Hofan is home

Shen Wei Dance Arts: all cloud, no conflict

2009-11-09T18:34:00.002+08:00

On Friday I went to see a performance by award-winning Chinese-American choreographer Shen Wei at the Kwai Tsing Theatre. I came expecting much, but left restless and somewhat pensive.

Stylistically, the Shen Wei dancers are virtuosic. They possess a quality of lightness in their movement that I have not seen anywhere else. The first piece, Re- I, inspired by Shen Wei's travels in Tibet, was pure praire wind. I was completely astounded by the fact that I could not locate the impulse for their movement -- and I was in the front row, so I really got to experience the their movement up, close and personal.

Unfortunately, after a while, the flowing quality got a but hypnotic. It was a bit like watching clouds…. you cannot help but space out. Solos, group formations, all variations on the same erring organic flow.

Throughout the evening there was little opposition or conflict, whether on the level of movement, choreography, or in the interaction with music/video. This absence of conflict is a rather odd assumption for a theatrical performance and contemporary dance. It definitely is a 180 degrees difference from my Polish contemporary dance training with Jacek Luminski. Luminski’s movement philosophy is based on the oppositional forces and conflicting impulses from different parts of the body. The hand may turn the body in one direction, the head spiral in another, only to be overcome by a sudden pull of the tail-bone. The spine is always in dialectic conversation, reflecting a struggle of human beings as they aspire to heaven, but must adhere to the pull of the earth.

Whereas in Shen Wei’s choreography, the dancers mask this struggle. They make very demanding movements seem effortless. Like ballet, they convey an illusion of grace. Instead of showcasing the humanity of his dancers, the ensemble seems otherworldy. They might as well be natural phenomenom - wind, water, tree-trunks…

However, this anonymity becomes problematic when Shen Wei attempts to tackle more human feelings and social phenomenom in his work. For example, in the second piece (Re- III) he chose to address “the powerful contrast between an Eastern concept of social unity, dependence and sharing, and the dominance of individuality in the West.”

There are numerous strong images, but unfortunately they soon get washed over. For example, there is a sequence where the group walks in time to the beat (reminiscent of marching), and an individual dancer within the group who does something different (e.g., rolling, dancing, etc). However, the variations the individual plays must adherent to the overall pace of the steady march of the larger group, evoking associations of censorship or the difficulty of individual expression in a modern world.

This is such a powerful proposal, but unfortunately, Shen Wei does not follow it through. What if, for example, the dancer in the middle was expressed something truly individual, and came up with movement that contrasted the movement qualities given to her by the choreographer? What if the friction proposed between the individual and group was taken to its logical conclusion?

Would she get run over by the group? Be left behind? At its current state, the material remains very safe and politically correct. Shen Wei merely presents “contrast”, but seems eager to avoid any conflict.

Which brings me back, really, to question the purpose of performance and the function of dance. Is it enough for a dance to be beautiful? Must it “confront” the audience? For a long time in Chinese history, the function of performative dance was to please the emperor. The function was to be visually pleasing, and certainly not to ruffle any status quo. In this sense, Shen Wei’s dance is very Chinese.

Actually, when I create, I actually think less about “confronting” the audience, and more about the degree of thoroughness and integrity of the exploration. And to this goal, I know that I need to walk the talk. I accept, for example, when Ah Tung came up to me at the end of the show, shook me and said, “You didn’t go far enough with Concrete Jungle Berzerk! – if you are going to talk about the repetition of office routine, I want to see you repeat the routine sequence endlessly it until the audience is ready to scream.” Mmm. Easy to criticise, harder to do.

Finally, Shen Wei’s work provoked me to think about the relationship between the choreographer and his or her dancers. There actually is something rather violent for me to see such a large ensemble of dancers all monolithically possessing the same quality. Male, female, tall, short -- they all dance with the same lightness. Indeed, when people responded to Hallelujah or Berzerk! they talked about how we were able to bring forth the individuality of each performer. I took this to be a compliment.

Re- (I, II, III) by Shen Wei Dance Arts was performed on 6-7/11/09 at Kwai Tsing Theatre.

The Girl who wrote about Dragons

2009-10-28T18:15:00.245+08:00

I read so many books as a kid, my mum used to get worried about my eyesight. In fact, I used to be banned from reading books like the Dragonlance Chronicles because of their small print. I had to read them in secret. I’d be reading in bed, but as soon as soon as I heard my mother’s footsteps on the stairs I’d have to fumble my book under my pillow.

“Er… hi, mum!”

I don’t know any other kid in my class who had to hide the fact that they were reading. Sheesh.

I used to write fantasy stories too. I started many, but finished none. I would type them studiously on Word-Perfect, and print them out on the dot-dot inkjets. Those were the days when computers were still in black and white, and the printouts had holes on the sides.

