mary Oliver. One special highlight was the opportunity to restage one of my favorite works, Chieko, based on Chieko-shō, which I had first presented at the Japan House in 1980. I was fortunate to collaborate with the beautiful voices of Mary Myers and Beth Griffith in that performance.

Among the most frequently presented poetry programs in the Salon Series were renku (linking verses) and dance, that is, alternating dance and haiku stanzas in linking form in the manner of renku. This idea first emerged through a collaboration with the Haiku Society of America, presented by Japan Society in 2006. (See Memoir Chapter 11: Poetry and Dance.) While most choreographic works in the Salon Series were improvised within a structured framework, the Renku and Dance performances featured “pure improvisation,” involving haiku poets, musicians, and myself in spontaneous creation. When asked by audience members how I managed to combine these art forms, my answer was simple: “The only way it was possible was because the poets and musicians were superb artists.”

Inspired by the success of Renku and Dance, I began offering free workshops at senior centers in Manhattan under the title Dance and Poetry of Japan Workshop. Over the past ten years, I have held six programs, and the senior participants have consistently been enthusiastic and creative. On the other end of the age spectrum, I also led Children’s Haiku and Dance workshops at elementary and high schools. I was deeply moved by the children’s haiku—not only were they beautiful, but they also revealed profound wisdom. These experiences taught me that observing the world with innocent eyes can lead to life’s most meaningful discoveries.

Renku and Performance

Because a core rule in renku is to avoid simply replicating the previous verse, I strove to create a progression—from waterfall to drinking water, to drinking sake, and finally to becoming drunk—in the video linked above. As is customary in Renku-related programs, we invited haiku submissions from the audience at the end. I then improvised dances inspired by those haiku, which delighted both the audience and the participating artists.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series No. 32 Renku and Dance: An Afternoon of Improvisation

2. Literature: From Classic Works

The Heike Monogatari

Inspired by Hoichi the Earless, a tale retold by Lafcadio Hearn (Koizumi Yakumo), I created a dance titled Sound of Emptiness for the 10th anniversary concert of the Salon Series. This work later evolved into a larger-scale production for the 30th anniversary concert of Sachiyo Ito and Company in 2011, featuring singers and dancers portraying the ghosts of the Heike court ladies. Although we didn’t have access to a hanamichi (Kabuki theater’s walkway), we were fortunate to use the audience aisles—from the upper to the lower levels—for the entrance of singers and ghostly figures. This use of space made the transition from the other world feel especially effective.

However, my aim was not simply to depict ghosts. I centered the piece around the teaching of Prajnaparamita—a profound Buddhist sutra—making the work appropriate for the concert’s theme: “Praying for the Deceased of the Great Tohoku Earthquake.” We concluded the performance with a prayer for peace, joined by all company members, musicians, and Rev. T.K. Nakagaki, who inscribed sutra prayers onto lanterns on stage.

Looking back, the collective efforts of artists—both in Japan and abroad—to raise funds and support the victims of the earthquake became a powerful motivation for our performances in the following years. Now, with so many disasters and calamities occurring, it feels increasingly difficult to label them as merely “natural”—they are, in many ways, caused by humans, a result of climate change.

Postcard for the 10th anniversary of Salon Series

Flyer for Sachiyo Ito and Company’s 30th anniversary concert

Gion Shoja

For the 15th anniversary concert of the Salon Series, I choreographed Gion Shoja, inspired by the iconic opening lines of The Heike Monogatari (The Tale of the Heike), which epitomize the teaching of Buddhism, impermanence—one of the core aesthetics of Japanese culture.

The guest artist Yoshi Amao and I embodied the spirits of warriors from the Genpei War (1180–1185), a fierce conflict between the Taira and Minamoto clans that shook Japan during the late Heian period. Though the war lasted only five years, its influence on literature, music, and dance has been immeasurable.

“The sound of the bell of the Gion Temple echoes the impermanence of all things. The pale hue of the flowers of the teak-tree shows the truth that they who prosper must fall. The proud ones do not last long but vanish like a spring-night’s dream. And the mighty ones too will perish in the end, like dust before the wind.”

— Translation: Paul Varley

Despite the gravity of the theme, choreographing a dance defeating a samurai was fun!

Sachiyo Ito with Yoshi Amao. Photo: Larry Thompson

Flyers for 15th anniverary (Photo: Larry Thompson) and Salon Series 66

The collaboration with Mr. Amao on Gion Shoja was so satisfying, and for Salon Series No. 66: An Ode to Autumn, the theme of impermanence seemed especially resonant during the autumn season, I invited him to the program to present the dance once again. I felt the dance would be suitable for autumn, the time when fallen leaves evoke deep reflection on the transience of life.

YouTube Clip: Gion Shoja from 15th Year Anniversary of Salon Series

3. Ma: The Japanese Cultural Concept

Ma in Space

We cannot speak of Japanese performing arts or Japanese culture without mentioning Ma, so I have presented several programs in the Salon Series inspired by Ma.

What is Ma? Ma is the Japanese concept of space and time. It refers to the interval between spaces, and the pause between moments. And yet it is not an empty void; it is a space filled with meaning.

Before I encountered Ma as a distinctly Japanese concept through the writings of Edward Hall*, I had only a vague sense of it—more as something personal, something learned through dance training: a felt sense of space within timing. The following reflections I offer are only my perspective as a dancer, for I am not a cultural anthropologist.

My exploration of Ma in the Salon Series began with the idea of approaching it as it exists in both space and time. I asked myself: Can we create a moment outside our ordinary perception of time and space? A serene experience where everything pauses—where time and space seem to freeze, and we exist fully within that stillness.

In Salon Series No. 48 Ma: Creating Sacred Space and Time Here and Now, my intention was to evoke a sense of sacredness in the physical space where we gathered, and in the musical space created through the sparseness of the Buddhist chant Shomyo and the sound of fue (bamboo flute). To deepen this sacred atmosphere further, I incorporated Shakyo, the meditative practice of copying Buddhist sutras into the costumes. The calligraphy featured the Shiku Seigan (The Four Great Vows, such as the vow to save all sentient beings), which I had sewn onto the kimono sleeves on stage as a visual and spiritual element.

Color played a symbolic role: black costumes accented with red, with layers of white revealed later in the performance. In the opening scene, the use of kurogo (stage assistants in Kabuki) in black near my dancers and myself seemed highly effective.

One unexpected challenge arose: The calligraphy ink was too wet to attach directly as sleeves to the costumes. It reminded me that “having an idea in the head doesn’t always work in practice!” Fortunately, my stage assistants clad in white kimono, Mariko Suzuki and Monika Hadioetomo, who were both costume designers. saved the moment by carefully drying the ink with paper towels on stage. They executed the task with grace and in a meditative manner. When the ink was dry and ready, they sewed both sleeves to the white kimono while I was wearing it on stage.

To conclude, we invited the audience to join in a walking meditation as a shared closure to the experience.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series No. 48 Ma: Creating Sacred Space and Time, Here and Now

Flyer for Salon Series 48. Photos by Larry Thompson and Akiko Nishimura

Ma: Sacred Space II was presented as nature worship in Salon Series No.55 Creating Sacred Space II: Japanese Nature Worship and Labyrinth Walk. This time, I incorporated Shinto ceremonial elements of reverence for nature, such as water purification ritual into the performance space. I believe we were able to transform the venue, Tenri Gallery, into a sacred space without relying on theatrical effects, despite its intimate size, which is typically too small for a labyrinth.

For the music and singing, I selected Etenraku Imayo from gagaku, Japanese court music. The goddess and her attendants descended from the gallery’s upper balcony as they sang, signifying their divine arrival from heaven. Bells echoed through the space to ward off evil spirits during our dances—performed by the goddess, her attendants, and myself.

To evoke a labyrinth, I shaped a winding path with rope, connecting the performance area to the corridor and entrance. Each audience member held a candle as they joined in the walking meditation. At the closing, we gathered in a perfect circle, an expression of unity for peace.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series No. 55 – Creating Sacred Space II: Japanese Nature Worship and Labyrinth Walk

Ma in Time and Iki

Ma in timing is one of the most vital elements in the performing arts, whether in dance, music, or drama. Its significance also extends to our social interactions, shaping conversation, emotional expression, and energetic presence.

In dance, Ma can be structured by musical rhythm (hyoshi) or guided by breath. Yet in Japanese, breath is expressed in two distinct ways, though both are translated into English simply as “breath.” The first is kokyu, referring to the physical act of inhaling and exhaling. The second is iki, which encompasses not just the physical function, but also intention and the internal energy known as ki or chi.

A powerful example of iki is found in the traditional orchestras of Kabuki and Bunraku. These ensembles perform without a conductor, yet the musicians begin, pause, and resume in perfect unity through shared breath. It’s an intuitive synchrony, cultivated through practice and passed down through generations.

Kabuki critic Tamotsu Kaoru once stated, “Iki is the foundation of acting.”

My personal journey with breath began in the 1980s when I first encountered yoga. At the time, I struggled with deep inhalations and exhalations. I later realized this difficulty may have stemmed from my dance training, which emphasizes concealing breath—even during high-impact movements. Dancers and actors must appear effortless on stage; therefore, shallow, controlled breath becomes essential. Here, breath transforms into iki—an intentional, internal force.

Curiosity led me to explore breath’s role in healing arts, which then inspired Salon Series No. 49: Ma in Healing Arts and Dance. My guest was Wataru Ohashi, the founder of Ohashiatsu (the Ohashi Method). His charismatic presence drew many audience members into participating. Pairing strangers who sat next to each other to try shiatsu techniques brought laughter and connection, while exploring iki through shared breath proved deeply engaging.

