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Harrison Blum Buddhist Bodies Spring 2010 The Path Made Visible: Toward a Culture of Embodied Buddhist Ritual Art Buddhism’s blossoming in the West poses questions of tradition and adaptation. Countries such as the United States are steeped in paradigms of individuality and freedom. U.S. convert Buddhists may often find themselves exercising this spirit of autonomy in a twice-removed Buddhist inheritance. A first layer exists between the Westerners bringing or Asians taking Buddhism from East to West, and the changes resulting from this transition. A second layer may also be present in how a Western convert Buddhist selectively subscribes to a combination of Buddhist entities. Surely, some convert Buddhists have one teacher and go to one center. Perhaps it is realistic to conjecture, however, that more common is the practitioner who reads a few different Dharma magazines, has been influenced by teachers of multiple lineages, and has sat, if at all, at more than one retreat center. While access across different schools of Buddhism may enrich learning through increased availability and crosspollination of teachings and practices, it has not entailed the transference of monastic culture from East to West. We in the West may be enjoying the greatest exposure to diversity of Buddhist philosophies while engaging the least in monastic practice. Monastic life has been the backbone of the Buddhist tradition since its inception. What does it mean, then, for Buddhism to take root in Western lives without a strong monastic presence? Shy of establishing dozens of monasteries in the West and recruiting practitioners to move in, what can 1 be learned and salvaged from Buddhist monasticism as the tradition prepares to take off its Western training wheels? Realistically, how can these monastic facets be applied to real and relevant Western pursuits? One arena toward which monastic efficacy can be distilled is a culture of embodied Buddhist ritual art, a culture this paper will show to be both timely and promising. A parallel review of Korean and Chinese Buddhist monastic practices along side the Japanese contemplatively Dharmic movement forms of Nō Drama and Butō dance illumines a multitude of similarities—in their philosophies and approaches as well as their contradictions and paradoxes. Familiarizing ourselves with these examples of Buddhism’s past interweavings with artistic embodiment can help create guidelines and models for forging a culture of embodied Buddhist ritual art that is, if not uniquely, authentically Western. A central theme common to Nō, Butō, and Buddhist monasticism is bodily discipline and exertion. Robert Buswell’s Training in the Meditation Hall outlines the rigor involved in current Korean Buddhist monastic life for monks focused on meditation. Though these make up just 5% of monastics in the country, they enjoy an elite status, one not without its demands (Buswell, 167, 161). These monks sit in meditation for upwards of fourteen hours a day and abide by a comprehensive list of meditation hall rules (Buswell, 168). This list, first formalized in the 1920’s and still used today, includes such requirements as not stretching one’s legs, reading, or going to sleep before midnight (Buswell, 165-7). Beyond these standard protocols, meditators at times choose to undergo additional austerities. On the milder side are the practices of eating a raw food diet or not speaking (Buswell, 190, 195). More 2 demanding endeavors include not lying down, even to sleep, and, less commonly, ritually burning off one’s finger—completely (Buswell, 194, 196). Though not scarring, at least physically, the “week of ferocious effort” is another unforgiving undertaking. This annual event, conceived as “a kind of ritual reenactment of the fervent practice performed by the Buddha before his enlightenment,” requires monks to go without sleep for a full week (Buswell, 187). In The Practice of Chinese Buddhism 1900-1950, Holmes Welch focuses on a slightly earlier period in describing monastic life in another Asian context. Here, too, rules were of primary import. Welch highlights how the initial ordination period centered in learning and living by scores of monastic protocols. These included studying minute details of “how to eat, how to dress, how to lie when sleeping, how to make their beds, how to pack their belongings for a journey, how to stand and walk, how to enter the great shrine-hall, how to make a prostration to the buddha image, how to receive guests, how to hand over the duty…and so on” (Welch, 287). Once these daily life norms were digested, monks and nuns would immediately move on to studying the hundreds of Pratimoksa vows and, if Mahayana, an additional 58 bodhisattva vows (Welch, 290, 294). Akin to the burning off fingers, though less severe, it was standard for Chinese monks to brand their skulls with hot incense (Welch, 299). An earlier text from Chinese monastic Buddhism, Daily Life in the Assembly, illustrates the pervasive place of monastic regulations going back to the early