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See discussions, stats, and author profiles for this publication at: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/315940683 Performing presence in the haiku moment Article in Text and Performance Quarterly · March 2017 DOI: 10.1080/10462937.2016.1227469 CITATIONS READS 0 52 1 author: Ross Louis Xavier University of Louisiana 9 PUBLICATIONS 25 CITATIONS SEE PROFILE Some of the authors of this publication are also working on these related projects: Performance, presence, haiku, Richard Wright View project All content following this page was uploaded by Ross Louis on 07 July 2020. The user has requested enhancement of the downloaded file. Text and Performance Quarterly ISSN: 1046-2937 (Print) 1479-5760 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rtpq20 Performing presence in the haiku moment Ross Louis To cite this article: Ross Louis (2017): Performing presence in the haiku moment, Text and Performance Quarterly, DOI: 10.1080/10462937.2016.1227469 To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/10462937.2016.1227469 Published online: 28 Mar 2017. Submit your article to this journal View related articles View Crossmark data Full Terms & Conditions of access and use can be found at http://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rtpq20 Download by: [Xavier University] Date: 28 March 2017, At: 07:53 TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY, 2017 http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/10462937.2016.1227469 Performing presence in the haiku moment Ross Louis Department of Communication Studies, Xavier University of Louisiana, New Orleans, LA, USA ABSTRACT ARTICLE HISTORY This essay examines presence as a performed spatio-temporal relationship. It acknowledges Rose and Coonfield’s recent analysis of presence as an “experience of thisness” before employing haiku as an aesthetic and theoretical lens for navigating the performance of presence. The “haiku moment” signals an effort to reconcile aesthetic representation with direct experience through evocative movement across time and space, a movement that emerges in relation to text, context, and audience. Richard Wright’s posthumously published haiku project, “This Other World,” offers a particularly useful case study that demonstrates presence as intertextual, imaginative, and metonymic. Received 10 April 2016 Accepted 17 August 2016 KEYWORDS Performance; presence; haiku; Richard Wright; haiku moment As the sun dies down, Last night’s dew is still sparkling Upon the lilacs. (Wright 87)1 It is possible that Richard Wright had an immediate and direct encounter with all of the natural objects found in this haiku. It is possible, for example, that just after an experience with a setting sun, moisture, and lilacs, sometime between 1959 and 1960 when he wrote the poem in France, Wright contemplated all these in the (just) past tense. But it is also possible that he encountered these things much earlier, perhaps in Mississippi as a child, and they stowed away for years until finally reappearing in a haiku form. Setting aside, for the moment anyway, the possibility that Wright was referring to these things as metaphors for other human endeavours, we may see this haiku as elasticizing time, pulling “last night’s dew” from any number of pasts into a single present that can speak backward and forward in time and space. Perhaps one day Wright simultaneously discovered a fading sun and dewdrops upon a lilac at his farmhouse in Ailly, France. Perhaps this was a sudden discovery which then enabled a literary act that, although certainly revised before its final publication, might later invoke in a certain reader the dual effects of being transported into the time and place of this particular haiku image and puzzled by the improbability of time’s elasticity: certainly last night’s dew has long since evaporated. Holding too much rain, The tulip stoops and spills it, Then straightens again. (Wright 56) CONTACT Ross Louis [email protected] © 2017 National Communication Association 2 R. LOUIS Even as he rapidly acquired the style and philosophy of haiku by reading R.H. Blyth’s translated volumes of Japanese masters, Wright never intended an exact mirror of the form. The original title for his manuscript, “This Other World: Projections in the Haiku Manner,” suggests as much. So does his use of the tulip as an anamorphic metaphor in this haiku. Of course, Wright might have experienced the tulip in France, planted on the border of his vegetable garden. But it exists somewhere else too, as something else and for something else. It contains the possibility of meaning beyond the capture of a single experience with nature. Perhaps Wright’s subtle adaptation of the Western haiku form can be read as a testament to presence, to its immanence, to the likelihood that it too spills over a single haiku moment. A freezing morning: I left a bit of my skin On the broomstick handle. (Wright 72) The skin left behind here is a trace. It reenacts and activates. The present arrives in this haiku, already contested, “imbricated with phenomena of memory and anticipation,” accompanied by the past and the future (Giannachi, Kaye and Shanks 7). And yet, even while the action occurs in the past tense, a reader of this haiku witnesses a present moment, “a freezing morning,” and is invited to construct a relationship with its participants: the subject, the objects, and the context. Thus, a provisional beginning: presence requires memory and hope. As a relationship between past, present, and future, it suggests both markers of and the corporeal experiencing of time and space. It comes into being as a performance through the “decontextualization and recontextualization of discourse” (Bauman 9). The performance of presence is not quite present, nor not quite absent, in the bodies of performers and audiences (Giannachi, Kaye, and Shanks). It is a performance in which time and bodies and the texts they generate can emerge, disappear, and reappear. One goal of this essay is to elaborate our disciplinary understanding of presence as a performance, beginning from Rose and Coonfield’s recent argument that presence is a relational “experience of thisness” (199). To explore the precise ways that presence performs, I turn to haiku as both an aesthetic and theoretical framework. Western readings of haiku, in particular, contain a desire to transmit the present as a material encounter with nature, and thus negotiate the tension between direct experience