It’s easy to talk about my love for fantasy in past tense, but I find myself somewhat embarrassed now to talk about it in present tense. Fantasy has become the tag-along sibling that I feel I should have outgrown. The bulk of my fantasy novels now sit in the second row of my bookshelf, behind Peter Brook and Thich Nhat Hanh. In fact, when it crossed my mind to write a martial art novel for National Novel Writing month, my first thought was: But don't you want to write something more serious? (Didn't you want to do Crow? What about Craig & Miriam?)

My god, I thought. You really have become a literary snob. What on earth is wrong with writing a fantasy novel?

Here we are. I had to rummage in the cupboard for this.
I must have written this when I was 12-14 years old. There are a couple of stories here, all unfinished. The longest one is 98 pages long. (98 pages? I don't think I've written anything quite as long since then!)

<----------

The font is pretty faded, but the story itself is surprisingly readable. It's odd, I really don't have any recollection of the story at all. Did I really write this? It's a bit, in a way, like going back in time and meeting a younger self.

What startles me is the ferocity of the story. It's a story centered around the jealousy of two classmates, and there is something very fierce, almost animal-like about their rivalry. The setting of the story is unremarkable, the dialogue unmemorable, but the plot is decent. This again, surprises me, because for the past couple of years, my struggle in theatre-creation has mainly been with plot (c.f., Craig & Miriam, Berzerk!). In fact, I had almost pigeon-holed myself as someone incapable of larger architecture. "It's not hard for me to come up with poetic moments," I'd tell my friends, "But writing a full length is another mode altogether. It's one thing to make a collection of songs; another to write a symphony. I guess that's my challenge..."

But this manuscript disproves this theory! At some point in my life, I could plot. Plot is not the problem here! The story builds quite naturally as Tangarita and Elliyara grow in power. The two friends come so close in friendship, but then turn so viciously upon each other that by the end of the 98 pages - where the reader is left hanging -- I want to know what happened! (I can't believe I got bored with this project, it's 3/4 of the way through and it's just missing a final confrontation!) What's bizarre too is that my loyalties are so fairly divided between the two, it's really terrible. They've hurt each other so much, I can't tell if they are able to have an happy ending any more, or if they will completely destroy each other.

"Well, why don't you finish it?" said Homei, when I told him about it over dinner.

The truth is, I don't think I could write this now. This story captures an emotional truth of a much younger volatile Hofan; but to try to write it now would be like those pictures where adults try to draw like children. You would immediately be able to spot the pretense. If anything, one has to find a new medium, as Picasso did.

Still, I look at Ein & Gum-gum (the puppies) and think: I could write a story. I could write a story of two sisters: one dark, fiercely intelligent; and yet acutely jealous of her quieter, milder sibling.being and doing. The Yin and Yang of my life.

We'll see what comes out in November.

00:19:30 太極套路

2009-10-26T10:11:00.004+08:00

“I want you to time yourself,” said Victor. “See if you can do the whole 108 sequence in 20 minutes.”

“Why 20 minutes?” I asked, “I mean, I know this is the standard asked by the Hong Kong Tai Chi Association. But why is the standard to 20 minutes? Will I achieve an altered state of consciousness if I hit 20 minutes exactly?”

“Just try it.”

In the old days, they used to have a rule where if you had a question you wanted to ask your 師傅 he would tell you to go away and practice for a week. And after one week, if you hadn’t managed to solve the question yourself, only then were you allowed to bother your teacher. Actually, I think there’s a lot of wisdom is setting this time lag, because many questions (such as the one above) are asked in ignorance. Even if the sifu answers, he or she can only answer on a verbal level. “Well, if you do it too fast you won’t taste the details; if you do it too slow you will train your muscles”… that sort of answer. But some questions can only be answered with an experience; words are but an approximation.

So, I tried timing myself one Thursday morning. It really wasn’t the best of mornings, because I hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before, so my mind was racing at 300kmph. But the air was crisp, fresh autumn, and I was glad to be outside in the park.

When I first started tai chi, my kuen would be really affected by my mental state. For example, if I didn’t get enough sleep, or was stressed out by a theatre production, my 套路 performance would really suffer. What I discovered that morning, however, is that my body now knows the way. In the same way that I am able to navigate my path in the dark to the kitchen to get a cup of water without bumping into furniture, my body knows the path of the 108 sequence blindfolded. So even though my mind was running rampant, my body was steadily keeping time. Breath by breath, it was like wading through clear water. And because my breath was steady, my mind gradually allowed itself to be shepherded back into the fold.

When I finished, I looked at the watch. Nineteen minutes and thirty seconds. Ha!
I timed myself again on Sunday. Twenty minutes thirty seconds. Ha!

But numbers are meaningless. Time is but a physical structure. It was fun to know that I could do it, but inside I know the quality of my practice is not at cutting edge.

