Two months ago, when I created an abstract for the solo in my Senior Dance Project, I had a concept. A plan. I was going to make a dance “about” translation, both interlingual and intersemiotic (that is, translating from one set of signs and symbols, such as dance, into another, such as words).1 Two of my courses—(1) Senior Seminar in Translation and (2) European Performance—provided scholarly inspiration. Perhaps more compelling, however, was my own intellectual curiosity, stemming from experiences and observations regarding communication and the difficulties inherent in expressing oneself. I cannot say that I was expecting to reach a colossal conclusion about transferring thought from one medium to another. All I was doing was starting an investigation with the desire to reach some conclusion, or better yet, a new set of questions. The success of this investigation was guaranteed, I thought, since I had the drive (a true interest and investment in the topic) and the tools (textual sources, dramaturgy pages, and a list of movement-generating parameters).
Why, then, was the piece that I eventually performed at the senior dance concert not necessarily one that I would describe as “about” translation? Maybe drive and tools are not enough without time, which I arguably didn’t have. But that excuse is weak, and time is completely relative, anyway. I doubt that having an additional month (or two or three) would result in a dramaturgical process that was more “faithful” to my original abstract. The truth is: I find it difficult to fill out prewritten outlines. Instead, I tend to start with an idea and then let the process unfold organically, in any direction(s), in any form(s). That is to say, my midterm abstract was an embarkation point from which my journey to Fluent Articulations (the solo’s eventual title) began. The abstract fired the starting shot, but the majority of the journey was fueled by a combination of my assumptions about how a dance should be choreographed, my frustrations with the apparent lack of progress, and my reflections—both internal and with others—about what meaning, if any, was inherent in the dance and in the process.
My pressing desire to find meaning relates to my then inability to differeniate artistic research processes from scientific/industrial research processes. At the beginning of the semester, I read an article by Eugenio Barba2 that beautifully describes how artistic processes do not necessarily follow conventional rules of efficiency. The article intrigued me and I believed that I understood Barba’s ideas. Understanding on a conceptual level is one thing, putting into practice quite another. An incredible challenge in my process turned out to be embracing the chaos and “extracting the difficult from the difficult” (an “attitude that illustrates the difference between the organic character of art and the organization of daily tasks which are all the better for having the easy extracted from the difficult”).3
The Journey Begins
My first dramaturgy page was inspired by a discussion about the Daode Jing, a classic Chinese text, that took place in my translation seminar. The teacher provided us with eighteen different English translations of the text’s first passage.4 That each translator looked at the same Chinese characters and took away something different intrigued me. Although the various translators expressed the same general idea, their passages, which contained different words, necessarily carried some unique connotations. Which translator was the most faithful to the original? Can we ever know an author’s (or artist’s) intent? Does reading the text in its source language, Chinese, even guarantee an authentic understanding of the author’s message? These questions fascinated me. For my dramaturgy page, I explored the Daode Jing’s first line, which reads: 道可道非常道. One, not the, translation is as follows: The Way that can be spoken of is not the constant way. My dramaturgy page addresses both (1) the many ways in which a single character can be interpreted and (2) the aesthetic beauty of Chinese characters. I also included snapshots from my automatic writings5 in both text and images. The text discusses the desire to understand someone else’s words while recognizing the (perhaps) impossibility of truly understanding those words without having personally embodied the experience. This dramaturgy page referenced both interlingual and intersemiotic translation.