and language as a system of representation. In this sense, haiku’s handling of presence extends our performance studies tradition of considering bodies in relation to text, context, and audience. As I demonstrate later, a careful re-reading of Joan Giroux’s concept of the haiku moment is also useful for understanding the performance of presence. Introduced in 1974 in Giroux’s book The Haiku Form, the haiku moment has since been regularly employed by Western scholars to describe the precise when, where, and what found in a haiku, thus functioning as a poetic attempt to capture presence. In using Richard Wright’s haiku to articulate the performance of presence, I understand the haiku moment as both evocative and relational, a moment of potential in which the impulse to capture or freeze presence finally yields to movement, across time and space.2 Presence is constructed through a web of spatio-temporal relations: metonymic, intertextual, and imaginative. Wright’s haiku, composed long after the publication of Native Son and the autobiographical Black Boy and just before Wright’s death in 1960, serves as a useful exemplar for how TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY 3 presence performs, particularly because the poems operate relationally between Western interpretations of haiku and the effects of presence. The performance of presence Our discipline has long recognized that the emergent “be-here-now of performance” occurs at the intersection of sensation and representation (Coonfield and Rose 204). When analysing a performance event, for example, we often interrogate the relationship between the perceptions of a subject’s physical presence and the subject’s representations, a “temporality and common space shared by the spectator and the presence being evoked (a character, an avatar, or an object)” (Feral 31). Like other performances, presence is constructed, culturally and historically. When we attempt to concretize it, we risk fixing an “experience of thisness” which is essentially always in movement.3 Yet, our continued disciplinary attention to presence suggests that the “things that we cannot touch but which nonetheless touch us” are, in fact, important (Kleinberg “Prologue” 1). Presence becomes valuable precisely because it unfolds relationally, between and across time, bodies, and discourse. The performance of presence is a “persistence of being,” a relationship between self and other that traverses time and place, a relationship that invokes the material and virtual bodies of its participants (Giannachi, Kaye and Shanks 11). Recent work in the philosophy of history approaches presence as the immediate and the corporeal, representing an attempt to recover a material relationship with the past through those “actual things that we can feel and touch” in the present (Kleinberg “Presence” 11). In this rendering of the past, history is not viewed as a relentless analytical project of reconstructing the absent, but rather a “return to the real” that might actually assist in the production of meaning (Kleinberg “Presence” 12). Hans Gumbrecht understands contemporary Western thought as dominated by meaning culture wherein a “bodyless observer … from a position of eccentricity vis-à-vis the world of things will attribute meanings to these things” (“Presence” 319). Meaning culture activates a desire to separate from and then transform the things of the world through interpretation, analysis, and theory. Presence culture, by contrast, emphasizes the connection between the human and the things of the world.4 For Gumbrecht, the production of presence resurrects the body of the observer by acknowledging “any form of communication, through its material elements, will ‘touch’ the bodies of the persons who are communicating in specific and varying ways” (Production 17). Gumbrecht’s argument is simply that bodies matter and meaning alone cannot contain the entire experience of an encounter. This position also recalls the work of performance scholars who have long since considered the relationship between presence and performance. In their article “What Is Called Presence,” Coonfield and Rose provide a critical review of how the discipline has engaged the concept of presence, acknowledging in such work both the desire to re-claim an originary liveness in performance and the influence of mediatization.5 Peggy Phelan and Philip Auslander, of course, have already defended these two positions. Phelan links performance to “a maniacally charged [and embodied] present” as a defence of the live (148). For Phelan, the present moment of performance erases the performer, whose live body is “metonymic of self, of character, of voice, of ‘presence’” itself (150). The result is ephemeral: a disappearing into a new thing – “dance, movement, sound, character, ‘art’” (150). Auslander has repeatedly argued that the live cannot exist outside of its 4 R. LOUIS relation to the mediatized (“Liveness;” From Acting; “Performativity”). Considering presence in relation to performance art, especially the work of Maria Abramović, Amelia Jones joins Auslander in claiming that the authentic, original act does not exist. She argues that re-enactments are “simultaneously representational and live,” suggesting the past is always mingling with the present: all experiences in the present tense are filtered through subjective perceptions rooted in past experience (20). Fenske turns to Bakhtin’s concept of “answerability” as an ethical intervention allowing for the interaction of liveness and mediatization: neither the corporeal nor the virtual prevail, rather they are joined (9). For Coonfield and Rose, the link between presence and performance can be observed by re-thinking Benjamin’s concept of the “aura” as an “experience of thisness:” performance always contains, or perhaps enables, a desire for presence, understood as “an experience of acts occurring” (199). For Benjamin, of course, aura is linked to presence and cannot be replicated. Coonfield and Rose’s auratic “experience of thisness” occurs in relation to an emergent “energy generated among performer, text, and audience” that happens in “the be-here-now of performance” (204). The authors derive this view from Wallace Bacon, whose theory and practice of oral interpretation of literature they read as linking an experience to presence: “presence produced by and through the relation of performertext-audience-place and established by expressive embodied acts” (195). While Auslander also understands Benjamin’s “aura” as an “authentic