thirteenth century. This text also focuses on meditator monks, assigning prescriptions and restrictions on activities such as how to fold one’s blanket, wash 3 one’s teeth, bathe, use the toilet, and even with which foot to enter the meditation hall (Foulk, 462-71). The intricacy of these mandates is well exemplified in the guidelines for setting out one’s bowl. Using the left hand, take the bowls, and place them on the mat. Using both thumbs, remove the bowls and set them out in order, beginning with the smallest. Do not knock them together and make a noise. Always hold back your fourth and fifth fingers; as impure fingers, and they are not to be used. (Foulk, 465) More than a situational formality in monastic life, this regime was viewed as a prerequisite to making meditative progress. “From morning to night, to avoid every particular offense, one must straightaway obey every single provision. Only after that may one presume to say that one has investigated the self, illumined the mind, understood birth, and penetrated death” (Foulk, 462). The body was intimately tied into most of these provisions, producing a prominent monastic choreography in the project of enlightenment. The artistic mediums of Nō and Butō also stress embodied discipline. Nō is a Japanese form of theater, dating back to the fifteenth century. While demanding precisely measured movements in the portrayal of a limited number of roles, also required is an impeccable clarity of presence. On Nō founder Zeami’s approach, Japanese mind-body theorist Yuasa Yasuo speaks of the training as “a discipline for shaping one’s body into a form. Art is embodied through cumulative training; one comes to learn an art through one’s body” (105). The life of a Nō actor required years, or often a lifetime, of such viscerally grounded discipline toward artistic mastery (Zeami, 106). Zeami himself “conceived of the Way of the nō…in a manner similar to that of the Way of…the Buddhist adept…[entailing] commitment, constant 4 practice, and a genuine humility on the part of the one who is sincere in seeking a true path toward enlightenment or excellence” (Zeami, xxi-xxii).1 This commitment, beyond being sandwiched between the beginning and end of rehearsal sessions, carried over into the broader life and lifestyle of the Nō actor. “The path of the nō actor must be one of monastic dedication: sex, gambling, heavy drinking are distractions to be avoided” (Zeami, xi). Ohno Kazuo, twentieth century founder of Butō dance, also advocates for pervasive, embodied training. The technique of Butō is largely grounded in a dancer’s physical response to specific imagery and motivations. While the movements of Butō are not exactly prescribed, their process of embodied intentionality is no less demanding. At one point during a workshop, Ohno asked of his participants a level of exertion reminiscent of the above-described ascetic practices. “From now on, just continue until such point that you can no longer breathe. Don’t let yourself be distracted; keep at it until you’re fit to faint. Take yourself to the very edge…You’ll never undergo a radical transformation unless you plunge wholeheartedly into yourself” (Ohno & Ohno, 293). As with a monk’s Vinaya vows following him outside of the monastery gates, or the Nō actor’s commitment outside of rehearsals, Ohno saw Butō more as a way of life than an activity or profession. Ohno’s son, Yoshito, writes of him, “he puts his heart and soul into it, no matter what the circumstance. As far as he’s concerned, the stage and life are one and the same” (Ohno & Ohno, 70). 1 Though passages from the Zeami text cited from Roman numeral pages appear in introductory chapters of the book and are written by modern authors, I use Zeami’s name for parenthetical citations to avoid confusion over which volume is being referred to. Recognition of these modern authors is given in the Reference citation. 5 While parallels can be drawn between embodied disciplines of Buddhist monasticism, Nō, and Butō, it is not in discipline that they most closely mirror each other but in the goals they make for human consciousness. Buddhism’s goals have somewhat varied across time and place, and it is beyond the scope of this paper to summarize them. Too, there is no shortage of Buddhist studies materials outlining practitioners’ motivations. Perhaps, instead of offering such a reduction, a passage quoted earlier could serve to portray something of the Buddhist monastic goals from the times and places in discussion. Taking this phrase from Daily Life in the Assembly and changing the verb tense, we arrive at the mission statement to “investigate the self, illumine the mind, understand birth, and penetrate death” (Foulk, 462). Each item on this agenda could be, and indeed is, expanded into voluminous texts of philosophical and practical discourse. Useful here, however, is not expounding on their meaning, but digesting it; groking it, if you will. In this light, we may understand these monastics as undertaking projects driven toward experiential knowledge of the building blocks of perception