“I still prefer to do it slower,” I told Victor the next week. “Here I’m catching the flow of the kuen. It’s like I’m listening to the flow. But I feel to really progress, I need to really take time and taste the details.”

“It’s two separate things,” he said. “You should practice the listening to the flow, but you should also take fragments of the sequence and study it in detail.”

“And then put it back into the sequence,” I said. “I know. I know.”

But it’s one thing to know with the brain, and another to be able to grok it.

The Choi Yuen Village protest 千人怒撐菜園村

2009-10-20T17:52:00.015+08:00

On Sunday a couple of friends and I headed to Shek Kong (石岗菜園村) to support the Choi Yuen villagers whose homes are in danger of being razed down to make way for a emergency station in the proposal high speed rail link from HK to Guangzhou.

It felt good to be out in the countryside, and the bus-trip from Kam Sheng Station (West rail) was much shorter than I thought it would be. When we arrived, the atmosphere was a bit overwhelming. Hundreds of people were jammed together at the bus-stop of vegetable station. We signed our names, took our photos and then slipped off into the actual village itself to get away from the crowd.

I have discovered that I have an aversion to this kind of crowd emotion. I always have, I think... when I sense some sort of mob emotion, my tendency is to step away. So for example, on the last days of high school, while everyone was getting all teary (and to be fair, we had lived together for two intense years); I was rather unmoved by it all. I think I am by nature skeptical of these mass emotions -- which is unfortunate, I think, because I did want to support them. But I guess each of us have to find our own way of expressing our feelings.

Earlier in the week I was having a conversation with Hin-yan about "protest as dialogue", and how one can protest in a way that provokes thought -- rather than a shutting down -- in all parties involved. (This was in reference to earlier protests with 夏韶聲, and also in protest of the mismanagement of The Link / 領匯 )

Later, everyone came into the village to take a big group photo to show our support for the cause. Josh and I climbed up on the roof of one of the houses and waved our banana leaves around.

Afterwards, they had a sort of discussion forum, which I really appreciated. where they had a number of eloquent speakers who spoke passionately about the meaning of this protest. In particular, Cho Ho Dick (朱凱迪) helped me contextualise this project as a general questioning of large and unnecessary infrastructure projects in Hong Kong

More poignantly perhaps, the Choi Yuen village protest raises the question: do we have a right here in HK to choose a different lifestyle? The rail link is going to provide us with high speed access to the mainland, which will be good for business, which will make us rich. But do we really need to be so rich? Do we really need faster trains that connect to Shenzhen every 15 minutes?

If you look at the South China Morning Post today, "Cross-border railway to turn villagers into multimillionaires", behind this headline is an assumption: That it's only a matter of paying these villagers off, and the villagers are really lucky (and should feel lucky) to have held out for all this money. But as Mrs Lo who moved here 30 years ago, and built a home with four generations living under a roof says in this ATV news report, it's not about money. It's about a home, and just wanting to farm and live in peace. To move these people out (and surely we can find another place for this emergency station! I cannot believe that there is nowhere else to put this station than on someone's home) is to say as a community -- we put business and speed above all else. Anyone who wishes to seek a different lifestyle, and happen to be in our way -- just bulldoze them.

To learn more or to add your voice to the protest:
> Facebook group: 石崗菜園村關注組

> Villagers fight for Rail that will cut them out (SCMP)

> Train to Nowhere (HK Magazine)

> LEGCO meeting minutes (May 2009) --> (scroll to p.10)

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Note on photos - I deliberately didn't bring my camera, but a lot of other people did, and I've tried to credit them. If you hover your mouse over the photo you will see who took it. Thank you Daniel for whole resource of photos + videos here. If you own the photo and do not wish it to be used, or what it to be credited differently, please let me know)

Solid wood from Belarus

2009-10-18T20:28:00.011+08:00

"Your letter catches me in an awkward moment. Our performance tour to Newcastle just fell through and I am in the middle of assembling a desk from IKEA. It’s a twenty-two step procedure with fourteen pieces of wood, and some of the screws are really hard to get in. Despite my efforts, I’m developing blisters on my thumb and forefinger.

It’s going to be great though when I’m done. The wood is from Belarus, and it is a perfect length between my bed and the window. You would have thought that after a year of swapping rooms with Homei I would have gotten a desk and a lamp by now; but I guess I’ve been pretty busy with theatre + teaching.

And now it looks like I’m going to have quite a bit of time to myself at home.

I’m floundering too, Christine. It’s always like this when I have time to be with myself again. Sometimes, the solitude slams into me, knocks me breathless. Other times it sneaks up on me on the minibus when I am commuting home at night. You would have thought that I would be used to it by now, but the bite always surprises me. Ow! Hello, you.