original,” he argues “all performance modes, live or mediatized, are now equal – none is perceived as auratic or authentic” (“An Orchid” 165). If we instead consider presence as an evocative “reaching” or a relational potential (“between performer and text, between performer and audience”), as Coonfield and Rose do when describing the way that presence produces a “movement of becoming,” we might evade the polarities of original and reproduction, live and mediatized (205). Chvasta reminds us, for example, that the “the essence of performance” is found in the virtual, drawing on Pierre Lévy’s ontological concept of vectors (“the real, the possible, the actual, and the virtual”) to argue for a renewed focus on how performance effectively moves “in between” spaces and times (165). Like Lévy’s vectors, performance reveals presence as a “constant becoming-other” (Chvasta 166). As such, we might consider presence as Chvasta does the virtual: “constituted by potentiality and heterogenesis” (167). In a similar fashion, Jean-Luc Nancy characterizes presence as a recurring birth, an endless arriving: [A] to-be-here, or to-be-there, as a come-to-here, or there, of somebody. Some body: an existence, a being in the world, being given to the world. No more, no less, than everybody, everyday, everywhere. No more, no less than the finitude of this existence, which means: the matter of fact that it does not have its sense in any Idea (in any achievement of “sense”), but does have it in being exposed to this presence that comes, and only comes. As when we are born – an event that lasts all our lives. (Birth ix, emphasis in original) This birthing is enacted relationally as a “co-presence,” as a “being before or being in the presence of another,” as a collaborative reconciliation of space, time, and the discourses we encounter together (Giannachi, Kaye and Shanks 1–2, emphasis in original). The production of presence is thus plural: we must account for and struggle with “multiple modalities through which various presences are produced, experienced, maintained, and contested” (Terry and Vartabedian 357). TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY 5 The haiku moment As it is commonly understood in the West as an adaptation of a Japanese literary form, haiku consists of three syllabic verses (5,7,5) that juxtapose two images, often with a reference to nature. Haiku derives from the ancient collaborative verse forms of waka and renga, both of which featured syllabic stanzas.6 Western interpretations of haiku’s origins have often emphasized the poetic capture of a direct, observed experience with nature in the tradition of Zen Buddhism. R.H. Blyth exemplified this view in his 1949 publication of Haiku, a four-volume work of translations and analyses of Japanese masters, which re-introduced the West to haiku and relied heavily on Zen Buddhist thought (Hakutani and Tener).7 It is important to note Shirane’s conclusion that the Western view of haiku is a contemporary, transcultural construction. Shirane argues that its insistence on direct observation, nature-orientation, and avoidance of metaphor actually reflects the influence of European realism in the nineteenth century, which in turn influenced modern Japanese haiku, and was finally carried back to the West as authentically Japanese, no doubt in large part to the influence of Blyth’s work. In this essay, the relevance of the Western haiku perspective concerns both its influence on Wright’s own haiku project and its desire for presence, often translated as a distilled poetic image of a person’s singular, concrete experience in and with the world. The Western haiku is an attempt to document and extend a spatio-temporal materiality, a moment of presence, communicating it both to oneself as author and to others as readers. From this perspective, haiku operates from an ontological position of presence, which serves as both its function and its standard. This is a Western desire for capture, a still moment in the otherwise frenetic cycle of time and bodies and places, and thus offers a lens through which to view the relationship between presence and performance. Haiku actually performs presence through the haiku moment, which should be understood not as the collapse of self and world in a Zen-like ecstasy, as Blyth suggests, but as a relational opening that activates a reader, a writer, and a text. It is a moment in name only, as it moves forward and backward, evoking and relating, suggesting that experiences with “thisness” are above all experiences with potential. In the first volume of his Haiku series, Blyth faithfully situates haiku within a Zen tradition that seeks to recover a unity with nature, fusing the self and the natural world in moments of presence. He writes, “A haiku is not a poem, it is not literature; it is a hand beckoning, a door half-opened, a mirror wiped clean. It is a way of returning to nature, to our moon nature, our cherry blossom nature, our falling leaf nature, in short to our Buddha nature” (243). In doing so, Blyth unwittingly points towards the paradox of presence: that it resists its own capture. He explains haiku as the revelation of a “perfectly subjective” thing, undivided from the person who encounters it, “devoid of all our mental twisting and emotional discoloration” (242). Yet, even while operating within a Zen framework, Blyth cannot reconcile the ways in which haiku language itself intervenes between the person and the thing encountered. Once encountered, the thing loses its status as “perfectly subjective,” no matter how haiku strives “not to obscure further the truth and suchness of a thing” (Blyth 242). As Marshall and Simpson observe, at its best, haiku can only be aware of its “fiction of wordlessness” in making the thing “fully present” (130). 