and existence. As such, they are evocative of Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological call to take into account the starting blocks from which we spring before constructing complex ontologies, the perennial, yet deeply personal, quest to “rediscover phenomena” and “reawaken perception” (Merleau-Ponty, 66). These rediscovered, reawakened steps are ideally those taken by Nō and Butō artists. Zeami speaks of this as “an essence that is a distillation, a crystallizing of experience, the flowering of one’s talent that leads to an understanding of a Zenlike essence of the human condition in a single gesture or a turn of the head” 6 (Zeami, xi). The flowering image is Zeami’s often used representation of artistic mastery, whereby the actor’s experience of himself and the audience’s perception of his presence is constantly refreshed and revitalized (Zeami, xxxiv). Although the word “spiritual” has become vague enough to be of questionable currency, it is nevertheless worth noting Zeami’s (translated) testimony that a performer’s ability to maintain this revitalization stems from “that internal spiritual power that lies within him” (119). Ohno names this spiritual power as originating in no less than selftranscendent cosmic union. Philosophically, he implores us, “we’ve got to realize that we belong to, and are part of this entire universe” (Ohno & Ohno, 264). Artistically, he relates, “my body won’t come alive in performance unless my way of interacting with the immediate world undergoes a significant shift” (Ohno & Ohno, 25). Illustrating the radical nature of this proposed shift is an exercise Ohno once led wherein dancers attempted to convince themselves of their ability to walk through steel doors (Ohno & Ohno, 301). With the right level of focus and belief, Ohno suggested they might just find themselves on the other side of the door. His point was not so much that steel doors should be passed through, but that assumptive and habituated patterns of the mind should be examined and deconstructed. Working toward these goals of illumined, flowering, cosmic consciousness engenders a degree of transcendence of the discipline and technique foundational to each practice community. Realization of, or merely progress toward, a desired mind-body climate lessens a practitioner’s need to attend to a tradition’s 7 choreography with as much mental effort or physical consistency. Buswell testifies to such breathing room within the highly structured meditation halls. “The hall’s atmosphere is formal enough to provide a stable environment in which a monk can develop his practice, yet its schedule is flexible enough so that a monk can make minor adjustments in his style of practice to suit his particular training needs at the moment” (Buswell, 161). Such adjustment to particular momentary needs privileges inner experiences over outer dictates. In addition to adapting the schedule, clothing requirements were also malleable. In the hot summer months, Buswell reports, pants were often rolled up and socks and shirts removed, not to mention formal robes (172-5). The position of the monastic meditation monk itself was largely relegated to neophytes, “junior monks whose meditation is not yet mature enough to practice effectively alone in a hermitage” (Buswell, 161). Once a monk’s proficiency in practice had advanced sufficiently, he could opt for the freedom of solitary practice. The communal controls of the meditation hall were thus an initiation on the way to exercising greater self-control, a control offering greater customization and variety. Welch describes how a three-tier system of monastic rules formalized such pliancy. The first and oldest layer was the Vinaya, enumerating the classic monastic prohibitions. Pai-chang’s Pure Rules, compiled in the ninth century by a Ch’an monk, constituted a second layer of rules concerning organization of the monastery and enactment of rituals. Thirdly, texts known as kuei-yüeh were unique to each monastery and described the particulars of how Pai-chang’s Rules were to be administered. These kuei-yüeh were not static documents, and “new rules were 8 issued by the abbot as required,” resulting in a “monastic system [that] was always in the process of slight but steady change” (Welch, 107). Though not explicitly stated, it is inferable that this flexibility in monastic regulations arose partly, if not primarily, from the primacy of illumining the mind over adhering to behavioral mandates. Zeami’s way of Nō, though methodologized in a familial legacy, uplifts idiosyncratic specificity. “Even though it might be said that our art consists of passing on the principles inherited from earlier generations, still there is much in a successful performance that comes from an actor’s individual creativity” (Zeami, 38). Some of this individual creativity is apparent in contrasting the first two of Zeami’s Five Skills of dancing. The first, the Skill of Self-Conscious Movement, concerns normative physical techniques for performance. The second, Movement beyond Consciousness, expands on these