I also demonstrated how iki is used to convey emotion in Okinawan female-style dance. In portraying sadness, subtle breath supports the graceful flow of movement, but it must remain hidden from view, felt rather than seen.

Iki (breath with control) and kokyu (breath as physical function) form an expansive topic across the performing arts. For the Salon Series, I could only touch on the related practices in two programs that featured Karate and Okinawan male-style dance, the dance form influenced by Karate, in Salon Series No.12 and Salon Series No. 29. These presentations revealed how critical it is to grasp hara.

In all the traditional martial arts and traditional music, including utai singing, breath originates from the abdomen, known as hara. It is the body’s energetic center, grounding one's stance and channeling power through movement. Hara is the anchor, and mastering it is essential in dance, Okinawan dance, Japanese dance, martial arts, and in healing arts such as Mr. Ohashi’s.

While unrelated to the topic, I wish to express heartfelt gratitude for the kindness and long-standing friendship of Mr. Ohashi and Mrs. Ohashi, who generously hosted a celebration at their Manhattan home in 1988 when I received my Ph.D.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series No. 49 – Ma and Breathing in Dance and Healing

Flyer for Salon Series 49. Photo by Mariko Suzuki

Ma in Dance

So now how can we achieve Ma and iki successfully in dance?

Ma is an essential part of dance learning and yet cannot be learned. Well then, a student may say, “Not fair!” Ma is crucial, and yet elusive. Still, finding the right Ma is a journey every dancer and artist must pursue.

The same was expressed by the noted Kabuki actor Ichikawa Danjuro VII, “There is Ma you can be taught, while there is Ma you cannot be taught.”

According to another great Kabuki actor, Onoe Kikugoro VI, “Ma is 悪魔の魔 (Ma of devil), 魔術の魔 (Ma of magic).” That means if Ma is executed poorly, it will destroy the acting, dancing, even the whole play, while if implemented well, it can be magic to mesmerize the audience. I must say, “fearful and awesome!”

The Kanji character he used in his analogy was different since Ma is written as 間, but it cleverly mentions how, on the one hand, it is difficult to use it properly, while on the other hand it can be used to great effect in art.

Then how can we make 間 magical as 魔? The answer lies in refining one’s craft.

If you’re not a dancer, feel free to skip the next section, for it summarizes my dance instruction.

We first go by the prescribed timing of music, the rhythm (hyoshi), which is clearly punctuated by the music. A difficulty may be that there is more than simply following hyoshi in mastering a dance piece. It is characteristic of Japanese music to place importance on melody more than rhythm. Furthermore, classical choreography often requires movements with the words—such as at beginning or the end of a word or phrase. The latter poses an additional difficulty for non-Japanese-speaking students, one they can however overcome through their studiousness.

Then, we brush up our Ma through breath—more precisely, breath control—with iki: long and short breath, deep and shallow breath in executing movements and gestures. They are first controlled by intention: how you want to express the emotions or the meaning of the lyrics, the character in dance. Then find a good Ma in between the clear musical stomps: Try going against the music rather than going together with the tempo of the music or simply pause. Yes, the pause. Ma is the essence. It is not a static pause in dance. As is said in Noh, dance and acting are stillness in silence. Energy flows through after the punctuation of words and the rhythmical cues.

The above is my general instruction in lessons, but over the years I began to think of another word to be used, or should I say a linguistic approach to reflect what I really mean. It is “resonance,” as I believe dance can have an effect of resonance as in music.

The word suggests audiences create their universe as they hear the echo in their mind.

Does it sound hard? Not really, experimenting is a fun process. There, you are given freedom for your own creativity, although we get the criticism that there is no freedom in traditional dance. I need to remind those who consider traditional art as rigid: Japanese culture is a culture of pattern, going into pattern and out of it. Once you master discipline, the basic, there is freedom. So have fun!

Then, as a part of investigation of Ma, I presented Salon Series No. 54: Resonance in Music, Dance, and Literature. My guest speaker and shakuhachi player was James Nyoraku Schlefer, to whose music I danced. He demonstrated the importance of sound—to be absorbed in the sound, which gives us meditative quality—more than melody or rhythm. Also, realizing the importance of pause/silence in haiku, I invited John Stevenson, the haiku laureate. (Refer to Chapter 11 of this memoir for his insightful comments.)

My aim in the program was to show how important it is to have resonance, the echo in music, as well as resonance in the movements of dance, and to consider this concept: Dance does not and should not end at the punctuation of or stamp of sound in music. My further quest was, “Can I send an effective message of the dance through the pause, by doing nothing, just as Zeami the Noh dramatist said, ‘Doing nothing is captivating’?” 　

Here it may be interesting to know that Roh Ogura, the composer and writer, mentioned in his book Japanese Ear that the Japanese ear has a fondness for the silence after a music performance and a temple gong.

Now, I know you are reading this, and we are not facing each other, but what I shared in the Salon may be interesting for you.

““Please close your eyes. Keep breathing easy, in and out, feel space around you, and you are the space itself, and you are expanding.
“Here is the Gong. Keep soft breathing, 10 seconds.
“…
“Open your eyes.
“Smile!””

Did you hear the echo, and even hear the silence after the sound is gone?

Ma is not a void, but alive and critical.

My Shimai (Noh dance) teacher likened the stillness, the non-movements, to pressing both brake and accelerator pedals in driving at once: The action holds both forward and backward tension. When that control is released, energy radiates outwards. But please, don’t try that in your car. We’re speaking about dance.

Resonance after motion. Silence after sound. What message can we send in the space, the “Ma,” that follows?

In conversation, silence between words can be powerful: “Will you marry me?” “……”

In literature, The Pillow Book exemplifies simplicity and resonance: “Spring, dawn.”

The two words, that resonate afterward, offer us infinite meaning that we can enjoy.

A haiku by Basho echoes similarly.

An ancient pond—

A frog jumps in

The sound of water

The splash fades, then comes the deeper stillness, inviting us into timelessness.

Things are unsaid but resonate after sound and movements are performed or words are spoken, offering limitless opportunities for audience/reader/viewer to participate in the completion of the art with their imagination. What freedom we have! The unimaginable wonder of Ma: Resonance after a word, movement, or sound offers the audience the freedom to imagine, to co-create the meaning of art with artist.

Ma has been one of my lifelong quests, and yet I am not certain if I could see any of it. But I hope this chapter offers you a window to look into this fascinating subject in the arts, and in our lives.

Cultural Introduction Beyond Dance: Flower and Tea

A decade into the Salon Series, still exploring the crucial yet elusive concept of Ma, I began to broaden my efforts. Ma cannot be taught in the conventional sense, and that may seem unfair to students. Still, finding the right Ma is a journey every dancer and artist must pursue.

Recognizing that its scope goes beyond the performing arts led to the introduction of other cultural forms: Ikebana (traditional Japanese flower arrangement) in Salon Series #56; Chanoyu/Sado (茶道), the Japanese tea ceremony in Salon Series #57. For the Ikebana program, I performed classical dances themed around flowers: Shikunshi (The Four Noble Flowers), Aki no Iro-kusa (Flowers in the Autumn), and Shiki no Hana (Flowers in Four Seasons). For the tea ceremony program, I was fortunate to have Cha Ondo (Tea Ceremony Song) accompanied live to complement the tea ceremony demonstration.

The Ikebana demonstration sparked the idea of creating a dance centered on a flower theme, leading to a collaboration with contemporary florist Katsuya Nishimori in Salon Series #57: Flower Petals Fall, But Not the Flower. The title was inspired by the teaching of Kaneko Daiei, as mentioned in Chapter 4 of this memoir, which details my belief in dance, “flower theory.” This dance unfolded as sequences in the dream of a playful, vain woman, proud of her beauty. In her dream there appears a lavish flower arrangement, built by the florist in real time on stage in Kurogo costume.

Destruction: Consumed with jealousy toward the flowers for their beauty, she destroys the blossoms in a fit of rage.

Regret and Awakening: Overcome with remorse and sorrow for her deed, she glimpses a light of redemption.

Acceptance: Acknowledging the fragility of emotions—like flowers— she prays for the “real flower” that transcends temporality.

The woman walks to drape a white net across the stage over fallen petals on the floor, covering them as if she were consoling these fallen lives into a peaceful sleep. At the end, the scattered petals were meant to symbolize the transient nature of life.

Flyer for Salon Series 57. Flower arrangements by Katusya

YouTube Clip: Salon Series No. 54: Flower Petals Fall, But Not the Flower

Flyer for Salon Series 56. Ikebana by Masako Gibeault

Beyond Barriers

The initial focus of the Salon Series was to foster “understanding beyond boundaries of culture and ethnicity through the introduction and exploration of Japanese arts and culture.”

Over time, however, this evolved into a profound message:

“We are all human beings. Regardless of cultural, racial, or physical differences, let us overcome these boundaries and work together.”

One of the programs that embodied this vision was Salon Series No. 65: On the Human Spirit. It was a multidisciplinary collaboration featuring poetry, dance, music, and sign language.

Inspired by Ishigaki Rin’s poem Taiyo no Fumoto de (At the Foot of the Sun), the program began by portraying the world we live in as a beautiful place, blessed by the sun. The performance began by celebrating the beauty of our world, blessed by sunlight. Through poetry and singing, we expressed wonder and gratitude.

The dance segment that followed represented tragedies of our human history: war and natural disasters such as earthquakes.