6 R. LOUIS Nonetheless, even while he locates haiku within the sense-making process that follows a human encounter with the natural world, Blyth also recognizes that “what we return to is never the same as what we once left, for we have ourselves changed in the meantime” (4). For Blyth, haiku is both a way of encountering the world and recording it so that an ordinary moment in life might magically register as truth within and outside us, without the intrusion of poetry. This vision requires a metaphysical acceptance of presence as “that state of mind in which we are not separated from other things, are indeed identical with them, and yet retain our own individuality and personal peculiarities” (Blyth 5). It is precisely this vision that many Western practitioners of haiku have pursued: that indelible instant in which all boundaries between self and the world collapse. Behind this pursuit, of course, is the belief that such “absorption of self in the present moment and in the world outside the self” is both possible and recordable in the haiku form (Marshall and Simpson 119). However, if the haiku moment is re-framed as a negotiation between “presence effects” and “meaning effects” that evokes the possible, it helps explain the particular ways in which presence performs, especially in relation to systems of representation and time. In Empire of Signs, Barthes situates haiku within the competing desire for fixing and opening meaning. While he observes that the “West moistens everything with meaning,” the allure of the haiku is that it manages to mean nothing in particular (69). All that is not present in the haiku – the careful description of the thing, the metaphor even – activates a “double condition” of meaning so that the haiku, operating through a technique of “absence,” appears to open meaning to the reader (69). Like Blyth, Barthes suggests that haiku seeks to evade the reach of meaning when it realizes a “vision without commentary,” most often through the omission of description and definition (82). But, Barthes also recognizes that haiku’s absence does not erase meaning so much as rendering it answerable by producing “a space of encounter with life/living” (Fenske 10). The haiku moment, then, might be understood as an evocative “experience of thisness,” for Barthes both unclassifiable and unnamable: “It’s that, it’s thus, says the haiku, it’s so. Or better still, so! it says, with a touch so instantaneous and so brief … that even the copula would seem excessive” (83, emphasis in original). Using mediations of language, haiku thus works to make things present in the sense of making things tangible and near. Gumbrecht suggests numerous ways that language achieves this, but the principle technique that appears in haiku is the way in which words merely “point” to things rather than totalizing them in representation (“Presence” 322). The effect of this pointing, as Barthes also acknowledges, is to make present an object from the past, even if only for certain readers at certain moments. The haiku loosens the spatio-temporal boundaries of the present, even while seemingly fixing a single moment through poetic representation. The haiku’s performance of presence, then, is found in “the remains,” in the evocative traces of the past etched into the present for each subsequent reader, traces that also enable an imaginative movement forward (Giannachi, Kaye and Shanks 1). For Shirane, haiku dwells in two axes: the horizontal present, which is the contemporary world of now and the vertical past, which is cultural memory. As the haiku moment illustrates, a third axis, the potential future, is already present in the formation of haiku. Presence is activated at those moments when the axes cross, when the now captured by the haiku poet encounters the possibilities brought by each reader, when the convergence of text, audience, TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY 7 and context enable a movement across time and space. As Jones reminds us, this is not an impossible presence of “unmediated co-extensivity in time and place of what I perceive and myself” (18). The haiku itself mediates the haiku moment. Again, Rose and Coonfield’s notion of “be-here-now” helps explain how in the case of haiku, or even in the desire for the haiku moment, “liveness is not necessarily a predicate for experience of thisness” (202). The mediated fixing that occurs in the haiku helps achieve the axis crossing between the past, present, and future that Shirane describes, so that presence emerges as an evocative action. Or as the action of a thing captured in the haiku and placed before all its “origins, relations, process, finalities and becomings” (Nancy “Technique”). Haiku can thus be viewed as an emergent genre that fuses direct experience with representation in such a way that presence (as the haiku moment) performs again and again for future readers. Projecting presence in “This Other World” In the English-language Western haiku tradition, an encounter with nature is translated through a seasonal reference, the use of the present tense, an internal comparison of two images divided by a pause, and a concise syllabic form (Gurga). But as we will now see with Wright’s haiku project, presence can – and does – perform well beyond a single encounter with nature. Reading his poems as written “in the haiku manner” elaborates our understanding of how presence is performed and adheres to his original manuscript title, “This Other World: Projections in the Haiku Manner.” In this case study, I do not read Wright’s work strictly through Blyth’s haiku rubric (that is, the haiku moment as a pure transcendent experience of unity between self and nature), and I often consider the haiku in isolation, a decision made with the full understanding that Wright intended for them to be read in conversation with each other.8 My objective is to consider the ways in which Wright’s poems mediate an encounter with a past/present/future materiality through language in a manner that illuminates three links between presence and performance. These include metonymy as a tool for manipulating time and drawing the past into the present; intertexuality as the relational means by which the “be-here-now” of the haiku moment restores the past; and imagination as a future-oriented path to reconcile the tension between liveness and mediation that characterize our contemporary conversations about presence. After a brief review of the existing scholarship on Wright’s haiku, I examine each of these modes. Years after moving to France, Wright was introduced to haiku in August 1959 during a conversation with beat poet Sinclair Beiles in Paris. Beiles, who worked alongside William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, loaned him all four volumes of Blyth’s Haiku. Wright read them alongside multiple volumes of D.T. Suzuki’s essays on Zen Buddhism, Christmas Humphrey’s Zen Buddhism, and Blyth’s work Zen in English Literature. Between September 1959 and March 1960, he produced 4000 haiku of his own (Kiuchi). He then edited and reduced the haiku to 817, creating three drafts that organized the poems by theme and season. In June 1960, Wright submitted a final manuscript to his editor for feedback, and after receiving a rejection, did