The next “step” involved a video camera, improvisation, and a bilingual brother. After recording myself moving in the dance studio, I gave my brother Andrew two segments of the video. I explained a bit about my research process, but did not stipulate guidelines for his assignment. Watch my improvisation and respond in writing, I asked of him. He interpreted the assignment beautifully, responding to one segment in English, the other in Spanish. While his responses were not directly involved in the creation of my solo, I found his English commentary to be particularly interesting and worth including. In it he addresses what he sees and what he wants to see in the space, what he sees in my movement and my intention, and what he wants when the video is over. An understanding—that is what Andrew craved when all was watched and done. Not an uncommon response to modern dance. What does it mean? A great question, indeed. Anyway, here is his response in English:
Silence and solitude. For a brief moment, a reflection enters the screen. It made me want to see something, to find the symmetry in the performance. Perhaps this is because symmetry is synonymous with beauty… well, for the physicist. But then the reflected dancer vanishes, and the audience is left to concentrate on the lone dancer, who moves slowly, turns without a sound. I do not think the silence is absence of enthusiasm, but it could be labeled so. The thought is present, there is conviction and timing in the dancer, and I imagine something personal deeper. I would like to see more. I want to see more, but I don’t think I can.
I will not include his Spanish response because it did not figure in the material that was retained in my research process. Deleting material is inevitabile in any artistic process. This not to support the assumption that material gets wasted if and only if it is poor quality.6 I had to throw out some material. My original intention was use my brother’s writings to create the score. I’ll make recordings of his English response and recordings of his Spanish response and maybe I’ll translate parts into Chinese and record that, too! And, who knows, maybe I’ll add a fourth language to the mix and I will layer the many languages and the many messages and… I got carried away. I had to contain the ideas in a framework. I went back to the drawing board, my drawing board: my first dramaturgy page.
Not wanting to overwhelm the audience with excessive auditory information, I pared down my music concept. One friend lent his recording studio and six more lent their voices. We recorded the following: the first line of the Daode Jing in Chinese; thirteen English translations of that line; and a final question to provoke the audience—“So why are we trying so hard to put it into words?” This question calls attention to the irony of translator after translator searching tirelessly for phrases that adequately describe 道, the Way, which by definition cannot be put into words! My question was also intended to encourage a rethinking of the general assumption that thoughts must be translated into words. What makes us think that words are always the most effective medium for expression? What if movement can communicate as well?
Veering Off Course
It was time to stop delaying the inevitable and start generating movement. The problem was, I felt that having music precede the movement was the wrong order. The movement must come first, I thought, if I wish to truly speak with my body, if I wish to make known that dancing is my primary medium, and music is but a secondary consideration. This assumption about “How It Should Be” was nothing more than a reflection of having followed the movement-before-music order to create a piece two years ago. It was a piece that I was very proud of. I eventually realized the absurdity of defining choreography by methods used in one previous “successful” dance. Why should I maintain that music is secondary when, in this case, the sound did precede the movement? Furthermore, why should I insist on speaking only through my body when, in this case, the music indeed had an explicit message.
I tried collecting movement, but couldn’t disregard the Judge7: This will bore the audience; it’s not unique enough. This is so typical; it’s not new enough. I wanted the movement to speak to the audience in original and interesting ways. My aim was to create choreography that displayed an ability to take to the next level four years of dance education; rather than simply regurgitating all I had learned about movement, I hoped to use that information to draw new conclusions. Focusing on reaching an end (in this case, a brilliant choreographic statement) while neglecting the means only served to paralyze me. Nothing was good enough. I refused to trust my body. I certainly didn’t trust the process. That is, the seemingly inefficient, convoluted process through which art is often produced.8 Instead, I found myself craving traditional “efficiency.” I threw away, and never recovered, a wealth of good material. All because I didn’t think it was good enough. Too much waste. I should have recycled.
My dramaturgy pages (by this point I had created a second one) did prove slightly useful in generating movement. My second page was inspired by a Writer in Residence at my university who gave an intriguing presentation on multilingualism.9 Tawada discussed many topics, one of which was poetry readings. She suggested that a poet, his/her poem, and the voice reading the poem are separable entities. This puzzled and interested me. In dance class we have discussed that a dancer, the choreography, and the performance are inseparable. One and the same. I began my dramaturgy page. The motif of dividing into threes led me, interestingly enough, back to the translation seminar. My project in that class happened to be translating into English a novel about a tightfisted man and his “belief” in the power of trinities. Perfect! I also included a song lyric that popped into my head because of the word ‘division.’ (Strangely enough, that song wound up being the choreographers’ bow music in the Senior Concert in which I performed this piece.) This dramaturgy page, which to anyone else must appear nonsensical, in fact contained a considerable amount of cohesive meaning.