In one symbolic gesture, I shredded pieces of the inner sleeves of my kimono to express the torn state of the human spirit. Then, I began tying them together, signifying the act of healing, of picking up the broken emotional and physical pieces of ourselves. The reuniting of the fragments was a metaphor for healing and reclaiming emotional and physical wholeness.

Audience participation was an essential part of this process. I invited them to join me in tying the fragments together into one long string as they sat next to each other in their chairs. This act symbolized unity and the possibility of recovery from both natural disasters and personal tragedies through mutual and collective support.

To close the program, Amelia Hensley (of Deaf West’s Spring Awakening on Broadway) taught sign language to us, dancers, poetry reciters, and audience members. We were so delighted to see the audience engage and try the sign language gestures. The vocalist Beth Griffith then sang “Amazing Grace,” a light to guide us to healing.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series No. 65: On the Human Spirit

Dance and Prayer

Amid the crisis of COVID-19, I felt a deep need to offer a message of prayer and healing. In response, we live-streamed Salon Series: Prayer for Healing and Peace through the Symbolism of Cranes to welcome the New Year with hope. Drawing on Japanese traditions, the crane—symbolizing health, longevity, and peace—became our central motif.

The program featured classical dances themed around the crane, an origami paper-crane folding session, and my original dance works honoring the lives of those we had lost. It was a gentle offering of peace, renewal, and collective memory.

Also featured in the program was my new piece titled Memories, dedicated to all those who died during the pandemic.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series No. 67 Prayer for Healing and Peace through the Symbolism of Cranes

The dance in the link below is an excerpt from Seiten no Tsuru (Cranes in the Blue Sky). Though it is not from No. 67, but from No. 63, it will give you an idea of the classical dance Seiten no Tsuru.

YouTube Clip: “Crane” from Expressions in Traditional and Contemporary Dance in Salon Series No. 63

The Meaning of Dance

What is most important in dance? For me, it is not technical virtuosity or performance for the sake of display. Dance, at its core, is an offering and a prayer. This intention was at the heart of Salon Series No. 67. I was pleased that our crane dance conveyed this message so clearly. It affirmed the deeper meaning of dance: to connect, to heal, and to transcend.

Closure of Salon Series

As the saying goes, “Where there is a beginning, there is an ending.” The final Salon Series, No. 74, was held in December 2023. My photo appeared in Shukan NY Seikatsu, was captured in a moment of emotional intensity, perhaps even a bit of theatrical distress, and still brings a smile to my face. It was taken after I recreated the earthquake stanza from one of the audience members, after moving with fear, possibly rolling on the floor in response to the earthquake scene.

I have been deeply fortunate to have longtime friends and collaborators John Stevenson, Yukio Tsuji, Beth Griffith, and Masayo Ishigure join me in closing the Salon Series, which spanned a quarter of a century.

Thanks to the unwavering support of audiences and guest artists, I was privileged to embark on this incredible 25-year journey. The Salon Series was not only a platform to share my knowledge as a dancer and educator, but also a source of profound learning. Each presentation led me to explore vast and varied subjects so expansive that they stretch beyond the scope of a single lifetime.

This journey reaffirmed a humbling truth: The more years I spend pursuing my path and craft, the more I realize how little I truly know.

Above all, the artists and audiences have gifted me with deeper insight into our shared human nature. No words can fully express my gratitude.

With deep bow

Salon Series No. 65 Review

The Salon #65 performance ended ecstatically with vocalist Beth Griffith singing Jacques Brel’s If We Only Have Love. With the full cast onstage, Ito’s parting words to the audience were to observe nature and engage the love that connects everything on earth.

— Dalienne Majors

60th Salon Series Welcomes Shogo Fujima

Ito performed “Petals Fall But Not the Flowers” and “Only Breath” with Indian and European dancers, closing the event in a spectacular atmosphere.

— Kaoru Komimi
Shukan NY Seikatsu, June 24, 2017

Flyer for the 60th Salon Series installment. Photo by Jason Gardner.

The posting of this chapter to JapanCulture-NYC.com was paid for by Sachiyo Ito and reprinted here with her permission. Susan Miyagi McCormac of JapanCultureNYC, LLC edited this chapter for grammatical purposes only and did not write or fact-check any information. For more information about Sachiyo Ito and Company, please visit dancejapan.com. ©Sachiyo Ito. All rights reserved.

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Susan McCormac 7/7/25 Susan McCormac 7/7/25

Sachiyo Ito’s Memoir: Chapter 15

Sachiyo Ito’s Memoir: Chapter 15. Photo by Jefferson Maia

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

Salon Series: Vertical and Horizontal Threads

(Vertical Threads connecting various cultures and peoples around the globe and Horizontal threads from the ancient to modern, the classical to contemporary 縦横の糸：横は世界を巡り、縦は古典から現代)

Held three times a year, the Salon Series was a series of grassroots programs presented in various formats and subjects, informing and investigating aspects of Japanese cultural and artistic heritage. The dialogues between the world class guest artists and the audience often led to new insights and deeper understanding, not only of Japanese culture and art, particularly dance, but also human nature.

By the time of its conclusion in 2023, the Salon Series had presented 74 programs to the public, and three additional special anniversary concerts. The series lasted for 25 years, far longer than I had expected at the onset. This continuation was made possible not only by my passion to introduce Japanese art and culture to the world outside of Japan, but also by the support of the audiences and guest artists.

There have been many wonderful collaborators of such incredible artistry and kindness who have joined me at Salon Series. I have no words other than those of deep gratitude for their willingness to collaborate with me, the minor artist.

One of the aims of the Salon Series was to introduce Japanese art and dance forms in depth. In addition to dance and music performances, demonstrations, lectures, audience participation, and Q&A sessions with the guest artists were important components of the programming. Audience members both familiar and unfamiliar with Japanese arts and culture had many questions. However, those who were familiar with the topics would ask questions that led to lively discussions, insightful perspectives, and new discoveries.

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade: The Story Behind the Salon Series

The inspiration for the Salon Series was not my mission to introduce the Japanese arts to the wider world, which I have pursued all my life, but a bad review that I received from a Japanese critic for a concert I had given. The most upsetting aspect of the review was the critic’s ignorance of traditional Japanese theater and its practices, such as the Kurogo (stage assistant) being seen and handling props, and not using the curtain to delineate scenes, as a western production would. These are conventions I follow when presenting centuries-old Kabuki dances.

Once I began performing outside of Japan, my audiences were mainly non-Japanese, and I developed a format of demonstrations and lectures for American schools, libraries, and museums, with the intention to relay how the original productions should be since they would have little knowledge of conventions and traditions.

However, the writer was a Japanese and a professional dance and theater critic who should have been well familiar with these conventions. Then I thought: Why not begin a program for both Japanese and non-Japanese? It could be a presentation about our arts that goes beyond superficial information and explores Japanese arts in greater depth. Furthermore, discussions with featured artists would provide a valuable forum for the exchange of ideas. I hoped that this might serve both as enlightenment and entertainment. Little did I know that this tiny seed of an idea would grow to have a huge impact on my life, leading me to collaborate with great artists, scholars, and experts from all over the world—an incredible and fortunate privilege.

How It Began: A Gallery in SoHo

Having an idea does not bring a project to fruition. I went around to several cultural institutions with my proposal but was greeted only with rejection. Only one place, a small gallery in SoHo, showed any interest in the venture. One day I found myself on the street outside of Tenri Cultural Institute, uncertain if I was in the right place or not. “Plucking up my courage,” to use the English idiom, I knocked on the door and was graciously welcomed inside by Rev. Toshihiko Okui, the institute’s director. I presented my plans and waited while he considered them. Finally, he said, “Well then, let’s begin and see.” Thus, my proposal was accepted. No words can express how grateful I am to Rev. Okui, for at the time, I was nothing but an unknown dancer and a stranger to him. He would later connect me to the Tenri Gagaku Society of New York, which became one of the few guest artists I would invite to the program repeatedly, another thing for which I owe him a debt of gratitude. Not long after our initial meeting, Tenri moved to its current location on 13th Street, and I presented the Salon Series there for more than twenty years.

Salon Series No. 34 featured the second collaboration with the Tenri Gagaku Society of New York. I wanted to introduce the ancient Japanese songs, a part of the Gagaku repertory, since we had introduced repertory imported to Japan from parts of China and other places in Asia in the earlier Salon program. For this occasion, I created a trio dance called Kashin. I chose the song Kashin for this new work because I was very intrigued by how it resonated with a song from Sui Dynasty in 7th century China. The song says, “Let’s celebrate this happy occasion! May this joy be limitless, last ten thousand years, and grow forever!”

The fact of the matter is that it was not easy to follow the words of the song. My dancers, and even I, from time to time, got lost as to where we were in the music while rehearsing. This was because of a prolonged vowel sound which lasted several minutes. During the program, I showed the Kanji characters to the audience on a large piece of paper, while I had one of the singers pronounce each word. The slowness of the progression of music made me realize that there is a difference between the body clocks of ancient and modern times. For the Japanese of the Edo Era, time was kept at a slow pace, marked only by temple gongs that were struck once every two hours.

The modern world has become far more aware of time and counts exactly not only hours but minutes and seconds. Japan, in particular, has become known for its punctuality.