not pursue the project further before his death in November 1960 (Kiuchi). The manuscript was finally edited by Hakutani and Tener and published in 1998 as Haiku: The Last Poems of an American Icon. Since its publication, a number of scholars have analysed Wright’s haiku in the context of his entire oeuvre, often viewing them as either a final Zen-like transcendence of racial 8 R. LOUIS discord or as a literary tactic by which to critique race and class inequality. The first perspective racially codifies Wright, suggesting that he reconciled his “violent, African American consciousness” through the construction of haiku (Kodama 127). Hakutani and Tener read the poems as racial discourse that turns to a Zen tradition in which the human subject strives for balance with nature. This interpretation essentially transfers Blyth’s framework to Wright. For example, Hakutani has argued that the haiku enabled Wright to pursue his original longing for “mu,” the Zen concept of nothingness in which a person achieves harmony, interpreting the title, “This Other World,” as clear evidence for Wright’s desire to see “nature and humanity … united” (101). The second perspective reads the haiku as an ongoing ideological critique of the race and class hegemony that Wright combatted throughout his life. Iadonisi, for example, argues that Wright disrupts Zen’s promise of unity with nature by introducing an African American “dialogic consciousness that plays with the transcendence generally associated with Japanese haiku” (195). Morgan and Brink both suggest that Wright reimagined the haiku genre for the continuation of his earlier anti-colonial critique. While these studies have not addressed presence directly, by considering his aims, strategies, and results, they offer useful directions for a closer analysis of how presence performs, and to what effect, in Wright’s haiku projections. The first way in which the haiku perform presence – as metonymy – is particularly instructive for understanding how time mediates between the two. Wright’s commitment to dialogue within his haiku manuscript opens possibilities for presence inasmuch as it reminds us that time does not fix or close meaning. Instead, through their encounters with the past, Wright’s haiku retain a trace of temporality, the “one-time” moment of their construction. As readers, we are quite aware that a given haiku was created in the past and references a past beyond that. But we are asked to accept the haiku moment as a possibility that the past has stowed away and is now available to us as a sort of re-enactment, evoking within us an experience of presence or “thisness.” As Runia observes, the past continues on into the present as a metonymic relationship where the occurrence of an absence becomes a “transfer of presence” (“Presence” 29). Or as he has written elsewhere, “Presence is not the result of metaphorically stuffing up absences with everything you can lay your hands on. It can best be kindled by metonymically presenting absences” (“Spots” 309). In such cases, representation, as in the presentation again of something “that is absent right now,” manages to do what Richard Schechner referred to as restored behaviour, while also carrying the past into the present (Ankersmit 328). Wright’s haiku, then, can be read as metonyms of presence that enable an interaction between “meaning effects” and “presence effects.” Once again, the reader of Wright’s haiku, as the witness of the aesthetic encounter, is activated as a participant in bridging the spatio-temporal gap between now and then, here and there. Runia acknowledges that we have an “inordinate ability to spring surprises” on ourselves, often by suddenly connecting with that which we know is absent but that which nonetheless persists as presence for us (“Presence” 6). Wright often activates our capacity for participating in his haiku presence by using suspense as a metonymic trigger. In several haiku, he introduces a physical context in the opening two verses whose actors are unknown until the final verse. In the summer dawn, Before it has time to dress, How sad the willow. (Wright 166) TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY 9 In the summer sun, Near an empty whiskey bottle, A sleeping serpent. (Wright 185) Just before dawn, When the streets are deserted, A light spring rain. (Wright 11) In these cases, we know that meaning will be completed eventually in the final verse. The haiku, after all, have already been written, and in the event that they reference lived encounters that Wright has previously experienced or imagined, it is the past that resurfaces. However, presence persists in these haiku, in part through Wright’s use of the present tense, which metonymically enables a reader to restore any number of pasts (Wright’s, the speaker’s, the reader’s) as the now. The discoveries of the actors in the final verses – a sad willow, a sleeping serpent, a light spring rain – offer discrete meanings for the haiku, but only those that are already in conversation with the ones activated by the reader. The second link between performance and presence utilizes intertextuality, a characteristic common to the haiku genre. As noted earlier, the achievement of the haiku moment depends upon the crossing of axes: a horizontal present, represented by an encounter with the material, a vertical past, represented by a reference to a history that is accessible to both the poet and reader, and a potential future, represented by imaginative possibility. In this way, the presence effects generated by the haiku might be understood less as the inevitable result of a serene encounter with nature, captured through the force of the haiku form, and more as the unfinalizable possibility that arises in moments of intertextual exchange. That is, the very conditions that Shirane observed in classic Japanese haikai, a spontaneous social act performed as both a “dialogic exchange with other individuals” and a literary text that can “transcend time and place,” also enable presence in contemporary haiku, especially in Wright’s case. For Wright’s haiku, presence relies on the intertextual “workings of the human imagination, memory, literature and history” (Shirane). This act is performed by the poet and a reader in conversation with the physical world they encounter, the former in direct contact with a selected object found in the world and the latter in response to the sparse description of that object offered in the haiku. In the following haiku, Wright enlists a personal