prerequisites. It is the creation of an atmosphere central to that method of performance in which the appearance of the actor can go beyond mere techniques and concrete forms. Such a performer resembles a bird that opens its wings and trusts itself to the movements of the winds. (Zeami, 79-80) In this mode of formless authenticity, the actor “can forget about each specific gesture and facial expression, while keeping hold on the continuous flow of consciousness” (Zeami, xl). Perhaps cave dwelling monks would relate somewhat to their self-imposed regiments as trusting their wings to the movements of the winds. The activity of Butō , though informed by visceral impulse over formulaic movements, entails more than unpracticed, whimsical improvisation. “There’s more to spontaneity, as I see it, in any case, than simply dancing any old way…You can 9 [not] step out there and improvise without some preparation on your part” (Ohno & Ohno, 215). This preparation, however, does not mean memorization and reproduction of set work. It is preparation, rather, to be incisively spontaneous. “Imposing a structure, in itself, does not give birth to dance: we have to create the dance within ourselves” (Ohno & Ohno, 131). Training is thus for the moment, not for itself. Both Zeami and Ohno speak of opening one’s wings, of creating the dance within ourselves, as a process through which practitioners transcend the role of performer. Yoshito Ohno writes, “The atmosphere Kazuo evokes onstage doesn’t in the slightest hinge on the actual physical location or conditions in which a performance takes place. Rather, it depends on the way in which he draws forth his inner world and renders it perceptible” (Ohno & Ohno, 43). As Kazuo’s inner world is apparently housed within vast proportions, and his deportment reportedly similar on and off stage, we might say that Kazuo’s performances are litmus tests of his embodied mystical experience more than isolated contrivances on the audience’s behalf. Zeami complements this idea, stating “in the case of an actor of the highest skill…he will have no consciousness that he is practicing it at any given moment” (Zeami, 98). The actor and the act merge into “a state in which the flow of movement has become so well assimilated that the actor loses even the consciousness of controlling it” (Zeami, xli). Japanese philosopher Nishida Kitarō presents a compelling theory of this shift from conscious discipline to spontaneous, authentic expression. He distinguishes between what he terms the bright and dark consciousness. The bright 10 consciousness manages “external perceptions and motor sensations” (Yuasa, 186). It is in this realm that our awareness generally lies. The dark consciousness houses the subtler, inner sensations of nerves and organs and their accompanying emotions (Yuasa, 186). Though elusive to discern, happenings in the dark consciousness effect events perceivable in the bright consciousness. Dark consciousness, then, may be understood as a “‘unifying force at the bottom of our thinking and willing’” (Yuasa, 62). The relationship between bright and dark consciousness is at play in actions and character. Actions, as observable events, are more easily identified, while character, one’s way of being in the world, is more slippery to define. Character manifests action, as dark consciousness seeds bright consciousness. This dynamic may also be reversed, however, when chosen action—discipline—goes to work on character. The bright consciousness self-consciously imposes a pattern or form on the body-mind so that eventually the dark consciousness can act spontaneously in a creative and spiritually significant manner. In a sense, the bright consciousness trains the dark consciousness so that the dark consciousness can eventually take over. (Yuasa, 81) Through this reversal, “intuition becomes active and action passive…and the bodily behavior, guided by this intuition, simply follows the path made visible” (Yuasa, 68 & 199). From meditation hermitages to performance stages, discipline is embraced toward making the path visible, an elucidation that in turn circles back to affect the extent or quality of discipline required. Returning to the main project of this paper, 11 how might this model of form and transcendence aid in developing guidelines and models for a culture of embodied Buddhist ritual art? A first step is to check our understanding of this endeavor. A true culture of embodied Buddhist ritual art will embrace each aspect of this equation as necessarily complementary. Elements of practitioner interaction, bodily expression, Dharmic wisdom, rite performance, and creative freedom are each essential in forging this modern flowering. This is not an ideology, but an inherent, transitive dynamic apparent in the full fruition of any one of these elements. How can Dharmic wisdom not be embodied, and how can this bodily attunement not transfer into relations with others? How can authentic expression not involve freedom, and how could this expression be other than ritual performance? The investment required by this process