This reminds me of a story from my high school days. I had a date at Shibuya Station, the closest station to my school. My date was late. As I waited, I grew more and more anxious, getting worried about his well-being, wondering if an accident was the cause of the delay. An hour later he arrived, telling me that he had wanted to test me to see if I would wait for him. I never saw him again. I doubt anyone would wait longer than half an hour for someone nowadays.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series #34: Gagaku and Ancient Song of Japan

Comparison with Various Dance Cultures

From the very inception of the Salon Series, I have been eager to present comparative studies of dances in Asia. The countries I included in the Salon Series were Okinawa, China, India, Korea, Tibet, and Indonesia. We held programs featuring Indonesian and Okinawan dance on more than one occasion.

Okinawa is the southernmost tip of Japan, and due to its geographical location, unique history, and diversity in the arts, it is one of the most interesting regions to explore among southeast Asian countries.

My fascination with Okinawa began when I first visited the islands in 1976. In the 1970s, I began researching the roots of Japanese dance, and in Okinawa I discovered beauty and traditions that the mainland may have lost over time. Eventually, my interest led to my doctoral dissertation, The Origins of Okinawan Dance, which I discussed in Chapter 8.

Because of interest shown by artists and audiences in the similarities and differences between Japanese mainland and Okinawan culture, I presented many programs with Okinawan themes, often comparing music and dance. One of the themes of these programs was Karate and Okinawan dance. I was pleasantly surprised and happy when the first Karate program attracted a large audience, more than a full house, so I added two more Karate and Okinawan dance programs with different focuses and different Karate masters. And yet, Okinawan Court Opera: National Identity of Okinawa, a program about Tamagusuku Chokun, the 18th century dance master and creator of Kumi Odori (Okinawan Court Opera) did not attract a crowd. Perhaps I was the one who enjoyed it more than the audience, because I was passionate about voicing how important the arts are to cultural identity, not only for Okinawa, but for every country.

In addition to traditional Okinawan dances, I was also keen to introduce contemporary Okinawan dances, among them Nanyo Hamachidori (Plovers in the Southern Pacific) the most interesting piece that I presented several times at the Salon Series and other concerts. Fortunately, two decades before I began Salon Series, I was given permission to perform this dance by my teacher Takako Sato, who had restaged it as a solo for her group’s concert at Asia Society in 1986.

Getting sponsorship from Asia Society and the Okinawa American Association of NY for this performance was not an easy task, but I was so grateful to them for their support, for I believed that New York audiences should discover and see the beauty and artistry of Okinawan dance.

Hamachidori (Plovers on the Beach) was choreographed by Tamagusuku Seiju in the late 19th century. It featured a particular hand gesture derived from court dance technique: the repetitive, soft undulation called koneri-te (kneading hands). It was Iraha Inkichi who adapted it to create Nanyo Hamachidori around 1930. Along with koneri-te, he incorporated elements of ballet in the dance after his tour in Hawaii. These hand gestures and movements are intriguing to anyone who watches Okinawan dance. As a continuation of the investigation of hand gestures, I invited guest artists from Indonesia to two different programs.

*Ms. Sato’s performance was the second time an Okinawan dance troupe visited New York, Miyagi Minoru’s troupe being the first in 1981.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series # 62: Traditional Japanese Dance and Theater in Contemporary Performing Arts

In one of the Indonesian collaborations, Salon Series No. 10 with Dr. Deena Burton, we discussed female power in performing arts in each country. During a time when dominance of women by men was the norm in all parts of society, there was yet a strong feminist voice in the theater. In the millennium, women’s power and equality became a commonplace idea, but Deena and I talking about female power in each other’s traditional dances in the early 1990s was a unique subject.

Influence and Comparison of Japanese Classical Theater Forms with Contemporary Theatre and Dance Forms

The historical progression and evolution of art forms has always been my great interest, and I wanted to compare the traditions I was familiar with to contemporary dance, such as Butoh and ballet, and contemporary theater.

In Salon Series No.62: Traditional Japanese Dance and Theater in Contemporary Performing Arts, my guest speaker and artist were Yoko Shioya from Japan Society and Annie B-Person, the director of Big Dance Theater, the avant-garde theater group to whom I taught Okinawan dance. Along with their presentations I demonstrated the basics of the three classical theater forms: Noh, Kabuki, and Okinawan court dance. We attracted a large audience, for we aimed at illustrating the influences of those dance styles on contemporary theaters in the 21st century, a topic intriguing to both theater goers and dance enthusiasts. It was a huge task for me to demonstrate three classical theater and dance forms in a limited time, for I had to summarize the forms, and generalization is always dangerous and can lead to misunderstanding.

One aspect of the demonstration was to show the differences in facial expression between Kabuki and Okinawan dance. In Okinawan court dance, one is not supposed to show obvious facial expressions, just as if wearing mask in Noh. In Kabuki dance we do use facial expressions, although they are quite subtle. I must admit it was hard for me because of my decades of training since childhood.

Simplicity and subtlety are two of the major characteristics of Japanese culture. Restrained, almost hidden, feelings are the core of expression. In Noh, to suggest hidden reality underneath the surface reality is the ideal, and Noh masks serve this purpose well. Such control seems to attract practitioners of modern art and modern performing art. The audience is made to search for the true expression in the distilled, carefully chosen motions, where we find freedom of interpretation. I wonder if that freedom of choice is what modernism prefers. Or is it attracting a certain kind of audience?

Perhaps that was what William Butler Yeates was trying to achieve when he showed his Noh plays. He did not care about attracting the masses, but only those who might understand his literature, poetry, and themes.

In this Salon, I also presented my experimental dance, Umie (To the Sea), a fusion of Japanese dance and Okinawan dance. As the costuming difference is important for us to understand the dance forms, I had the costume designed to combine Okinawan and regular Japanese kimono styles. In the dance, I incorporated Koneri-te, but I took liberty to add folk elements, along with faster execution of hand movements inspired by the tempo of the music. I must say that the program was full of agendas.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series #62 – Traditional Japanese Dance and Theater in Contemporary Performing Arts

In Expressions in Traditional and Contemporary Japanese Dance in #63, we explored the contemporary expressions in Japanese dance and ballet with Shoko Tamai on the theme of Sky, Water, and Fire. Live music was provided by Yukio Tsuji, the composer and percussionist, with whom I have collaborated since the mid-1970s, as well as by Beth Grifith, a singer and vocalist.

Collaboration with Guest Artists

Over the years, I showed not only the differences and similarities of our Japanese traditional forms with guest artists, but I also enjoyed creative collaborations with many gifted artists from different cultures.

The collaboration with Rajika Puri, an Indian dancer, was an honor for me. As you can imagine, my guest artists had very busy schedules, so I was pleased that we could work out the performance with only two rehearsals. That program, Salon Series No. 37, was accompanied by traditional flutes of India and Japan, played by Ralph Samuelson and Steve Gorn. We reversed the musical accompaniment of each country and danced to it, and the switch was enjoyed by both the audience and performers. One of the most pleasing comments from the audience was, “I was blown away by how similar Indian dance and Japanese dance are!” Well, actually, we paralleled our gestures and movements as they emerged and inspired the other’s.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series #37: Modernity in Tradition (1:54)

My comparative studies extended beyond Asia to include Spain and Russia.

My longtime dream to work with Flamenco guitar came true in Salon Series No. 51: Expressions of Love in Japanese Dance and Spanish Dance. I loved dancing with Juana Cala and to the Flamenco guitar played by Jose Moreno. For our creation, we exchanged standard instruments: Her dance was accompanied by Shamisen, while mine was accompanied by Flamenco guitar. Each of us danced expressing love in our own tradition, but united happily at the end.

Nodding to the musicians as I turned back, the signal for the musicians to move on to the last phrase of music and the dancers’ final steps and pause was such a fun moment.

There was one thing I was quite worried about in presenting this program, though: the floor. Juana had great stomping power, and I feared that the gallery floor might be damaged. I was so worried about this that I increased my insurance premium. However, there was no damage after our performance, not even the slightest scuff. To say I was very relieved would be an understatement.

YouTube Clip: Salon Series #51: Expression of Love in Japanese Dance and Spanish Dance

Walking

Recently, a friend’s family named their newborn son Ayumu. I thought, “What a wonderful name it is!” The word used for the boy’s name is the Japanese verb which means to walk, the same verb as aruku. I could infer what the family wished for him: to grow up in good health, progressing little by little onward and forward.

In Salon Series No. 44: The Art of Walking, we explored walking, the very fundament of dance, as used in three different styles: ballet, modern dance, and Japanese dance. We discussed how and why we walk the way we do in each style and how this is influenced by cultural and social factors. I demonstrated how to maintain the body’s center of gravity low and downward, to achieve the characteristic gliding walk in Japanese dance. I then discussed the reasons for these characteristics, which are known to dance and theater scholars and ethnomusicologists in Japan but not to wider general audiences. Fascinating subjects and favorites of mine, about which I often talk during my demonstration programs at schools and cultural institutions are the etymology of the words for dance—“mai,” “odori,” and “buyo”—the insularity of the country, its geography, and even its architecture and agriculture. But for now, let me put these subjects for another chapter of my memoir.

As we all know, walking is the simplest, most basic movement in dance. In addition to being the physical foundation, it is also of great significance in delivering the message of the dance. It is such a simple movement, and yet, it is the hardest, which I find true in any art form and anything we do in our lives. In Japanese dance, there is a saying: “After ten years, you start to walk properly.” Even at my age, after seventy years of dancing, I am still learning it. It is an art form, just as Gunji Masakatsu, the prolific writer and one of the greatest scholars on Japanese performing arts, pointed out. He called it Aruku-gei (the Art of Walking). In the dances Gion Shoja and Resonance, even though I was the one who choreographed them, the most difficult part was walking off stage at the end, but I had to incorporate the exit walk into the choreography since it was essential in conveying the themes of those dances.