discovery as an intertextual opening for the reader to extend the scene. The indentation Made by her head on the pillow: A heavy snowfall. (Wright 86) Wright activates movement across time, past and present, through his description of an impression left behind on a pillow. The “indentation” may have been observed in the same moment the speaker describes it (“The indentation that is made by her head … ”), but it may have been just as easily the speaker’s memory (“The indentation that was made by her head … ”). The haiku thus loads the present with the past, as we must finally acknowledge that Wright composed it after a personal or imagined experience prior to the moment of composition. “A heavy snowfall” further activates Wright’s vertical axis, relying on the likelihood that this reference to winter signifies for the reader well beyond the speaker’s discovery or memory of the trace of a woman’s head upon a bed. The reader is thus invited to 10 R. LOUIS participate intertextually, considering the metaphoric and literal possibilities that exist between the described scene and the effect of a “heavy snowfall” in conversation with the reader’s always present personal and cultural experiences that contribute to the meaning making process. It is in this way that Wright frames presence as a dialogic opportunity for answerability, where the “event of living” referenced in the haiku makes possible and is answerable to a response by the reader (Fenske 10). Of course, this interpretation is always limited or enabled by the participants of the encounter. It requires a reader who willingly acknowledges that one’s cultural memory (the vertical axis) can converse both with the images and material encounters that Wright indexes in the haiku. Wright more specifically encourages intertextual meaning across his literary works. For example, several linked lines in Black Boy, written 15 years prior to his discovery of haiku, suggest that Wright’s eventual poems were set in dialogue with his own sustained and emergent system of observing nature in relation to humans.9 Wright included a series of early passages in this book whose poetic style deviated from his autobiographical account of childhood events, seemingly foreshadowing his eventual haiku project. These devices act as “rhetorical centers,” signifying the “inner authority” of the text in which they occur, while also suggesting the ways that Wright’s eventual haiku converse with the themes of his earlier works (Ogburn 64–65). Each event spoke with a cryptic tongue. And the moments of living revealed their coded meanings. There was the wonder I felt when I first saw a brace of mountain-like, spotted, black-and-white-horses clopping down a dusty road through clouds of powdered clay. There was the delight I caught in seeing long straight rows of red and green vegetables stretching away in the sun to the bright horizon. There was the faint, cool kiss of sensuality when dew came onto my cheeks and shins as I ran down the wet green garden paths in early morning. There was the vague sense of the infinite as I looked down upon the yellow, dreaming waters of the Mississippi River from the verdant bluffs of Natchez. (Wright 8) Fabre demonstrates how the ending of one sentence from these passages in Black Boy can be presented essentially as a haiku without altering the word order. “There were the echoes of nostalgia I heard in the crying strings of wild geese winging south against a bleak autumn sky.” Crying strings of wild geese Winging south against A bleak autumn sky. (qtd. in Fabre 20) Wright, in fact, eventually returned to this very image in his haiku manuscript: Don’t they make you sad Those wild geese winging southward, O lonely scarecrow? (Wright 146) These time- and genre-crossing citations enable and, at times, require the reader to move in and out of the present moment of the haiku to make meaning. While the haiku might be read in isolation as a sparse description of nature, they also open to TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY 11 the vertical axis of memory. The reader thus may be expected to consider Wright’s earlier work in reading any of these haiku, asking: A memory of when? A memory of what? A memory of whom? The effect of this movement is to activate the reader as a participant in the construction of presence or as a collaborator in Wright’s “other world.” Third, Wright relies on future-oriented imaginative encounters with the natural world, a technique that is instructive for discussions about how and if presence is mediated. As noted earlier, Wright always recognized that his poems were haiku “projections” and thus could mobilize and transform the haiku form that he acquired through careful readings of Blyth and the Zen Buddhist tradition. In doing so, he ironically employed a trait found in traditional Japanese haiku: the invention or alteration of a lived encounter with the world, natural or otherwise. Shirane explains that Western English language interpretations of haiku have missed the crucial point that both linked verse renga and the opening hokku verse of a haikai sequence were “fundamentally imaginary.” Even Basho, one of Japan’s most influential haiku poets, recognized that describing the world as it actually is does not mean denying the fictive quality of language. Indeed, Basho rewrote much of his haiku to alter the historical details of the situation in an effort to “move from one world to another” (Shirane). Wright’s project thus recovers an ancient impulse of haiku: to use a precise poetic form in order to explore the utility of invoking other potential worlds that interact with the present moment. Presence becomes an experiential tool, not a transcendent finality. Or as Fenske explains, “Art and life are connected, one is not meant to transcend the other” (9). Imagined projections function to implicate and activate readers in the other world. The live encounter with the natural world, which is always contained within the system of haiku representation anyway, attaches to an intentional imaginary version of that encounter, enabling future possibilities. Wright’s tendency to re-work an image or an opening and closing verse demonstrates how a dialogue might be sustained between representation and direct experience. His final manuscript, rejected by his editor because it contained so many haiku as to induce “a quiet monotony,” repeats the same verse 10 times on one occasion and 9 times on another (Kiuchi 22). His original notebooks total 4000 haiku and contain numerous versions