I’m surprised by how volatile I feel. In this state, small things have the ability to become disproportionally large. Like a plant unrooted in water, I find myself scrabbling for ground. I feel needy, but paradoxically, I don’t want to be among people either. I hate being around people when I feel needy. At the same time, my friends are my lifeline. I don’t know if you know this, but you have got me out of writer’s block many times. When I get stuck with an idea, what I do is write a letter: Here I am, it’s 4.24am. the wood is from Belarus, and it makes me think of a guy I once met from Minsk. He was teaching us butoh, and to help us understand the feeling of “water” we waded into a lake in Broellin. On the last night he was drunk, and I was drunk – not from alcohol, you know me, but from the occasion -- and somehow, I ended up on his lap. To this day I don’t know how I got there. But that was a bizarre summer; I was pretty drunk that summer… careless, and slightly irresponsible in love.

Seriously, writing helps. There’s a satisfaction in being able to nail a certain emotion or feeling down in words. And, as you know, I tend to do my best writing in letters. When I write for myself, my writing tends to be unfocused and slightly muddy, but when I have to communicate with someone, I’m forced to become really clear. So when I get writer’s block, I take a step back and write a letter to you. Or Dan, Chris Gallimore, or Sally….

In being precise about my feelings, I notice how fluid they really are. Yesterday I wrote: I briefly considered going on holiday somewhere for these three weeks, but instead I bought a desk. You want to fight? I’m going to fight on my terms. I’m going to write a script. But in the light of another morning those words no longer ring true. Running, staying, fighting are already non-issues. I have moved on..."

-- from letter to Christine, 16/10/09

怕靜

2009-10-12T20:29:00.002+08:00

十月份沒有演出, 沒有戲排, 正好是時候靜下來。難得有時間專心練拳，見一些好幾個月冇見的老友。好吧 ! 去英國前，給自己一個機會定一定。

但定了下來，反以覺得腦海是多麼噪雜。

想專心寫劇本, 但發現一天是一件非常複雜的事。只是讀一些書(一些Woody Allen 的訪問，Ted Hughes的散文)，上上網，耍一些拳… 但一個人靜了下來，平凡的事物可以濃得像法國洋蔥湯。連從大埔乘小巴/巴士/小巴到清龍頭見師傅的過程都變得相當刺激。在一個半小時能夠觀察的，能夠想的念頭原來是可以很多很多的。都是回程較好，因為每次和師傅切搓後都已筋疲力盡, 一上巴士就睡!

知道自己零亂的狀態，是因為野心大，想導自己的戲了。這大半年較多當演員，讀得太多有關導演的書, 覺得是時候再次實踐了。但口裏說要導戲, 但自己根本還未清楚自己想導那一齣. 是《Craig & Miriam》? 還是《Crowsongs》? 好像還未天時地利人和.

藉口! 藉口!什麼天時地利人和? 要是有誠意做，一定有辨法的!

你怕什麼? 是怕失敗? 還是怕創作的孤獨?

現在的阻力大部分都是來自後者。

歸根究底，創作是孤單的事。以前我是十分相信集體創作的，但近年感到過度依賴其他人來給我靈感也算是一種迴避。舉例說，為了我們上一個齣舞蹈作品《Hallelujah》，我們集體排了幾個月，大家等大家. 到最終，最核心的意象和劇場手法都不是集體構思出來的。《Hallelujah》的核心是黄衍仁對Leonard Cohen那首歌的演譯，是我不知從那裏來的、用手語的決定，還有某個清晨其他人來之前我獨自在排練室想出來的佈景。當然，Haruka, Josh 和Walter 的參與對整個舞帶來一些不可缺少的刺激, 所以我相信六月份的演出是我們全組人培育出來的。但從這個製作我當真學到獨處對創作的重要性，醒悟到原來最逼切的靈感是自己和上天熬出來的。(或者其實是自己和自己熬練，上天只是恩典)

站在泳池邊，明知自己想游水，又明知跳下去游幾個堂就一嘗心願. 但把腳尖伸進池裏，水仿佛真的很冷! Oh shit, 為甚麼每次都是這樣的？

* * *

後記: 這是星期五早上寫的。星期六、日整天都要教書。教書和太極都有「淋花灑」的作用---無論自己有什麼情緒，因為要求我全神貫注，都會一一擦清!

Love is about making exceptions

2009-10-05T17:45:00.006+08:00

Last year, for reasons of global warming and everyone’s general busyness, our family spent our annual holiday in a half-built amusement park near 小梅沙, not far at all from the Lo Wu border. The amusement park was incomplete, but there was something quite earnest about the half-painted concrete pretending to be boulders. The park was huge, and we’d intended to camp there, but it was “winter season” already and they weren’t having any more campers.