Dance has always been a metaphor for life for me. A dance can express our life events, our human emotions. Often it mirrors where we are in the stage of our life. In dance, we can show our life in a short time like a snapshot, condensing it or taking a single fragment. Walking in dance can serve that purpose well as a distilled movement, showing the essence of dance and its message. In doing so, we also hope that the expression or message is not simply personal, but universal, showing emotions that we all share.

In our day-to-day life outside dance, our walk can also show how we are feeling, heavy on one day, light on another, and it exhibits how we hold our emotions both inwardly and outwardly as we trod on the path of our life.

Quite often, thinking about the miracle of walking leads me to think about the miracle of life. To take a single step requires nerves, muscles, blood, and brain to function together almost miraculously! What a feat of coordination it is. Many speak of the miracle of Jesus walking on water, but I must say that even walking on the earth is a miracle. I used to observe my dog as he walked, following behind him, bending low to get a better view. I know it sounds funny, if you picture how I was following him, but the coordination of his four limbs is incredible.

I have had a fracture in my foot and knee injuries that required surgeries. When such injuries and operations make us temporarily unable to walk, we realize how blessed we are to have the ability in the first place. Such experiences, along with passing by people on crutches or in wheelchairs, remind me of how precious the gift of walking is. Venerable Thich Nhat Hanh taught, “Walk on the earth as if you love the earth, since when you walk in anger, you spread anger.” His teaching shows us that love is so important to nature, both sentient and insentient objects, to others, and to oneself.

In the upcoming Chapter 16, I will talk about the Salon Series from a different perspective than in this chapter.

To read about two guest artists who stood out, Robert Lala and John Stevenson, please refer to Chapter 6 and Chapter 11, respectively.

Susan McCormac 7/19/24 Susan McCormac 7/19/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 7

This year renowned dancer, dance educator, and choreographer Sachiyo Ito has been serializing her memoir on JapanCulture•NYC with monthly installments, each chapter revealing a different aspect of her early life in Tokyo and career in New York City.

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

Dojoji: Dojoji 2001 and 2002

July finds us halfway through the year, as far from its beginning as its end. In traditional Japan, this is a time to perform Misogi – a purification ceremony meant to cleanse and renew the spirit after half the year has passed. In modern times, we try to relax and enjoy summer’s slower pace, storing our energy for the busy autumn that awaits us; even Christmas feels like it is “just around the corner.”

Thinking ahead to the holiday season reminds me of the New Year’s Eve ceremony called Joya no Kane (Bell on New Year’s Eve), an important occasion for the Japanese to close out the year. During this event, a temple bell is struck 108 times. These 108 tolls represent delusions we have had during the course of the year, one driven out with every strike. Listening, we are slowly cleansed, and we can welcome the New Year with a fresh mind, soul, and body – a great panacea. The sound of the bell being struck and the resonance of sound after the strike helps us to meditate on the past year as it passes away from us.

Along with the bells of the New Year, there is another bell that has rung throughout my life: that of Dojoji. You may remember the story of Dojoji from the previous chapter – a tale of transformation, revolving around a woman’s unrequited love and its disastrous consequences. The characters in the dance are a maiden and a monk, but it is arguable that the bell, although inanimate, is a character in and of itself, and a very important one.

*Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji* — Pointing to the Bell

“Sachiyo Ito is a graceful dancer/choreographer/teacher of quiet power. On April 2, 200I, she offered Dojoji 2001: an 'Evening of Japanese Classical and Contemporary Dance’ . . . they crafted a subdued tension around the topic of unrequited love, in a modern interpretation of ‘the timeless drama of human desire and transformation.’"

— Madeleine L. Dale, Attitude 2001

The Challenge

The Dojoji legend is one of the oldest and best known in Japanese folklore. Dating back to the eleventh century, it was turned into a Noh play in the fifteenth century and then into a kabuki play in the eighteenth. It is such a popular theme that it effectively became its own genre, called Dojoji-mono. This legend has become one of the foundational works of Japanese performing arts.

Creating a new work in the Dojoji canon can be considered a kind of revolt against tradition. It was a challenge to create my own dances for Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji (Maiden at the Dojoji Temple), the well-known Kabuki dance drama that was first staged in 1753. Among many Dojoji dance dramas, Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji depicts the sequel of the Dojoji legend and is arguably the most enduring Kabuki dance. Incredible costume changes, breathtaking colors, and the dramatic change of the heroine from a beauty to a monster against the background of spectacular cherry blossoms have ensured its popularity over the centuries.

As a classical dancer, to perform Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji is considered reaching a pinnacle of one’s art, for it shows absolute mastery of dance and acting technique. One needs the permission of one’s dance school to perform it on stage. During my early years in the U.S., my aim was to introduce the most emblematic dances of Kabuki to American audiences; therefore, I presented Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji at several concerts: the American Dance Festival (my debut in the U.S.), Riverside Church Dance Festival, and at events at Japan Society and Lincoln Center. I danced it just as I was taught to, every time, for many years.

Why then, after so long, did I take on the challenge of creating my own Dojoji dance? The answer is simple: I wanted to cut through to the heart of the dance itself. The heroine has real emotions that are hinted at in a very subtle manner throughout the dance. However, the storyline gets lost in the accompanying lyrics, and it ends with an abrupt and surprising change of character. Coupled with the intense visuals on the stage – the many outfit changes, the falling cherry blossoms – the dance seemed to me to be too ostentatious, becoming nothing more than a costume display.

Looking back now, I realize that some of my motivation lay in having seen many innovative works outside of Japan, particularly in New York. After almost thirty years of performing in the United States, I felt that it was time to create my own works. Perhaps I was too bold. But in those days, at the turn of the millennium, I felt a different awareness around me, and hope for the new era. I wanted to see Dojoji with fresh eyes, in the context of the new epoch we were entering, rather than the usual story of love and hate. I wanted to focus on the universal theme of the human condition, a theme that transcends time and space, east and west.

During the 1990s, I was fortunate and blessed to encounter the teachings of Tich Nhat Hanh, and I created dances inspired by his poems. Then, as I began to perceive the Dojoji story as a new work, I could see my vision and choreography clearly through the lens of his teachings. I am more grateful to him than any words can express for the inspiration he gave me for both Dojoji and my life’s work.

In creating the new version, my goal was to expand on the themes of desire and destruction, but in a global context: Obsessive desire for modern technology and material things leads to the destruction of environment and ecology; racism and tyranny result in wars among nations and devastation of culture.

The first version of my entry into the Dojoji canon, Dojoji 2001, was presented at the Sylvia Fuhrman Performing Arts Center in 2001. The second, Dojoji 2002, was presented at the Theater of the Riverside Church at the 30th Anniversary Concert commemorating my U.S. debut. There was development from 2001 to 2002 in the scale of the production: Dojoji 2002 had a longer performance time and more actors and dances, along with an expansion of music, poetry, and sets.

I am aware that I went far beyond my capacity for artistic expression and technique and resources available for the production. However, in the undertaking, I realized we could apply the global themes of Dojoji 2001 / 2002 on a personal level, to our day-to-day lives.

We can see our emotional turmoil resulting in tired faces, mirrored in our own bathrooms. How can we come to terms with ourselves? Is there any way to find peace within our own hearts? Perhaps, if we can find peace within us, then peace on a larger scale is possible.

These questions and thoughts led me to create a new opening scene, a walking meditation, each step carrying the minds of both the performers and audience closer to the heart of these matters. If my efforts to pose these questions and show these trials touched only one person, then the overexertion will have been worth it.

The Genre and the Bell

In the Dojoji story, the focus of the narrative is on love and hate between a woman and a man. A woman, Kiyohime, falls in love with a monk, Anchin, who spurns her advances. Rejected, she turns herself to a demonic serpent who chases the monk. When the monk takes refuge in the Dojoji Temple, the woman destroys both him and the temple bell, inside which he is hidden, by burning them to ashes.

The genre Dojoji-mono is divided into two groups: one that follows the original storyline; the other, a sequel that takes place a few hundred years later. There is a myriad of versions of the tale in the first group. According to the Engi Emaki (Scroll of Origin of the Temple) handed down at the Dojoji temple, the sequel took place 400 years after the initial incident. Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji belongs to the latter genre.

In the sequel, the monks are raising a new bell to replace the old one. Women have been barred from the temple, but a maiden enters regardless, and begins to dance before the new bell. At the end of her dance, she reveals herself as the demonic serpent, just as from the original story, and leaps into the bell.

The bell is of grave importance. For not only does it serve as a symbol of the woman’s desire, longing, passion, anger, jealousy, and eventual self-destruction, but it is also a symbol of taboo, human delusions, and attachment. It also functions as a symbol of Buddhism. The importance of the temple bell in both Buddhist teaching and Japanese culture is illustrated by the opening lines of the medieval story The Tale of the Heike Clan. The concept of impermanence is depicted most beautifully through the sound of the bell as its ringing fades away.

The sound of the bell of the Jetavana Grove echoes the impermanence of all beings.
The color of flowers of the shala trees teaches us that the prosperous ones must decline. The proud noble ones can live no longer than a spring night’s dream does.
The strong warriors shall perish at the last.
They are nothing but dust before the wind.