that open or close with the same verse.10 While we certainly see Blyth’s influence on Wright’s work, especially in communicating one’s immediacy with the natural world, his meticulous revising and recycling of a single image suggests that a live encounter with nature or other humans does not supersede the mediation of poetic language. Composed in a haiku system of representation, neither does Wright’s language supplant the natural encounter. Instead, meaning is opened relationally, often through the technique of repetition, to remind the reader that the world is encountered as potentiality, not as fixed. In a series of nine haiku spread throughout the manuscript, for example, Wright uses the same opening verse, “Just enough of … ,” changing the ending of the line to either “light,” “snow,” “wind,” or “rain.” He then completes each of these haiku by describing a different effect for each natural phenomenon. Just enough of light In this lofty autumn sky To turn the lake black. (Wright 8) 12 R. LOUIS Just enough of snow For a boy’s finger to write His name on the porch. (Wright 9) Just enough of wind To agitate soundlessly The maple tree leaves. (Wright 23) Just enough of rain To set black ants a-swimming Over yellow sand. (Wright 25) Read in conversation with each other, these haiku invite other possibilities imagined by the reader for each encounter with nature: just enough of light to turn the lake clear; just enough of snow to hide a boy’s footsteps; just enough of wind to blow away the maple tree leaves; or just enough of rain to camouflage black ants over yellow sand. In this sense, Wright’s haiku proposes an eminent aesthetic, which “allows the audience to see that it is constructed” and then enabling “those signs of construction as primary sites of meaning-making” (Terry and Vartebedian 347). The result is an ethical reminder that encounters with aesthetic acts might open us to the effects of presence by obliging us to participate in the act of creating (Fenske). Mobilizing presence Keep straight down this block, Then turn right where you will find A peach tree blooming. (Wright 1) On the first page of Wright’s manuscript, there is a pause just before the discovery of “a peach tree blooming,” a stillness really: stillness as the loaded, overflowing moment that births a future action. Wright, no doubt, is offering directions for participating imaginatively in his haiku moment, insisting “the past is present in the present,” then mobilizing presence across past, present, and future (Runia “Presence” 28). We are invited – or even commanded – to co-create meaning alongside the haiku as written, and having thus entered this performance of presence, we still may be surprised to discover Wright’s “peach tree blooming.” The life of the text reaches us in the present, activated metonymically, and, “in that elusive moment, a new presence emerges,” a presence which might enable different discoveries for the end of this haiku (Coonfield and Rose 197). Coonfield and Rose’s essay has already situated our discipline in a tradition of relational potential, where the live and mediated body encounters text, context, and audience in persistent movement, a movement that can be called presence. I have suggested that making sense of presence allows us to make sense of how we orient ourselves, in performative relation, to the past, present, and future. Understanding this might allow us to see our bodies in the “here and now” as simultaneously situated in the past and future, always emerging in a performance of presence. Haiku offers a lens for recognizing this performance because it negotiates time, text, and performers (the author and the audience) in an emergent dialogue, moving simultaneously towards the construction of meaning and the material experience of an encounter in the world. Haiku achieves this through the haiku TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY 13 moment as a relational opening or an evocative “experience of thisness.” Wright’s haiku project, in particular, elaborates this dialogue’s present-oriented, metonymic manipulation of time, its past-oriented intertextuality, and its future-oriented embrace of the imaginary. In closing, I briefly call attention to a new mobility for presence, that of ideological critique, which can be observed in a number of Wright’s haiku and which fits our disciplinary capacity for praxis. As noted throughout this essay, presence demands participation. As Wright’s haiku often demonstrate, participation may take the form of negotiating traces of past material conditions in the present tense, and then projecting future possibilities (for meaning or action). Brink notes that Wright invents an intertextual matrix of anamorphic images, where a single reference to nature (most often, “snow,” “sun,” “autumn,” or “spring”) opens “dual and possible contradictory aspects or implications – with one leg in the rhetoric of the visible and undeniable and the other intimating corrective modernist utopian yearnings” (1079). In such cases, the reader encounters a nature image in the present tense, and then is offered the possibility that the past, especially as represented by a metaphor for hegemonic control, has not disappeared at all, and thus the future might be imagined in the present moment as well. Wright’s images of nature serve a dual effect of activating presence effects as powerful metonyms for what is absent and signifying beyond the present moment to critique the past. Brink highlights two such cases among the many that occur in the manuscript, one that references the sun as an anamorphic image and another charging the snow as a symbol of white domination. Black winter hills Nibbling at the sinking sun With stark stumpy teeth. (Wright 175) Black men with big brooms Sweeping streets in falling snow, Are absorbed by flakes. (Wright 153) With the first example, Brink traces revisions from “black hungry hills” and a “red sun” in earlier drafts to its final published form seen above as evidence of Wright’s efforts to embed critique within his haiku (1095). It is in this movement of engaging the past in a present moment that Wright reminds us “some agencies – whether personified as plants, animals, or inanimate objects in his haiku – seek life and are denied it” (Brink 1088). And it is in this movement that our active, willing participation in a haiku moment might enable a counter-hegemonic future possibility. When Wright’s alterations of the haiku genre – his haiku projections – regard humans as nature or nature as