They weren’t really serving lunch either, because they were renovating the kitchen. Still, the sofas were plush, the view fantastic, and they could do noodles.

“Can you do this without meat?” asked mum of the waitress, “Just some vegetables would be great. Unless Homei would like chicken.”

"Sure," said my brother.

“Please omit the MSG,” I said to the waitress. "I'm allergic."

"And go easy on the salt," said mum. The waitress didn't even raise an eyebrow.

Meanwhile, dad was browsing the drinks menu. They were offering freshly squeezed juice for $40 a glass, or $70 a pitcher.

“Let’s have a jug,” said dad, happy that he had found one thing that we could actually drink. Mum and I hemmed and hawed at the price. After all, we did have a juicer back at home, and could make all this at a fraction of the price. But then again, we weren’t home, and having hiked and taken the scenic train as far as it would go, we were ready for a drink.

“Grape juice,” I decided, settling on something we would not make back home. Dad frowned.

“What about apple or orange?” he asked.

I could read between his lines. Grapes are a prime candidate for pesticides, and given that we were in mainland China, the probability of those grapes being organic was pretty close to zero. But for reason, I really had a craving for grape juice. I didn’t want tartness of apple or the acidity of orange. I wanted something sweet.

“Grape,” I insisted. “We can have the others at home.”

“Ok,” said dad. “Let’s have grape juice.”

I felt a warm rush of sunlight. If I hadn’t been so comfortably eaten up by the plush chair, I would have gotten up and hugged him. Dad has probably written fifteen books on the evils of pesticides, and yet, because we were family, he was willing to make this exception.

反覆在當下 (太極與戲劇 i)

2009-09-28T17:32:00.005+08:00

排練 —— 英文為 rehearsal, 有再聽一次 (re-hear)的含意；法文則為 repetition, 有反覆多次的意思。但我還是比較喜歡波蘭語的 próba。在字源上說，próba（排練）和 spróbować（嘗試）同根，反映一種重視劇場實驗探索的精神。反觀中文，「排練」一詞仿佛有安排、整理的意味。難道我們中國人相信好的戲劇是有規有矩、有條不紊的?

反覆練習的意義

起初到法國留學, 第一次聽到 repetition 這個詞時, 就覺得很奇怪. 難道在法國人眼中，排練只是不斷地「重複」演繹? 若是如此，哪裏有改進的可能？

不過，近年開始學太極，就發現不斷「重複」一些指定動作也不一定是件事。練習太極是非常奇怪的一回事，反反覆覆都是練一個套路。當然, 江南上套路千變萬化，一世都學不盡。但真正練功求精不求多, 重點是從反覆的練習過程中, 深化自己對套路的領悟。

正因為每清晨都是耍同一套動作, 才突現出一天與一天狀態的不同：這幾天睡眠不足,身體狀態差; 那個星期有演出, 精神難以集中。覺醒之後，方學到怎樣放下雜念，追求活在當下的「無極」和身心靈的純淨澄明。

對於演員, 尤其是舞台演員,「無極」的修煉是非學不可的。舞台演員不僅渴求一場無懈可擊的演出，而是每晚都要發揮出應有水平。反覆排練就是要讓演員鍛煉出穩定水準。無論白天與情人分手或和老板爭吵，晚上的表演都不容有失。演員的工作就是尋找劇場的當下。一齣豐富的劇，反複排練/演出是一個精彩的過程。演員會不斷發現一句台詞能夠包含的意思和可能性有多千變萬化，而不禁發出讚歎. 。

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畫家畢卡索(Pablo Picasso)就曾經說過：「糟的藝術家只會複製，好的藝術家則是偷取」.讀過 Anne Bogart 的 A Director Prepares: Seven Essays on Art and Theatre (Routledge, 2001) 的朋友會認到本週的靈感是從她偷取的.

A very rude audience

2009-09-24T22:54:00.010+08:00

When we started to get interviews for the current show, I got quite baffled by the general emphasis on this being a deaf production. Nine out of ten questions addressed to me were questions like, “What misunderstandings, problems or revelations have arisen from working as a hearing person in a deaf ensemble?”

These types of questions basically make me want to shake the reporter and say, Number 1, I think it is healthy to have disagreements in the creative process; and number 2, I’ve always thought of them as actors first and deaf second.

“Do you mean that you think it’s the same working with deaf people as hearing people?”

“No,” I’d say, “Of course it isn’t the same.” (Argh! Shake-shake-shake-shake-shake! Don't reduce what I am trying to say!)

Argh. I mean, obviously there are challenges of language, but it’s no more than working with people of different cultures. I guess I’ve been in so many situations (Linnan, Poland, Paris) where I didn’t speak the language very well that I’ve just learnt how to get around this and figure out ways to express what I want to say with simple words and the most direct means possible. Similarly, in Burnt Mango we work with people of different nationalities/mother tongues, so we’re pretty much used to translating and making sure that everyone gets included in the conversation.