There is another play in which the bell takes center stage. In Miidera, named after the temple in which the play takes place (known as having one of the three best sounding temple bells in Japan), we find the same setup as Dojoji: The temple is off limits to women, and they are forbidden to enter. In Miidera, the woman has entered the temple to search for her lost son. In both stories, women enter the temple despite the prohibition, breaking a taboo in the process. However, in Miidera, the woman strikes the temple bell and is reunited with her lost child, evoking a sense of selfless love. Here, the bell brings two people together and remains whole. Conversely, in Dojoji, the woman enters the bell, as if to be united with the man inside, and emerges as a snake, capable only of destruction. The bell illustrates transformation, but ruinously so, and lies broken in the end.

To elaborate on references and implications of myths of the snake throughout the world would take more pages than I am allowed here. However, in Japan, the snake has been seen as a metaphor for the hideousness within, and to me, it is an expression for both the hideousness and ugliness found in the mirrored image of ourselves, caused by the negative seeds we carry within, such as attachment and anger.

I used to use the word for the story of Dojoji as “surrounding” the bell and the woman. The coiling, spiral movement and image around the bell illustrated the transformation in us humans and non-humans perfectly.

The Research

Prior to the creation of my work Dojoji 2001, I researched its background heavily. This included visits to many folk performances of Kagura such as Kurokawa Noh in the northern Yamagata Prefecture, where Dojoji is titled as Kanemaki; Kumi Odori (Okinawan Court Opera), titled as Shushin Kaniri in the south; and several performing arts in surrounding areas, including Mibu Kyogen in Kyoto. Of course, I also made the essential pilgrimage to the Dojoji Temple in Wakayama Prefecture!

Watching the Kurokawa Noh performance was a big assurance about the centrality of the bell in the story, as it is the essence that threads throughout the storyline. To me, the bell became the main character of the story. The other, presumed protagonist was not there; I said to myself, “Where is the handsome man?” The absence of the man becomes a source for our imagination and fantasy. An appearance of the man would destroy the fascination, although he has been depicted in plays and dances. To me, the imagination inspired by the story and symbolism of the bell seemed to be compelling enough on its own.

Upon visiting the Dojoji Temple, I was surprised to see countless donated plaques and photos, displayed in the alcove of the main room of the temple, with words of prayers and gratitude. These had been offered by actors and actresses in kabuki, modern theater, and film who had visited the temple to pray for the success of their performances.

Another surprise was the number of tourists from around the country, as many as a hundred visitors a day – the count at the time when I visited the temple. I gave a sigh; the Japanese, young and old, through the ages and even now, have been fascinated by the Dojoji story. I took the hour-long group tour led by the Abbott, and we all listened intently to his convincing, vivid storytelling as he showed us the Engi Emaki scroll.

Since the Dojoji legend was born as a Buddhist morality tale, the scroll ends with paintings describing both Anchin and Kiyohime becoming Bodhisattvas, after being saved by the prayers of the Abbott, and entering enlightenment and reaching the Pure Land of Western Paradise. Another surprise! Such salvation does not happen in Noh and Kabuki, which I’m sure you can well imagine.

Then, I visited Hidaka River, for I was curious as to how dangerous it was to cross it. The Hidaka-gawa Iiriai-zakura (The Hidaka River at Twilight Cherry Blossoms) of Bunraku Gidayu (the puppet drama) describes the scene of Kiyohime’s transformation upon having to cross the wild and rushing river. The drama depicts the argument between Kiyohime and the boatman, who rejects her request to take her across the river in his boat despite her pleas, and this prompts her transformation. Turning herself to a serpent, Kiyohime swims through the river, as long as 192 kilometers (119 miles)! But even before arriving on the bank, she had already run the distance from the Masago village, where she began her search. The road of the hunt for Anchin to Dojoji along the shore is now called Kiyohime Kaido (Kiyohime Shore), which is 960 kilometers (596 miles). After the river, it is another 15 kilometers (9 miles) to reach Dojoji Temple. The length of the New York and Tokyo Marathons are only 42 kilometers (26 miles), so she is the world marathon record holder. What a power her passion and desire propelled!

Upon arriving at the river, I was disappointed to find only a dry riverbed. Well, indeed, I thought to myself, it was a long time ago.

As for the cursed bell, ever since it was burned down, reinstallation has never been successful. Every time a new bell has been installed, it is said to have brought disaster, such as famine and natural calamities. Still, the site on which the bell stood has been enshrined. Though there was no bell, it has attracted visitors for many centuries – a good lesson in encouraging tourism.

Inspired by the comical direction of the Mibu Kyogen performance I saw at the Injoji Temple, I have incorporated comic elements in my choreographies of Dojoji, including dialogues between the monks and visits of modern tourists to the bell site. A humorous touch was often used to preach Buddhism to commoners in medieval Japan; those touches of levity also play a role in highlighting the impermanence we experience in our lives.

One of the caretakers of pilgrims and visitors to the temple was a lady in her 80s. She was incredibly kind to me on my first visit in 1999, and I did not forget her. In 2003, I surprised her by returning to the temple, showing photographs from the performance of Dojoji 2002, which she was very excited to see.

“The Bell at the beginning of the night
echoes forth impermanence of life
The bell in the middle of the night
Echoes forth all that are born must die.
The bell at the dawn resounds with destruction of all,
While the bell at dusk resounds with infinite joy
that invites those who leave the mortal pleasures
to Nirvana.”
— From Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji

In these lyrics, as well as similar lyrics in the Dojoji in Noh, the bell and its toll symbolize Buddhist teachings of impermanence, as mentioned earlier. Further, the bell has another representation as well: that of salvation. The physical construction of temple bells was costly, and a donation to the temple for this purpose was seen as an act of repentance. Pious donations could pave one’s path to Nirvana. There are centuries of lists of donations of precious combs and hair ornaments from women who wish to be saved; this record becomes all the more poignant when held up against the Dojoji legend.

There is a phrase in the lyrics of Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji that keeps running through my mind. “The clouds of the Five Hindrances are cleared now, so now I can watch the moon that shines the truth.” That means we women supposedly have five hindrances for reaching enlightenment, since we have delusions and desires, and are not pure.

In my youth, I used to think, “So men are pure, clean, and have no delusions?!” In both Miidera and Dojoji, women were able to break the taboo and enter the temple, but the problem was that there was a taboo to be broken to begin with. My naïve impression was that most temples (depending on the sect) were very discriminatory. I took this question to my teacher. Perhaps she thought I was too young to understand the meaning of the words, as she only suggested that I go up a mountain to watch the clouds clear from the sky. I did go up somewhere to watch the sky. This did help in executing one movement with a fan, for it became deeper once I had a better picture of the landscape in my mind, but I did not achieve any clarity on the Five Hindrances! It was only much later, when I found the concept expanded on in an encyclopedia, that it became clear. The ultimate teaching is, of course, that both men and women can enter Buddhahood through Buddhist Practice.

The Fantasy

Surrounded by the full-blown cherry blossoms, beneath their gently falling petals, a beautiful dancer performs and charms the temple monks. Suddenly, she transforms into a demon. In Noh, the mask used for this role is called Hannya, a demonic mask used to portray women in the throes of jealousy. There is a distinct lack of demonic jealousy masks for men. Why have there been no such demons in classical plays? Well, men wrote the plays. They wanted to be loved and chased as much as they wanted to die heroic deaths. Or perhaps, was it a playwright’s act of revenge to write about jealous women, a reflection of his own unrequited love? Was it simpler – just an awe of one sex towards the other?

The Collaborators

Robert Mitchell, who created many sets for Broadway and off-Broadway shows, was so gracious to collaborate with me again after my productions of Poetry in Motion at Lincoln Center’s Clark Studio Theater and Joyce SoHo in 1990 and 2010. It was he who created the bells for my production of Dojoji. Without the bells he created, my Dojoji would not have had the impact it did. They served successfully as a symbol for the timelessness of the themes of the story.

One bell was a replica of the Noh theater style made in damask, while the other was his own interpretive creation. His second bell was ingenious, transforming mid-performance. It began as a ring on the floor, which rose toward the ceiling at the sound of the first bell. Thus, the shape of the bell materialized, telling us that a centuries-old story has awakened and now repeats, hinting the universality of the themes. I had a novice striking the classical bell, as the act of awakening the spirit of Dojoji. My hope was that the toll of the bell would evoke the timelessness of an endlessly cycling story. The striking of the bell would also awaken the ghost of Kiyohime from her long sleep, then drive her to the bell, the symbol of her desire and anger.

I must commend Bob’s amazing professionalism and willingness to go above and beyond in his work. For example, to make a special sacred area on the stage, he suggested that we go to a carpet store and look for a carpet that could allow me to dance with a gliding walk – to me, this seemed like an impossible idea. We looked at so many materials at the carpet store and eventually found one! He was also known for his accuracy of measurement in creating exact diagrams for building stage sets, which once led him into a heated argument with the theater staff about its measurements and specs in one of the theaters where we had productions. I still recall the unforgettable, innovative, and beautiful sets he made to depict underwater and sacred shrine space scenes at the French Alliance Theater for the 25th Anniversary of my debut in the U.S. in 1997.

In 2006 I visited Bob at his home. He was bed-ridden, but he and I were able to exchange smiles. The following day, he passed away.

For many years afterward I used to think about the bell he made. One day I visited his friend Patrick in their loft. It was a brief visit; he came to the door in a wheelchair that had to be lifted up the stairs by his aide. I was grateful, even though we only had a chance to exchange a few words. His eyes were as gentle as Bob’s.

I was also fortunate enough to work with creators such as the mask maker Sarah Bears and the costume designer Reiko Kawashima. I still have the stuffed snake Reiko made. How she carried the heavy and enormous snake to the Riverside Theater, I still do not know. We worked together often, and she became my favorite designer for other dances.