Moving in/with a New Direction
Between my use of dramaturgy pages as stimuli and my experimentation with other movement-generating techniques—using my body, for instance, to write characters such as 道 in the space—I set the beginning choreography for Fluent Articulations. Unfortunately, the momentum was short-lived and I was soon stuck again. Six days until the show. I panicked. My dance mentor, David Marchant, calmed me down when he helped me realize that there was probably a reason my solo remained unformed. (A reason besides procrastination and lack of creativity? My ears were open.) Maybe, he suggested, I could not form a dance because I should not form a dance until the necessary moment: the performance. Improvisation!
The Daode Jing encourages existing in harmony with nature by accepting, rather than struggling against, the natural flow of the universe. Since I had already created a score based on the first line of the Daode Jing, wouldn’t it only be natural to then implement some Daoist ideals? Go with the flow. Trust the moment. I began to embrace that the process was leading me into unexpected territory as I loosened my grip on the idea that the 道可道非常道 was only of interest in terms of interlingual translation. The focus of my solo shifted as I considered broader implications about Daoism. I would explore intersemiotic translation, creating a dance that attempted to embody 道, the Way. If embodying the Way seems like an ambitious goal…that’s because it is. And so I tried to stop thinking of it as a goal, as an end. I reminded myself to think in terms of attempts and means. The solo would not be one final, grand statement about my college dance experience. It would simply be another process. A process towards what? More future processes!
I couldn’t help but consider the importance and potential power of a dance’s last statement, and so I sketched a final image for the dance. So now I had a beginning and an ending. The middle section was to dissolve into improvisation when the moment called for it. Other dancers responded positively to this idea; they reassured me that I possessed the necessary improvisation skills. But improvisation for performance is not the same as playing around in a studio. A new set of challenges and considerations stood before me. One basic concern: what if I freeze? Nothing to do and nowhere to go. A room full of eyes waiting for me to do something, anything. The solution was relatively simple—I would equip myself with a safety net of parameters. David and I talked about the obvious choices. My score of recorded phrases would be playing; actively listening and responding to the sound was one choice. The ground would be sprinkled with shredded paper; interacting with and acknowledging the paper was another choice. (The shredded paper was already on stage from the preceding sections of my Senior Project.) Of course, stillness was also a valid choice. “Don’t just do something, stand there!” David reminded me.
This is around the time that I created my last dramaturgy page. Rather than planning a layout, I chose to create the page in the style of my upcoming performance: improvisation. As my solo’s score played on repeat, I began to draw, write, sit in stillness. I selected materials from my desk drawers, looked at them, and put them away. I looked around. I took my time. Creating that page felt like a dance. Every thought I had, every line I drew, every choice I did or didn’t make, is a part of that page. I didn’t allow myself to start over; I just had to trust the process.
My not-so-cryptic text reveals my insecurities about creating a dance in the hopes that meaning would eventually emerge. Had I perhaps not been proactive enough in the process? Was I simply waiting on the meaning to magically make itself known, or could I, if need be, display complete accountability for my work? Would I be able to defend my piece, not in a defensive way, but in an intellectual manner that fosters discussion about art?10 My improvisational dramaturgy page raised these questions. Making this page was informative in regards to awareness and authenticity during improvisation. It’s a good thing I was more concerned with means than with ends, because I wouldn’t say that the final look of this page appeals to my aesthetic sensibilities.