human, they not only emphasize his theme of alienation, they also induce the possibility for action. This finally suggests a political utility for presence that responds to Coonfield and Rose’s call for further investigations of the contexts in which “presence marks a problem or crisis” (206). As we continue to trace presence through our theoretical and performance practices (especially our study of emergent, relational and evocative encounters), we might also mobilize it as a future-oriented means of ideological critique and action. Notes 1. Each of Wright’s haiku cited in this essay reference the page on which the haiku appears in his posthumously published Haiku: The Last Poems of an American Icon rather than the 14 R. LOUIS 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. number that the editors assigned each haiku in that edition. See Brink and the note below for an explanation of the importance of this citation style. Reprinted by permission of Arcade Publishing, an imprint of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc. I am grateful to Marcyrose Chvasta for suggesting this re-definition of the haiku moment. My thinking here is informed by Chvasta’s analysis of the virtual, especially in relation to its resistance of concretization. See Terry and Wood for an application of Gumbrecht’s distinction between meaning effects (to “make sense” intellectually) and presence effects (to “sense” physically) to the context of audiencing aesthetic acts (181). “Performing Presence: From the Live to the Simulated” is another useful theoretical resource. The interdisciplinary research project was conducted from 2005 to 2009 in England. The project archives can be found here: http://spa.exeter.ac.uk/drama/presence/presence. stanford.edu_3455/Collaboratory/9.html. Waka consisted of five syllabic verses and were written for the entertainment of royal courts as early as the eighth century, with one poet offering an opening stanza of three verses (5,7,5) and another responding with two concluding verses (7,7) (Hakutani and Tener). Renga, a linked verse form from the twelfth century, connected a series of syllabic verses (5,7,5 followed by 7,7), with the most important verse of the renga, the hokku (5,7,5), being reserved for the most accomplished poet (Hakutani and Tener). Centuries later, haikai (now called haiku) developed as a singular syllabic form (5,7,5) with Matsuo Basho as its most influential poet. Haiku’s primary difference from its predecessors is its showcasing of a single poet’s perception of the world. A number of American writers produced haiku or poetry influenced by haiku in the first decades of the twentieth century, including Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, and Amy Lowell. American scholar Harold Henderson published a number of critical volumes on Japanese haiku in the 1930s and 1940s. A French haiku literary movement also existed in the early decades of the twentieth century. However, after World War II, the West largely learned the haiku form from Blyth’s work. Several beat poets, such as Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and Allen Ginsberg, read Blyth and made connections to Zen Buddhism. Wright was introduced to haiku in Paris through Blyth’s work and was apparently unaware of the earlier French and American haiku publications. Brink has illustrated that the only published version of the haiku, edited by Hakutani and Tener, is deeply flawed, confusing the original order of the poems in Wright’s manuscript and thus misunderstanding the precise categories that he had constructed for their reading. Brink correctly observes that Wright’s final structuring of the manuscript utilized two columns per page, with the expectation that the unnumbered haiku would be read vertically down the left column and continued at the top of the right column. Unfortunately, Hakutani and Tener’s version of the collection numbers the haiku and arranges them by reading from left to right. The result is a drastic reorganization of Wright’s intended structure. While Brink suggests the error is likely accidental, he also notes that the numbering system adds an unnecessary interpretive frame to each haiku, and, in some cases, interrupts an obvious progression that Wright has built between specific haiku. Brink’s finding is supported by evidence in the Richard Wright Papers in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale University. Wright’s final draft aligns very closely to a series of cardboard broadsides on which he pasted individual haiku in thematic groupings. The 19 broadsides contain nearly every haiku included in the final draft. Ogburn argues that Wright illustrated a haiku aesthetic as early as 1941 in his essay 12 Million Black Voices, citing lengthy descriptions of nature written in the present tense. Toru Kiuchi has developed a database of all 4000 of Wright’s original haiku located in the Richard Wright Papers, tracking revisions that Wright made to each haiku in the four draft manuscripts of “This Other World.” In many cases, the revisions dramatically change the meaning of the haiku, shifting the subject, the seasonal reference, or the result of an action. TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY 15 Acknowledgements The author thanks the anonymous reviewers and Mindy Fenske for their helpful comments, Thomas Nash for assisting in early archival research, Jerry Ward for suggestions on employing Richard Wright’s work, and Julie Morel for accommodations at Incident.res during fieldwork research in France. Disclosure statement No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author. Funding This work was supported by the Faculty Resource Network at New York University through a Scholar in Residence award; the UNCF/Mellon Program through a Faculty Residency Fellowship; and Xavier University of Louisiana through a sabbatical award. Notes on contributor Ross Louis is an Associate Professor in the Department of Communication Studies and an affiliate professor in the Performance Studies Laboratory at Xavier University of Louisiana. References Ankersmit, F.R. “‘Presence’ and Myth.” History and Theory: Studies in the Philosophy of History 45.3 (2006): 328–36. Auslander, Philip. From Acting to Performance: Essays in Modernism and Postmodernism. New York: Routledge, 1997. Auslander, Philip. “Liveness: Performance and the Anxiety of Simulation.” Performance and Cultural Politics. Ed. Elin Diamond. New York: Routledge, 1996. 198–217. 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