would extend beyond one’s actions into one’s character, molding dark consciousness with bright, infusing action with intuition. Full blooming, more than finite rehearsals toward distinct performances, would constitute a way of life. Toward conceiving of this art as a way of life, social anthropologist Edmund Leach offers a helpful conceptual tool in the functional-expressive ritual continuum. Acknowledging the poles of the sacred and the profane, Leach asserts that most of what we do is composed of elements of the two. “‘From this point of view technique and ritual, profane and sacred, do not denote types of action but aspects of almost any kind of action’” (Asad, 127). A world in which the sacred perpetually interweaves with the profane is one in which every action in every moment may be 12 considered ritual performance. This is the world in which Dharmic artists must walk. Also helpful is ritual theorist Catherine Bell’s preferencing the term ritualization over ritual. In a move similar to Leach’s dissolution of the boundary between the sacred and the profane, Bell steps away from the separation induced by considering rituals to be discrete events. “I do not wish to imply or designate some independently existing object, named ritual, with a set of defining features that characterize all instances of ritual” (Bell, 218-9). She thus speaks of ritualization along with, or instead of, ritual to accentuate the possibility of ritualization occurring in any moment by way of intentional action in contradistinction to a theoretical ritual existing in a vacuum. Happily, there are specific features in the current climates of Western dance, art, and performance culture tilting the continuum toward ritualization. In the dance world, sacred improvisational dance events are becoming a trend. From one direction, this stems from barefoot boogie communities, founded in the 1970s as free-form dance venues, continuing with some members incorporating greater spiritual dimensions to the jams. This author is one such individual, having produced monthly spiritually inclined dance jams since 2006 after being steeped in the dance jam culture since 1999. In the past two years under the name Moving Dharma, these events, along with workshops and performances, have been explicitly Buddhist in orientation. Northampton Massachusetts’ collectively produced Dance Spirit is another example with barefoot boogie origins. From another direction, spiritual dance jams are sprouting up in yoga studios as a fleshing out of yoga’s 13 body-based awareness into other embodied modalities. Examples include the Kripalu Center’s Yoga Dance and Beth Rigby’s Yoga Meets Dance. Thirdly, there is momentum toward spiritual dance jams from eclectic and charismatic individuals in contemporary dance and healing arts. Jams of this nature include Sacred Groove, JourneyDance, 5 Rhythms, Soul Motion, and Spiritweaves. These types of events are becoming more established and ubiquitous, giving rise to residential retreats and teacher trainings. This overt spiritualization of improvisational dance is also its ritualization, as participants co-create rites from dance floors to yoga studios. Meanwhile, art and performance venues are dissolving the boundary between artists and performers and their audiences. Museums across the country are hosting experiments or interventions, wherein the museum stays open for a night of site specific performances. These pieces are often interactive and multifaceted, molting the passive art viewer model for one that is more relational and unpredictable. Theatrically, club theater is gaining popularity. Instead of locating a dance or dramatic performance on a stage before an audience, club theater takes away the seats and immerses the performers amidst the crowd, often salvaging aisles, balconies, and bar tops as sites to execute routines. Locally, Harvard Square’s Club Oberon is a hub for club theater, and South Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art produces periodic experiment nights.2 These moves take art off the wall and dance off the stage, initiating the pedestrian into the performative and embedding the performative into the everyday. 2 I have recently had the pleasure of contributing to these types of events, having performed in “Hot Snow” at Club Oberon two weeks ago, and now rehearsing for a dance role in “Experiment America” at the ICA, which will happen—as of my writing this—tomorrow night. 