But today I could really feel a difference between the fact that I could hear and the rest of the ensemble couldn’t. I can now finally answer the question, “What’s the most challenging thing you have found working as the only hearing person in a deaf ensemble?”

Our show opened today to a theatre of secondary school students. The whole theatre was packed, and when we turned on the UV lights, you could see the whole audience glow from a sea white uniforms. The students were an unruly bunch, somewhat hyper, and took to commenting (loudly) on the show while we were performing.

I was furious. The students obviously thought that because the performers couldn’t hear them, it was ok for them to talk during the performance. Little did they know that I could hear…

On the level of acting, it was interesting for me to see what I could do to adjust. Acting is, after all, a projection of energy and a manipulation of the audience’s attention. As the first person starting, for example, I took more time than usual and made my movements slower and more deliberate in order to dampen berserk energy. (Ideally, if I was the one calling the shots backstage, I would have refused to start until the audience was silent – something I do all the time as a teacher with unruly classes. I’ve learnt that waiting them out is usually more effective than yelling at them to be quiet, because when you set the norm of being calm.)

Actually, it felt a bit surreal to hear all those comments, and to know that I was the only one in the ensemble that could hear them. I really had to push myself to focus upon the reality of the play; and failing that, the next best thing is to channel my anger into my performance. So if my volcanoes were more explosive than usual, or my raptor more vicious, so much the better. This sort of scenario is a definite challenge to my professionalism (to deliver one’s best no matter how sucky the audience is), but on the other hand, it also crossed my mind: if theatre is a dialogue, what is the purpose of conversing if the other party is not ready to listen? I wonder if it had been my own production, if I would have had the guts to stop the show and say to the students, “Ok, this is out of bounds. We need some basic respect here.”

Of course, historically theatre audiences were pretty uncivilized. Even in Shakespeare’s time the pit of the Globe Theatre was full of rabble who would eat and chat while the show was going on, and throw things at the performers if they didn't like the show. So the norm of a polite, attentive audience is something that developed over time. Still, I’m pretty sure that the students would not have been so blatant if it had been a hearing ensemble, and that – for me, makes their behavior downright rude.

I was thinking, (unfortunately, during the performance, which almost made me miss a cue), how I would like to sit down and have a proper dialogue with the students. For example, one of the comments I heard a student say quite loudly during the scene where the dinosaurs were wiped out was「又死啊.. 死過又返生」(Not another death... just wait, they’re going to come to life again… ) . I actually think that this is an interesting observation, that throughout history things keep getting eaten and wiped out, and new life takes its place. I would have loved to address that student and say, “Well the question is, do you think we’re going to wipe ourselves out?”

But of course, the Q&A was not really a forum for proper dialogue, and for some reason, I also found it hard to speak. It felt much more natural to speak sign language, and be part of the ensemble.
I better get some rest. Tomorrow is another performance.

-----------------------------

「無言天地」劇團:《創世記》
Theatre of Silence's "Creation" has two student shows, but members of the public can join us on:
Saturday 26 Sept (8pm), Sunday 27 Sept (3pm) 2009
Ngau Chi Wan Civic Center
(I'm expecting the audience of the public performance to be more mature.)

The inconvenient actor

2009-09-21T12:40:00.011+08:00

I'm afraid that I'm a rather inconvenient actor. I have a tendency to think in director mode, which means that I tend to challenge things that ruffle my theatrical instincts.

Right now I’m working on a piece with Theatre of Silence (無言天地劇團). As the only hearing actress in a hearing-impaired ensemble, I’ve had to come up with a number of creative ways to make myself heard. When my rudimentary sign language fails me, I’ll bring in video clips or resort to e-mailing the directors. Sometimes we have a translator, but for the most part I’m on my own.

Sometimes I question: am I overstepping my boundaries as an actor ?
In the heat of creation, I wonder: Should I just shut up and do? Why am I bothering to fight for this?

The answer is really: because I can’t bear to see shoddy work. If we’re going to bring this on tour to the UK and Brazil, it even becomes an ethical issue. If we’re going to burn fossil fuels to fly this piece there, I have a responsibility (more than ever) to make this piece worth seeing.

Thankfully, the directors and ensemble have been patient and open to ideas from this rather vocal actress. It’s been a wonderful experience working with this group. There is so much laughter in rehearsals.

As we near production week, I notice myself turning off my director’s mind in order to commit to my job as an actor. There’s a delicious sense of freedom in doing this. (Actually, I need to do this. Acting isn’t something that comes naturally to me, and I realize that I’m pretty bad at unison work. I am the only goldfish whose thumbs are sticking out; or the wing in the airplane that is not flapping properly.)