In terms of the dance, though, I couldn’t help but wonder a little about the ends. That is, I worried against conscious choice that my solo would not be choreographically interesting. If I wished to avoid monotony (and I did), I knew I must occasionally vary time, space, and energy dynamics. Is it possible, I wondered, to remain completely present while simultaneously removing myself enough to remember some choreographic techniques? This turned out to be one of the most interesting questions that emerged in this process. In the performances, I found that being present made it difficult to keep track of the arc of my improvisation. On the other hand, focusing on dynamic shifts resulted in a loss of attention. Striking a balance was difficult. This is not to say that I’ve deemed it impossible. Improvising for an audience is a skill that requires personal movement research and performance experience. But it is a craft that can be honed. And that’s what makes an artist brilliant—engaging the process of craft.11
The Performances
In the first performance I was absolutely present. My movement-thought stayed in the moment rather than rushing to the future and worrying about the next move. My attention was both internal and external, as I was aware that I was communicating with an audience. The performance felt wonderful. Later, I realized that although I knew how it felt, I hadn’t any idea what it looked like. I wondered whether the audience, unaware that the dance was partly improvised, found the movement interesting. Would I, watching myself, find it interesting? Luckily I could get an answer.
My desire to watch the videotape was more than just vanity. I wanted to continue to improve my craft. I hoped that the video would inspire new motivations and/or parameters for me to contemplate during my improvisation in the final show. The video did confirm that my timing dynamic remained fairly static throughout the improvisation. I felt bored by it. It was upsetting that the video could alter my opinion on what I previously felt was a fantastic show. But the damage was done. I fell into the trap that I tried so hard to avoid: I began to think of the next show as an end, not a means.
On Saturday night my desire to include more “interesting” dynamic shifts came at the cost of my presence. I was disconnected from myself and removed from the moment. While I was dancing, I recognized that I wasn’t there. This upset me and subsequently made it harder to rediscover That Place from the night before. (Although I suppose that seeking a feeling from the night before was a part of the problem.) Compromising my presence was just not worth it. The Saturday improvisation was not substantially more interesting. In fact, I suspect that the energetically static Friday performance was more captivating by mere virtue of my intention and attention.
Final Thoughts
Fluent Articulations and the process that led to it did not primarily concern translation. Instead, the process transformed into a study on means and ends, and on the necessity of remaining flexible in the creative process. I didn’t realize that until it was over. I couldn’t have. However, each journal entry, dramaturgy page, and scholarly article was a necessary component in the process. Each inspiration, frustration, and idea served some purpose, though rarely a purpose that I could have predicted beforehand.
At the end of this process, I found myself compelled to reread Barba’s article about artistic processes and their potential to be chaotic and nonlinear and confusing. At the start of the semester, I didn’t really get it. After this process, however, I knew that it was worth another look. As I expressed in my first dramaturgy page, others’ words are sometimes empty to the listener who has not yet had a similar personal experience. They are just words, just arrangements of letters and sounds that seem like they should make sense. They don’t always make sense. And that is OK. Because that makes it even more special when words do resonate. The second time I read Barba’s article, I felt him speaking directly to me about my experience with Fluent Articulations. But who knows, maybe I don’t understand Barba at all. His written words are the only insight I have into his work. Imagine all that was lost between his thoughts and those words!
From Movement to Words: An Attempted Translation of Fluent Articulations
Just so we get off on the same foot: the weather is not on my radar when I think about how clear it is today. How clear it is this moment, rather, because a twenty-four hour time frame seems rather arbitrary, don't you think? Right now. The clarity is astounding. I've found some perspective. I've had it before, and I live for moments like these when it comes back. It usually comes when I’m walking around, biking around, moving around. Yes, moving is a must. It's rare to have these moments when I'm sitting on my couch and staring at a stationary TV.
What kind of perspective? All kinds. You know the feeling, right? I hope you do. On one hand, I get myself better than I ever have. But it's more than just looking inward at my own universe. I'm also looking outward, more than five feet in front of me. I'm seeing bigger pictures. I'm not talking about sudden insight into how to make the world perfect. I wouldn't want that. No way. Look at this imperfection: it's my favorite part! Nothing compares to asymmetry. I realize that not everyone appreciates the imperfect, and I can’t claim that my view is better. But I do think that I can make a strong case for sustainability. If flawless is the only thing that makes you happy, life will be a lot more effortful than necessary, don't you think?