14 It would be a stretch to claim these containers as the realization of a Dharmic ritual culture. What they can be seen as are environments welcoming this culture’s development. Further needed are models and role models to bridge potentiality into actuality, and herein lies the need for structure and discipline. Heeding Ohno, there’s more to forming this culture “than simply dancing any old way” (Ohno & Ohno, 215). Essential will be skilled Buddhist, movement, and dance teachers working in tandem to create formative programming. Such regimes would feature a confluence of monastic and kinesthetic training styles. Perhaps offered initially for only a weekend at a time, these programs could expand into weeks and months, and at some point even established schools of contemporary Dharmic dance. Dancing with Dharma retreats could consist of a vigorous pairing of seated meditation with contemporary dance instruction. Wings could then be opened and entrusted to the winds of spontaneous Dharma ritual. Outside the retreat context, Dharma dancers could integrate their ritualized, performative sense of embodiment into the routines and interactions of daily life. One small step toward this vision was a day-long Dharma Dancing retreat I co-taught in October, 2009, at the Insight Meditation Center of the Pioneer Valley. Interspersed with meditation instruction and practice, I led two movement and dance sessions—the first largely instructional and the second improvisational. Feedback was quite positive, and the retreat is likely to be offered again. It should be mentioned that the present suggestion to wed moving bodies with awakening minds is not meant to overshadow other Dharmic partnerships. Surely, there is value in aligning Buddhist perspectives with other activities, a value 15 attested to by the presence of numerous workshops and retreats at meditation centers doing just that. From reflective writing to archery to painting, Dharma centers are on board with the “Zenning” of creative and leisure pursuits. I would humbly suggest, though, that a tradition with such a high regard for bodily awareness should invest significantly in practices honoring and nurturing that awareness. Partly from a desire to ease the stress of sitting, but also to encourage continued embodiment, many Western Buddhist centers include optional daily yoga sessions during retreats. So, too, should they provide optional daily contemplative movement spaces, in which practitioners might be afforded the rare opportunity to sidestep assumed methods of being bodies and examine the starting blocks from which they walk, stand, sit, and lie down. Such sessions would be offerings as well as experiments, rituals as well as releases. The call to dance with Dharma is also not meant as competition for the variety of spiritual dance jams and practices already available. There are numerous skillful entryways to expressed, embodied insight. An advantage of partnering with Buddhism on the dance floor, however, is its tried and true technologies of selfrealization, tested and sustained over the past many hundreds of years. While current, New Age cocktails do have their lessons to offer and might have languages of greater appeal, it would be shortsighted to dismiss traditions such as Buddhism as outdated. Additionally, the move to add dance to Buddhist practice is not one away from these established technologies. Certainly, such fixtures as seated and walking meditation, as well as Dharma talks, must remain present on retreat centers’ 16 bulletins of daily events. Likewise, a discipline of Dharmic dance is not a replacement for Western Buddhist monasticism. Buddhist monasteries do exist in the West, such as California’s Abhayagiri Monastery and the UK’s Chithurst Monastery, and are comprised largely of Western convert Buddhists. Realistically, however, monastic life is not a large draw for Westerners not socialized within cultures of monasticism. As such, a lay life with a strong practice of ritual Buddhist dance is one viable avenue for Western practitioners to pursue disciplines and structures toward Dharmic flowering. With well-documented models such as Nō and Butō, growing enthusiasm around sacred dance, and the broadening conception of art and performance, the time is ripe for Western convert Buddhists to enfold values of monastic discipline into the forging of a new culture of embodied Buddhist ritual art. More than being a spiritual metaphor, dance can once again be a primary practice. 17 References Asad, Talal. (1993). Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Bell, Catherine. (1992). Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. Buswell, Jr., Robert. (1992). The Zen Monastic Experience: Buddhist Practice in Contemporary Korea. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Foulk, T. Griffith. (1995). Buddhism in Practice. (Lopez, Jr., Donald, ed.) Princeton: Princeton University Press. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. (2008). Phenomenology of Perception. (Smith, Colin, trans.). New York: Routledge. Ohno, Kazuo, and Ohno, Yoshito. (2004). Kazuo Ohno’s World: From Without & Within. (Barrett, John, trans. ). Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. Welch, Holmes. (1973). The Practice of Chinese Buddhism 1900-1950. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Yuasa, Yasuo. (1987). The Body: Toward an Eastern Mind-Body Theory. (Kasulis, T.P., and Shigenori, Nagatomo, trans., Kasulis, T.P., ed.). New York: State University of New York Press. Zeami, Motokiyo. (1418-29). On the Art of Nō Drama: The Major Treatises of Zeami. (Masakazu, Yamazaki, and Rimer, Thomas, trans., Chappell, Wallace, cont.). Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984. 18