By committing my work as an actor, something new happens. I’m suddenly aware of how I can transform the piece from the inside. I am no longer divided. I trust in the power of the ensemble.

Theatre creation has to be all or nothing.

Fame: a disquilibrium

2009-09-14T17:20:00.014+08:00

A man becomes famous when the number of people who know him becomes markedly greater than the number of people he knows. The recognition enjoyed by a great surgeon is not fame. He is admired by not by the public but by his patients, by his colleagues. He lives in equilibrium. Fame is a disequilibrium. "
– Milan Kundera, The Curtain.

One of the reasons that I finally left Linnan, the village in the hills where I spent my gap year, was that my fame was preceding me. Villagers that I came into everyday contact knew me, of course, and life proceeded as normal. But after the press got hold of the story, reporters started to trickle in. First the local papers, then the national papers, then the papers from HK, and a documentary team from RTHK. In general the reporters didn’t cause much disturbance -- they’d just turn up for an afternoon, and then life was pretty much back to normal again.

However, I began to get rather uncomfortable when I went to nearby villages (e.g., 油嶺which was a 3 hour hike away), and have villagers whom I have never met grasp my hand in gratitude for the work I was doing. I started to receive letters from admirers, including university guys who would send me their photos of them posing next to their bikes. When I turned on the radio one day, I was rather taken aback to hear a letter I’d written to my Primary 6 class read out in the air. Ok – I did post it on the classroom wall, so in all fairness it was in public domain. But still. Still.

Enough was enough. So I left.

Growing up as 周兆祥 (Simon Chau) ‘s daughter, our family has always had to deal with being semi-public. Dad would announce the arrival of some reporter or TV crew, and we’d have to all pitch in and get the house in a presentable state. (This usually involved throwing our mess under the table, into a cupboard, or somewhere upstairs)

In Club O, I can see people’s reactions to me change when they learn that I am my father’s daughter. So I generally keep it quiet; and anyway, those who come regularly on Thursday come to know me as me.

So in general, I do my best to keep my relationships in balance. It’s discomforting to have people relate to a fixed idea they have of me, rather than who I am right now. I have family friends who still think of me as the girl who went to China, and still dredge that up even though that was over ten years ago.

I was thinking about all this again this week because I got pleasantly surprised by my summer paycheck. I wrote on facebook, “Hofan earned enough money this summer to fund another theatre production.” The response I got from my family and friends was immediate and resounding. I don’t think I received so many comments and thumbs up in a short space of time.

The heroic narrative of “Hofan who has finally managed to figure out a way to do what she loves and make it financially viable” is undeniably potent. In retrospect, the audience came to see Berzerk! because of this. They didn’t come because they wanted to see their daily grind in the city put on stage, but because they were attracted by an ensemble who were proving that, “Yes, it is possible in Hong Kong to do what you love, and somehow make a living.” The excitement of someone, having next to no budget, no actors, nothing, but somehow believing that – through sheer will and the generosity of friends - this piece was going to happen was infectious.

But that was last year. It’s time to move on.

The trick is, I think, not to get stuck.

---

(Look back at it, the newspapers are pretty funny. The more sensational article is from 東方日報. The article in English is something I wrote for IB World (here in .pdf form)

Why I laugh in rehearsals

2009-09-02T05:58:00.015+08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see a performance of Jean Anouh’s Antigone by Theatre du Pif. It was a virtuoso performance – one that left me reeling and unready to go home. The air was palpable, and I needed some time to decompress.

As we sat there and watched the audience filter out of the theatre, Josh turned to me. “I noticed you were laughing during Creon’s scenes. Why did you laugh?”

Why did I laugh? Why do any of us laugh?

As I struggled for words, Josh tried to help me out.

“Was it because of his accent?”

I blinked at him.
Wow, I thought, After working together for half a year, how can you misunderstand me so completely?

My laughter would never be for something as petty as someone’s accent. Sure, I have the capacity to sneer at people (I’m no angel), but when I do, it’s the completely opposite state to this. When I am contemptuous of others, I close myself off and refuse to see their beauty. Whereas in this state of heightened attentiveness, my pores are completely open. I laugh and cry very very easily.

I remember that when I first fell in love, I was laughing constantly. In fact, for the first six months, Yoshi and I were in perpetual laughter. I’d open Yoshi’s letters and laugh, and laugh… not because his content was particularly funny, but because the way he phrased things was so Yoshi. Recognisably Yoshi.

Similarly, I laughed during the “rather serious” dialogue between Creon and Antigone because I recognised something so... stubbornly paternal in Creon. Even after he gets Antigone to capitulate, he can’t shut up.

Call it then, a laughter of recognition.

In the same way, when I direct, I hold nothing back. In the rehearsal room, I am in a very similar state to being in love -- I marvel at my actors; I revel in their essence. My job is to be their best audience, open and vulnerable to the recognition of truth.