For Dojoji, I got to work with young male dancers who were either hip-hop dancers or trained in classical ballet, and it was a very interesting experience for me. In addition to Dojoji, I trained them in an Okinawan dance piece, accompanied by drumming, happy tunes, and fun-filled movements, to contrast with Dojoji’s heavier story. Meanwhile, for Dojoji, I fused Okinawan movements and elements from the Minzoku Geinoh with the classical male style dance as its choreography. I was very pleased that they could incorporate these mixed styles.

I do not list Mr. Shoji Yamashiro (AKA Ohashi Tsutomu) as a collaborator, but as an artist who contributed to creating Dojoji 2002. Like fate, I came across his music, Gaia Echophony. I asked for his permission to use a part of the work, and he was so kind as to encourage me to use it. I incorporated it with live music and other newly recorded sounds.

That word – Gaia – pursued me then. It was such an intriguing word. Twenty-five years ago, we were not as aware of the words “climate change” as we are today, words which now alarm us, as we realize the threat to current and future generations on earth. I discovered the Gaia Hypothesis, an idea that took hold of me and never let go. Gaia comes from Greek mythology; she was the goddess that personified the Earth. The Gaia Hypothesis is the idea that Earth and all of its biological and ecological systems form one single entity. Whether you believe it or not, understand it or not, one must at least acknowledge how deeply we are interconnected with the world around us. Humans and other beings, both sentient and non, cannot exist without others. Chains of events affect everything on the earth, both in positive and negative ways, and climate change has now become the most pressing matter. The very interconnectedness that defines us has the power to destroy us. If the changing world is the strike on the bell, are we doomed to fade away in its echo?

Looking back at my work now, I can say that I was headed in the direction to explore these concepts, but I did not sufficiently coax them to the surface. Then, I was unable to do so within my capacity; that exploration was beyond my comprehension and vision. Now, at this age, and as I write my memoirs, I have begun to seek a way to express it, even if only in a minor way, with my next project.

Gaia, nature, and the dance…

My Mother’s Funeral

My mother was ill for 8 years.

I was her only daughter, so my brothers looked to me as the one to be by her side. At the beginning of her illness, I took care of her in New York for ten months, after which she received care at a hospital in Massachusetts. After that, though, she had to go back home to Tokyo, where she felt the most comfortable.

During the years that followed, I would fly to Japan to be with her whenever her illness became serious. I flew back and forth between Tokyo and New York more than twenty times in seven years. The last time I flew to Tokyo for her was for her funeral, and I arrived from the airport in the midst of her wake.

Next day, I placed the postcard for the Dojoji production in my mother’s coffin, beside the white silk of her kimono. “I’m very sorry, Mother. Please forgive me, though I cannot stay and accompany you to the crematory. I hope you understand. Please watch the dance from up above.” We were in tears as we surrounded her to say goodbye. I had to leave then, to catch my plane to New York. Dojoji 2001 would be performed in less than a week.

Cancelling my productions or any performance engagements because of personal or family matters has not been an option in my life. For that matter, even when I broke my foot, I performed several times.

That moment as I stood by the coffin, there was nothing in my head. It seemed that time froze as if we were in eternity.

Empty Bell
Press against our hearts
Bell of empty resounding.
Your dying note, an
Amulet across eons:
The medallion of desire
…
Beauty of Gesture
Is captured after it
Has been lost: voidness
Embraces us, puppets of
Play in a cave of shadows.
Since nothing endures, nothing is destroyed; since
Nothing is, nothing
Is not, since there is nothing
To know, knowing is nothing.

— Mackenzie Pierson 2001

The bell and the man were burnt to ashes, and we all return to the earth.

Susan McCormac 6/13/24 Susan McCormac 6/13/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 6

Photo by Heather Shroeder

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

TRANSFORMATION

Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki (Ichikawa Girls’ Kabuki)

Greetings to June!

Welcome to the season of utmost beauty, heralded by shimmering light emanating through bright green leaves.

The Japanese have a word dedicated to this: komorebi, which means “sunlight leaking through leaves.” The transformation of glorious light to beautiful shadows dancing on the forest floor reminds me that transformation has been a central theme that runs not only through my work, but my life.

My training in professional performance (stage debut was in 1956) began in the late 1960s, when I joined the Ichikawa Joyu-za (Ichikawa Actresses Troupe) as a member of the chorus. The troupe was originally called Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki (Ichikawa Girls’ Kabuki).

Kabuki is known worldwide as an all-male theatrical discipline. However, in 1948, this all-female kabuki company was founded.

Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki was a sensational success during the early Showa Era (1926–1989) because the girls were phenomenally good actresses, playing both the male and female roles of the standard Kabuki plays. The company did not tour the mainstream stages, but rather local towns and city centers in various prefectures. Their acting, singing, and music in Gidayu was so good that the audience (including myself!) would often be driven to tears during the performance. As the years passed and the members of the troupe grew older, the name was changed to Ichikawa Joyu-za. The entire company—from the actresses, musicians, and singers to the stage crews and costume hands—were all female, with the exception of the choreographer. My impression of him was that he was very strict, as befitted one in our tradition. I was honored to join and gain valuable stage experience and learn the makeup and costuming.

Since the troupe gave performances at locations off the beaten path, the facilities were not as nice as they were in the big theaters. The backstage areas and dressing rooms in these old buildings could be quite drafty, which was difficult in the winter. I remember how cold it was to paint oshiroi, the white kabuki makeup, on my face and neck with a brush dipped in icy water. Touring with actresses whose whole lives, from childhood onward, twenty-four hours a day, were dedicated to performing, was a wildly different experience from what I had grown up with in the traditional Japanese dance circle. It taught me about what professionalism as an artist is.

Did their artistry of acting, of transforming into the characters’ personification of men, mean they were attempting to capture the other gender’s quality? I wondered if it is a human desire to act as the opposite sex. Eventually I realized that it was a different philosophy: They did not want to become the opposite sex, but to accomplish the transformation of their art and become whatever the character needed to be—male, female, somewhere in between, or without gender of any sort. I believe it was the human emotions, the suffering and love, that they did best to express through characterization. The universality, when and where (centuries ago/Japan), did not matter.

They were keen to listen to the choreographer’s critiques after each show and to dedicate themselves to improving for the next one. For them, acting was not just a desire for transformation, but their life, their breath, and their blood.

AIDS Fundraiser Performance

In the early 1980s, New York was poised on the eve of a great cultural shift, although I didn’t realize it at the time.

A career in the arts generally placed one in queer or queer-adjacent spaces, although the culture seemed to me to be more discreet than it is now. There was an exclusive club on East 51st Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues called Garden Club, or GH Club for short. The front door used to reveal a crowd of men in formal attire, dressed extremely well in suits and ties. A sense of pride prevailed in the club, and one sensed it was a privilege to be there. This was one of New York’s gay clubs. Although I was not one of them, I was allowed entry since I was a friend of the owner, Giro, my former dance student. The atmosphere was protected, safe, and the guests’ manners were graceful, gentle, and never vulgar.

Giro drank vodka; according to him he liked it as it does not smell of alcohol, which might be unpleasant to his patrons. That was one of his criteria of being a true “gentleman.” His mottos were “Be dressed well so that your partner, guests, or friends won’t be embarrassed at a gathering,” and “Be punctual; keep your appointments.” He hated those who broke them. I know when his finances dwindled down and he had no decent suits to wear, he borrowed formal attire like tuxedos from friends when the occasion called for it.

One day in 1983, Giro asked me to perform for an event at his club.

“Do you know AIDS? We are doing a fundraiser for it.” This was the first time I had ever heard of AIDS. It had only appeared in America in 1981 and wasn’t even called AIDS until late 1982. Even for some time afterwards, many of those around me had never heard of it, and widespread awareness would not happen for several years. So, the fundraiser held by Giro in 1983 was one of the first of its kind.

The event took place over several days. There was an artwork auction featuring works by Warhol, Vasarely, and Mapplethorpe, opened with a champagne reception. The main event was a brunch, which is when I performed. The event was a runaway success, and the club was so crowded that I had nowhere to dance except on top of the grand piano! I do not recall how much money Giro raised, but he was very pleased with the good result.

Giro was my friend for a decade, but we only used to meet a couple of times a year. Sometimes we would meet for tea at the Plaza Hotel—he took all of the nuts on our table upon leaving as a souvenir (!) although you can imagine how embarrassing it was to me, to behave thus while being surrounded by beautiful people. Another time we went for a drink at One if by Land, Two if by Sea, one of New York’s most storied restaurants. He would tell me that his boyfriend was a member of the Italian Mafia, and I would think it was a joke, but it might have been true. On one occasion, he entrusted me with several paintings, which I kept at my apartment. Several months later, I was asked to return them. That night, returning the artwork in a torrential rainstorm, was my last visit to the GH Club. The evening affair reminded me of a Jiuta-mai dance, in which there is a gesture of the heroine looking at her sleeve. This translates for a woman looking at the teardrops gathering on her sleeve, expressing sadness. I looked down and saw that my kimono and I were indeed wet. Afterward, I discarded the drenched kimono I was wearing, recognizing it as a kind of metaphor.

Many years later I bumped into him on the street right in Chelsea, where I had just moved. He told me he was staying with a friend whose entrance of the apartment building had a lovely spiral staircase, just around the corner. He invited my mother, who was visiting me then, and me to dinner, and I accepted his invitation. But remembering his drinking, which my mother noticed at one brief meeting we had had before, she declined the invitation. I believe he must have come to my building exactly at the appointed time. I haven’t seen him since.