I'm ready for the unexpected right now. I'm ready for mistakes. I like the humanity of it. It's humbling. And it's funny.
It's hard to maintain this state of perspicacity ("Why, that’s one of the greatest words in the English language!" my dad would say). There are moments when I snap out of it. Actions become planned rather than authentically in the moment. These moments are necessary; they make me appreciate presence even more. We only know what we do or don’t like, who we are or are not, if we experience something other than.
It's important to try to see differently. Literally see. Look! Moments of clarity and appreciation and attention to asymmetry invariably come from looking up and out. It’s important to make things new. Or at least make it feel new. Even if it's something I've done before, if I can make myself aware that I am doing it, that I am choosing it, well…suddenly its fun again!
This is strange: I’m apparently looking for clarity and organization now. I can see ridiculous and frantic this is, but I can't stop. When did I start this? Why did I start? I can't remember. I think someone caught me in my blissful moment of clarity. They might not have been judging me, but I probably decided that they were. Oh, that’s right, I forgot: I should be looking straight down, my shoulders should be hunched, I shouldn't be enjoying what I see for the sake of enjoyment. I should be getting from point A to point B. That's what people do, right? I hear the absurdity, but for some reason I'm still organizing. Still trying to make sense. I feel tense. Okay. Let me take myself out of this moment. Look at this defined space. I defined it, but what does it mean to me? Nothing. I think I did it for you. What does it mean to you? Have you ever actually thought about why you need boundaries? You should, I bet you’ll start to expect more of yourself. Not that I'm an expert. No no no. Just some friendly advice. Maybe these frameworks work for some people; maybe some people actually fit nicely into molds. Such people must exist, right? Why else would so many people give in? They doesn't always work for me. The molds, that is. Sometimes they do, and that's just fine. No point in distancing myself just because it's easier than relating to people.
It’s time to step back. And breathe. I can't help but laugh at what just happened. I can see the framework I’ve created. It’s right there—amidst the chaos! I suppose it it interesting for what it is: a human attempt to make sense of a world that doesn’t inherently need to make sense to operate. There’s nothing wrong with the attempt to organize and find some meaning. It’s just that…well, when you get a little perspective, you’ll find that the sight of the chaos is enough to make you smile.
was inspired by a discussion about the Daode Jing, a classic Chinese text, that took place in my translation seminar. The teacher provided us with eighteen different English translations of the text’s first passage.4 That each translator looked at the same Chinese characters and took away something different intrigued me. Although the various translators expressed the same general idea, their passages, which contained different words, necessarily carried some unique connotations. Which translator was the most faithful to the original? Can we ever know an author’s (or artist’s) intent? Does reading the text in its source language, Chinese, even guarantee an authentic understanding of the author’s message? These questions fascinated me. For my dramaturgy page, I explored the Daode Jing’s first line, which reads: 道可道非常道. One, not the, translation is as follows: The Way that can be spoken of is not the constant way. My dramaturgy page addresses both (1) the many ways in which a single character can be interpreted and (2) the aesthetic beauty of Chinese characters. I also included snapshots from my automatic writings5 in both text and images. The text discusses the desire to understand someone else’s words while recognizing the (perhaps) impossibility of truly understanding those words without having personally embodied the experience. This dramaturgy page referenced both interlingual and intersemiotic translation.
was inspired by a Writer in Residence at my university who gave an intriguing presentation on multilingualism.
Rather than planning a layout, I chose to create the page in the style of my upcoming performance: improvisation. As my solo’s score played on repeat, I began to draw, write, sit in stillness. I selected materials from my desk drawers, looked at them, and put them away. I looked around. I took my time. Creating that page felt like a dance. Every thought I had, every line I drew, every choice I did or didn’t make, is a part of that page. I didn’t allow myself to start over; I just had to trust the process.