Yes - sometimes I see bad theatre or dance in this open state, I have toxic reactions. I will start making strangling noises and begin foaming at the mouth. Obviously, this is generally considered impolite and I have to be restrained before I start banging my head against the nearest wall. But the source of this reaction also comes from a deep abiding love of the theatre. I once watched a terrible production where they tried to cut and paste tai chi and theatre together as some gimmick. I went to see it with my tai chi sifu – he was fine, but I was foaming at the mouth when we left. It really hurt me to see these two practices, so close to the bone, thus abused. Ok, deep breath. 退一步，海闊天空…

If you want to know me, you should know this about me, because it’s pretty fundamental. I need to laugh. When I work as a director, I need to laugh. But my laughter is never in personal. It may be at our egos, maybe at our stubbornness, but more probably because you did something that triggered off a powerful association. Actors who have worked with me before know that when I laugh, it's probably a very good sign.

My laughter is our barometer of truth. Censor my laughter, and I'm like a fish on a bicycle.

--
> Click to watch Jungle Train 5.0
This is a short piece we made for Concrete Jungle Berzerk!

Warning: contains inappropriate laughter.

外向 | 內向

2009-08-31T09:54:00.002+08:00

近年來覺得自己越來越內向. 內向的意思是指自己發覺有某些感覺說了出來是會變質的. 因此會更有選擇性地決定什麼是想分享的, 什麼是無必要分享的.

Osho曾說過 (這只是從我記憶轉述出來的): 「我不明白為什麼人會選擇隱藏自己不開心的一面而只分享他們高興的一面. 心理學告訴我們, 越被壓制的感覺反而會在我們的潛意識變得越來越強. 如果要抑壓自己的感覺, 不如選擇抑壓自己的開心吧!」

雖然不會花精神來特別「抑壓」什麼感覺, 但覺得 Osho 所說的有趣和總有點道理.藝術創作是將現實生活的素材轉化和濃縮的過程, 所以有一定的覆蓋才能產生必需的壓力.

是的, 戲劇是一種對外表達的媒介. 在很多人眼中表演是一個相當外向的事業. 但正正因為需要向外, 就更加需要向內. 一棵樹越要長高, 根就越要向下生長.

Hofan’s 52 week commitment

2009-08-23T18:36:00.006+08:00

i. I have decided to commit myself to write regularly in this space this year.

I’ve been teaching so much about writing this summer, and urging my students to write, write, write that it is time that I wrote some more myself; and to also hold myself somewhat accountable to the writing I produce.

So here’s the plan: publish something every Monday. Write something in Chinese once a month.

ii.
近日教英文寫作教得太多，覺得自己開始「講多過做」, 好像是時候以身作則了。
作為英文老師我會經常對學生說: 「想自己的英文好, 就要多讀、多講、多寫。最重要嘗試, 不要怕錯。學語言就是這樣。」
為了有權對他們的寫作有要求, 自己要做個好榜樣。因此我要求自己每個星期一在這裏刊登一篇（英文的）文章, 同時每個月寫一篇中文的條目。
大家都知道，我的中文比英文粗笨得多, 要拿着字典寫四十分鐘才寫到一小段出來。但如果連自己的母語都怕辛苦而不嘗試,怎對得住自己的學生? 就算自己寫的中文含有很多錯別字和奇怪的語法都要嘗試下去...
那麼一個月一次, 就讓大家笑吓吧...

iii.
It’s August already. I feel as if I’ve been running cross-country for the past eight months. I don’t know if you’ve ever run cross-country, but past a certain point I settle into a type of rhythm that allows me to chomp steadily at the path ahead of me. This is the point when my senses start to turn inwards, and my thoughts become slightly slippery.

For the past six weeks I have been teaching in the daytime and dreaming prolifically. It’s a wonderful, intoxicating mixture. When I teach, I am a miniature sun. My wit is devastating, mercurial, flick of the chameleons’ tail… I’m on the charm offensive. In order to come up with material for my classes, I’ve been reading voraciously. I’d be educating myself on universal health care in the morning, and Othello on the MTR home. The rule of thumb is: if you need to teach 1, you better have the background of 10. So I’m wolfing down all this material, marking papers, going to see Antigone, etc at night. My motor is primed, and yet at the same time, but I don’t have enough time to write down, express or even properly digest the multitude of thoughts and connections.

So under these bizarre conditions of many-thoughts and not-quite-enough-time, I have this immense desire to write. I feel as if I can take on the world. In fact, I feel as if I could even write a novel for National Novel Writing Month. And yet, I think: well, that's just avoiding the issue. Why don't you buckle down and finish the play that's been on the back burner? Or better still, organise your thoughts on theatre, teaching and tai chi in a regular fashion?

Ergo, write.