Artistic Reflections

Author: Ye Weiqiu
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2002-06-01
Features: Danger can bring our spirit to balance. But, this danger is unpredictable. Repeated exposure to danger, though still a danger, will eventually become an abstract danger. That danger, this danger, the present danger, the future danger—all will eventually weave into an abstract danger. However, the danger our living spirit must encounter must be a concrete danger. The body and the spirit, like men and women, still have differences. The body protects our physical being, and without the influence of abnormal spirits, it will not take the initiative to seek danger. The body protects us from germs and injuries, and once invaded, it immediately uses antibiotics, pain, and fever to alert and resist them. But the spirit sometimes takes the initiative to seek illness and danger. Because the spirit sometimes forces itself to invite danger to prove its reason for existence. Otherwise, our spirit might not be willing to believe in its own existence. It is indeed strange, but it is a fact. Rather, this is the essence of the spirit, because just as the body exists, the spirit arises from the non-existence, from the doubt of its own existence. Rather, this is a norm. However, if this norm persists for too long, the spirit will attempt to use the opposite force to prove its strength, to maintain balance with it. The spirit faces the living, concrete danger, maintaining a state of balance due to tension, reaching a state of white heat. Only then does the spirit appear before us, its reason for existence becoming clear. In the moment of danger, the spirit reaches the point of believing in itself. Oh, what a true danger! In reality, it is precisely this moment that is the true danger of a living, free spirit. And it is in this very moment that the balance maintained remains the true function of the spirit, proving its true existence. The circus performance shows the danger of the body to the audience. Performing and watching the circus is akin to the demands of the spirit. Animal groups lacking these conditions neither enjoy dangerous sports nor are happy to see the dangerous acrobatics performed by their companions. The cheerful clowns perform funny skits during the intermission, which are particularly interesting. One clown removes his top hat, revealing a red ribbon tied to his hair, while another, scolded by his parents, frantically escapes into the large orchestra. There are also lion and tiger acrobatic performances, where these beasts perform tricks jumping through hoops in a green circular enclosure. In the end, one tiger fails to jump through the hoop. An elderly trainer throws down his whip and walks boldly toward it, facing it head-on. The tiger, as if a loyal subject obeying orders, fears the brilliance of the medal on the trainer’s chest and skillfully performs a swaying, retreating action. However, the defect in the imagination of sexuality is that no matter how hard one tries, one cannot imagine the opposite side of the peak of sexuality. What can be imagined, what can shine through fantasy, is only the highest moment of sexuality. The process of reaching there and the subsequent descent belong to another stance and cannot be recalled simultaneously. If one forces these two to combine, one can only pull the former, belonging to the future and the imagination, and the latter, belonging to the past and the experience, from different times and forcibly merge them. There is no other way. Moreover, strictly speaking, the latter—i.e., the imagination of the descent and disillusionment after the event—is not something of the imagination but merely a recognition gained through the accumulation of experience. Even if not, we tend to forget unpleasant things but are quick to recall pleasant ones. Drama contains images of the world and humanity, representing Corot’s ideal realm. All modern dramas lack this realm, and yet The Old Man brilliantly embodies such a realm. If drama is a comprehensive art, then true comprehensive drama can only be completed in such a simple form. This paradox likely touches on the essence of drama. The Old Man bows politely and faces the audience, delivering a birthday speech with grace. Then, Sanban, the third old man, runs on stage, treading the earth firmly. Compared to this grand creation, the tragedy of heroes seems so small! The contrasting personalities appear so narrow! Language and logic seem so powerless! As Japanese who possess such drama, perhaps we should not aim for too grand ideals when writing modern drama. It would be better to recognize the limitations of language in describing humanity and the world early on. I believe that among modern Japanese playwrights, only one truly understands these limits and writes with this awareness—Kubota Mantaro. The most recent book that deeply moved me should be the poetry collection Cold Colors by Asano Koji. It can be said that this is a Li Sao-style collection written by a modern Japanese. According to the afterword, this collection was written by Asano during his wanderings in the wilderness of Yubari, Hokkaido, after the war. The poems in it reach the peak of a national lament of the Japanese people. From the perspective of post-war history, I feel that this thin collection is more filled with this mood than any detailed war history. In The Sea God, there is the line, “Tomorrow, you will see an endless expanse of deep blue.” It expresses the endless resentment of humanity toward nature, hiding the fact that this resentment ultimately merges into the unchanging nature of the universe. In The Deep Blue Nature, there is the line, “Save our color, this color must be deep blue.” This line becomes the dominant theme of the collection. Here, it densely narrates the healing power of the wilderness, which ultimately gives rise to Coal, Chopping Wood, and Rock and Wave, the three pieces that adorn the cover with profound meaning. The poet here can already sing: “The sad moments linger, but the beautiful times have not yet arrived.” (Chopping Wood) Yet, the beauty of this