Whenever I pass by an apartment with a spiral entrance on 23rd Street, although I am uncertain if that was where he stayed, I imagine he might appear, well-dressed as he used to be. Is he alive, well and happy? Or has he passed away?

Just a year ago, I noticed a Pride Flag held by the window of the apartment.

I only pray wherever he is, on earth or in heaven, that he is happy and enjoying his vodka.

Chieko and Dan

I have a dance titled under various names: Chieko, Chieko-sho (Chieko Anthology), Chieko Genso (Chieko the Element). The name has been changed with each new revision and presentation. Without the first presentation with Dan Erkkila, the composer, and the singers and actresses at Japan House in 1974, I would not have repeated and revised it so many times. This makes it sound like I was unhappy with Dan’s work, but it was quite the opposite: The music is so lovely that I keep coming up with new ideas and choreography for it.

Dan was a composer and flute player, who was introduced to me by Jean Erdman, the modern dance pioneer, who was a board member and supporter of my company for many years, and Teiji Ito, a great percussionist and improv musician. Teiji was the nephew of Michio Ito, another legendary modern dancer. Their great teamwork, often including Teiji’s wife, Cheryl, was an inspiration for me to produce works in my early days. We had fun performing together as an ensemble in such places as the Theater of the Open Eye, the YMCA at 53rd Street, and New York Botanical Garden. The last time I saw him was at Bellevue Hospital, where he was getting treatment for AIDS. Unfortunately, he succumbed to it in 1992. He was far too young to leave us without more of his beautiful music, one of the many bright talents whose lives were taken by this cruel disease.

I remember the time when he and his friend Steven allowed me to stay at their apartment on Bleecker Street while I was looking for my own place. On the walk downstairs from their fifth-floor apartment, the fragrance of baking bread from the Italian bakery on the first floor would reach me, and it was so inviting! The bakery was one of the oldest establishments in New York City. I never tasted it, since by the time I came home and was ready to buy bread for supper, the day’s bread was sold out – rumor had it, by noon! The 1970s and ‘80s were the good old days in the Village. It was a home to many artists, with Italian cafes with Italian paintings and old rugged couches, rusty gold-gilded espresso machines, and the most delightful espresso.

In Chieko, Dan’s ephemeral music intoned by the female chorus made it possible for me to leap into the world of Chieko. It was a place where you could play, a world beyond humanity, a world of insanity, a world of transparency. For this dance, I chose a white costume, a symbol of death, because it seemed there should be no reality, no color, no happiness or unhappiness. We did not have any set, no backdrop, just a simple spotlight in a few sections. I loved the spare space, the vacancy. While dancing, there was someone in white in the darkness.

It was only decades later that I was able to explore more of the world of “fantasy.” That was through the collaboration with Robert Lara at my series of performances called “Salon Series.” He introduced us to the world of Mexican mythology, bringing the world of a thousand years ago to life.

Fantasy and Illusion of Transformation in Theater and Dance

I was very fortunate to have Mr. Robert Lara accept the invitation to appear in my Salon Series No. 59, titled “Fantasy and Illusion of Transformation in Japanese Dance and Ballet,” in 2017. Mr. Lara, who heads the New York Baroque Company, was a soloist for the acclaimed Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo. Very graciously he offered to give a presentation of makeup used for him to become a queen of Mexican legend, and we all watched as his makeup artist demonstrated the application of makeup on him. He also discussed the transformation of genders in ballet and performed an excerpt from his work La Catrina. (La Catrina is a symbol for the Day of the Dead, Mexico's lady of death. She reminds us to enjoy life and embrace mortality.)

The large number of attendees we had showed keen interest in the subject of transformation. Perhaps in our daily lives we have an unnoticed desire in our subconsciousness to experience transformation for ourselves, as shown in the symbolism of Mexican mythology, which went beyond mere reversal of gender roles.

We had planned to give the second collaboration in June 2020 with a different theme, but unfortunately, it had to be cancelled due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

My next exploration of transformation was with Ernest Abuba at Salon Series No. 69. Ernest was an actor, director, writer, and scholar with whom I had the honor of collaborating in several Off-Broadway productions, including Shogun Macbeth.

Transformation and Transition: Kabuki, Shakespeare, and Now

For a Japanese dancer, it is a joy to become the character of a Kabuki dance: the wisteria spirit in Wisteria Maiden, for instance, or the heron in Heron Maiden, tormented by unrequited love. I love dancing these roles.

Fuji Ondo (Wisteria Melody) from Fuji Musume (Wisteria Maiden)

However, playing the role of a man is the one I find so interesting and fascinating, as well as a challenge. I particularly love Wankyu, the character from Sono Omokage Ninin Wankyu (Wankyu, the Two Shadows), a Kabuki dance first staged in 1774. In this story, the man who cannot live without the woman he loves goes mad. The music is superb and lyrical, and at one point it seems to be too fast a tempo to dance!

Up until 2021, I had only had the opportunity to perform this role once, at my recital at Japan House, inviting Sahomi Tachibana to dance with me in the role of Wankyu’s love, Matsuyama. Nonetheless, I used to practice the dance all the time, almost as a compulsion. In the summer of 2021, I was lucky enough to have a good young dancer as an intern and train her in the role of Matsuyama. The dance was presented at Salon Series No. 69.

Wankyu (Wanya Kyubei) *in Salon Series No. 69. Photo by Heather Shroeder*

During this presentation, we looked at transformation from various angles: from one gender to another, from the ordinary to the extraordinary. We also considered the transformation of actors and dancers in characterization through different times and places: from Shakespeare to Kabuki and from the sixteenth century to the present.

It was wonderful to dance Wankyu, but discussing transformation in theater with Ernest was another great opportunity. Ernest gave us insights into the transformation from the Shakespearean age to the current Broadway shows.

Our talk gave us a chance to trace the long history of transformation: man to woman, woman to man, which seems to be more prevalent recently, and I imagine it is because of the resurgence of women’s roles and power as we go forward in societal and cultural evolution.

In 2013, Ernest and Tisa Chang, Producing Director of Pan Asian Repertory Theater, invited me to choreograph their production of Dojoji: the Man Inside the Bell. It was written by Ernest, directed by Tisa, and included my performance. Actually, they were first inspired by my production of Dojoji 2002.

The Dojoji, the Archetypal Drama of Transformation

The Dojoji legends, concerning a woman and a bell, have been prevalent since the 11th century in the literature, dances, and dramas of Japan. The theme of a woman’s unrequited love has been popular across the world for centuries. Numerous works on this theme have been created: folk performances; the classical theater of Noh, Kabuki, and Kumi-odori; ballet; Flamenco dances; contemporary dramas such as the one by Yukio Mishima; numerous film productions; and even anime.

Most intriguing is the sequel version of the story, when the spirit of the woman returns to the Dojoji temple, where the story takes place in the world of imagination, symbolism, and fantasy. The epitome of this is the Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji (Maiden at the Dojoji Temple), first presented in 1753.

It is a goal for every classical dancer to perform Kyoganoko, as it requires mastery of techniques. In my early years as a classical dancer, I was focused on expressing “transformation” as a woman in various stages from the young to the old, as well as emotional changes from happiness to jealousy to anger.

However, looking back to Dojoji 2001 and 2002, which I choreographed after nearly 30 years of performing in America, it seems I wanted to create my own works, no matter how bold the idea of challenging a heritage and tradition hundreds of years old might be. At that time, I directed my focus to the universal human condition of attachment as a force of destruction.

After two decades now, I realize that we each possess the power of transforming ourselves. Amazingly, human history has proved that we have such power within us.

In the case of Dojoji, the power of transformation turned negative. But can we use this transformative power for a positive result? Can we water positive seeds in our subconsciousness to bring them to flower in our conscious minds as kindness and compassion?

Upcoming Chapter 7 will be about my works Dojoji 2001 and Dojoji 2002, the research prior to the productions, and collaborators.

The posting of this chapter to JapanCulture-NYC.com was paid for by Sachiyo Ito and reprinted here with her permission. Susan Miyagi McCormac of JapanCultureNYC, LLC edited this chapter for grammatical purposes only and did not write or fact-check any information. For more information about Sachiyo Ito and Company, please visit dancejapan.com. ©Sachiyo Ito. All rights reserved.

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: CHAPTER 16

Salon Series: Vertical and Horizontal Threads II

Cultural Introduction beyond Dance in the Salon Series

Beyond Barriers

Dance and Prayer

The Meaning of Dance

Closure of Salon Series

Salon Series No. 65 Review

60th Salon Series Welcomes Shogo Fujima

Sachiyo Ito’s Memoir: Chapter 15

Salon Series: Vertical and Horizontal Threads

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade: The Story Behind the Salon Series

How It Began: A Gallery in SoHo

Comparison with Various Dance Cultures

Influence and Comparison of Japanese Classical Theater Forms with Contemporary Theatre and Dance Forms

Collaboration with Guest Artists

Walking

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 7

Dojoji: Dojoji 2001 and 2002

The Challenge

The Genre and the Bell

The Research

The Fantasy

The Collaborators

My Mother’s Funeral

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 6

TRANSFORMATION

Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki (Ichikawa Girls’ Kabuki)

AIDS Fundraiser Performance

Chieko and Dan

Fantasy and Illusion of Transformation in Theater and Dance

Transformation and Transition: Kabuki, Shakespeare, and Now

The Dojoji, the Archetypal Drama of Transformation

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