collection lies in its anger. There is both a latent anger flowing beneath and a deep healing guidance. Despite this, the fundamental poetic heart lies in anger. Although it is based on the poetic conception of the former Eastern court, it has produced such a rare poem after the modern has eroded everything, which is quite fascinating. Moreover, here, all the political aspects of anger are purified, leaving only “the dazzling colors of fire in silence.” I believe there are several things like exemplary stage aesthetics that have forever remained in my memory. One of them is the French National Theater’s production of Luigi Bosisio, directed by Raymond Rouleau. I have also seen other directors stage this play with the same script. Someone in France advised me, “Only fools go to see Hugo’s plays.” Without high expectations, I went, and I was taken aback when the curtain rose. The play completely recreates the somber colors of the Spanish court and the Eastern-style luxury and grandeur, to the extent that even the dwarf character seems to bring Velázquez’s paintings to life on stage. This stage design and the director’s elegant technique are unmatched by the same director’s hollow indulgence in plays like Carmen. Thus, I reflected that Japanese stage design, when it comes to staging translated plays, always lacks depth, height, and dimension. I always attribute this to the lack of depth and the too-short height of Japanese stages. Now, I doubt if these are the only reasons? Everywhere, one can see Italian palaces, using the principles of perspective, techniques of painted illusions, marble painted on dark doors that look real, supporting the ceiling, and the tradition of ceiling painting, as well as meticulous research into the rules of perspective—all of which greatly enhance the three-dimensionality of foreign stage design. I feel that Japanese stage designers really need to go abroad and carefully study the skills of the old craftsmen. Regarding the production of Japanese drama, whenever I hear such nonsense as “the script cannot keep up with the opening,” I cannot help but recall the scene from back then: the producer finally collapsed before the opening, but my play sold well at the small theater in New York. Before signing a contract through an agent, the author and the producer first meet. This producer generally invites you to lunch at a restaurant with connections to the theater world. If the author agrees with his production intentions, the author must indicate the intention to grant the performance rights, sign the contract, and receive an advance payment. The producer organizes a cocktail party to gather angelic people (investors, who have no say in the matters of performance) and distributes the script. On the other hand, he selects the director and, based on an agreement, considers the cast, then enters into individual negotiations. During this time, almost every night is spent discussing the script, exchanging opinions on every line of dialogue. Voice and color checks are conducted for characters other than the protagonist, advertisements are placed in commercial drama papers, and applicants are interviewed, listening to brief readings. Appropriate theaters are searched for and booked, and contracts are signed as quickly as possible. All of these are the work of the producer. This approach has both advantages and disadvantages. However, almost no one in Japan has tried to meticulously build the drama like building a small hut with bricks until the rehearsals begin. This approach, in Japan, is considered too special, so various obstacles arise. In a country like Japan, where large commercial production capital divides the market, the feasibility of this production system cannot be generalized. From the capital that is already complete, things gradually unfold and gradually flourish. There is no doubt that this fundamental development law of drama is what any country hopes for. But, it is difficult to do so in Japan—it may be related to the national character. The literary world does not favor novels written in one go, and the same reason applies to magazine fiction that is still at the top despite monthly deadlines. Large sets must be completed before the opening, no matter how hard it is, as a matter of pride for the craftsmen. Drama also first determines the opening time, and everything is operated according to this later deadline. It seems that if this is not done, the problem cannot be solved. To produce a play, one must first decide a final completion deadline and, at the very least, meet this deadline—it is an absolute command. This habit comes from the general working method of the Japanese, and it is not something that can be changed overnight. The Olympic Games, among others, seem to be able to stir the passion of the Japanese. Four years ago, a deadline was set long ago, and six months ago, as long as a semi- state is formed, it is certain that the deadline can be met. In some cases, the dedication to the goal is indeed empty. Indeed, the opening of a theater on a certain date is not a matter of national importance. Since so, it is better to ignore this matter, as long as the script is not unsuitable for the time. But the Japanese always insist on it. As the deadline approaches, the concept of “opening” even seems to like the coming of the end of the world in everyone’s mind. Thus, instead of naturally reaching it, it is reached with effort. Moreover, that tragic sense makes everyone involved in theater work completely transformed into people filled with masochistic passion. After the opening, everyone thinks that it would have been better if the deadline for the opening had not been set. But by then, it is too late. In the production process, why do we prefer to enter the final sprint to win the excitement rather than to proceed smoothly and happily? Why do we only take the arbitrary time set by a tedious person as the reason for our true passion? Why does the time point seem so important to the work? Since the Meiji Restoration, we have always walked this path, and it has not remained in the world of singing solo.