Susan McCormac 12/16/24 Susan McCormac 12/16/24

Sachiyo Ito’s Memoir: Chapter 12

In 2024 renowned dancer, dance educator, and choreographer Sachiyo Ito has been serializing her memoir on JapanCulture•NYC with monthly installments, each chapter revealing a different aspect of her early life in Tokyo and career in New York City.

Ito offers of a profound exploration of the experience of dedicating herself to traditional Japanese dance at an early age, arriving in New York City during the tumultuous ‘70s, and making a successful career in the arts. Each chapter offers a glimpse into the complexities that shaped her journey. It is a literary examination of not only Ito Sensei’s life, but of how New York City’s culture evolved over the decades and what sacrifices one must make to achieve a thriving career in the arts.

The memoir is an invitation to delve into the layers of a creative life and career that has spanned more than 50 years. As a work in progress, it is also an invitation for you to offer your feedback. Your insights will contribute to the evolution of this extraordinary work.

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

REFLECTIONS

With the time of reflection upon us, I realize there are many types of reflections, from mental contemplations to physical reflections. I would like to explore a few of them, not only because it's the closing time of the year, but also because I wish to announce the upcoming subjects of my memoir in the new year.

Although not an elaboration on a reflection of the year 2024, this chapter will be a reflection on oneself and then on the universe that surrounds us.

Tsuki no Akari Wa Shimiwatari

In 2005, for the 50th anniversary concert of my dance debut, I created a dance entitled Tsuki no Akari Wa Shimiwatari (The Moonlight Penetrates Through), using music with the same title by Himekami.

Placing the moon image high above the stage, my hand gestures focused on mirroring myself as if using two mirrors, one in front and one in back. Then, I used hands to symbolize the two human beings in the story of the dance. Just as important as the hands were the shadows reflected on the stage floor, from time to time with one shadow overlapping the other. The shadows, the ephemerals you cannot possibly capture, were all needed to tell the drama of the dance.

During the 1950s at the dance studio of my childhood teacher, there was no mirror. My teacher’s thought was that you should not be watching yourself dancing. According to her, to be conscious of your reflection in the mirror was not a good idea. I understood then that watching is a mental process, and so such intellectual activity is not dancing. This led me to discover what I consider the ideal state of performance. The best performance is when you are not conscious of yourself: You forget yourself, forget that you are the dancer. For me, the best performance is when I am not aware of myself, but I am just being in the dance, the body moving without thinking, without being dictated to even by the melody and rhythm. For your own body knows them. No mirror, no reflection of oneself is to be found here.

However, if we go back in Japanese history, we find a contradictory theory advocated by Zeami, the 14th century dramatist. He calls his theory “Riken no Ken” (“Viewing Oneself as Distant View”). It espouses an objective view: to be conscious of oneself analyzing one’s own performance. Can these two idealistic states co-exist?

Or perhaps he was talking about an even larger framework, that of the universe, and us under the stars, the moon, and sun. I wonder if we can step back while dancing, observe ourselves from all-encompassing angles, with the universe itself acting as our mirror?

宇宙よりおのれを見よと
いにしえの釈迦、
キリストもあはれ教えき
Look at yourself from the universe, just as taught by Buddha and Christ.
— 窪田空穂 Utsuho Kubota

Kubota’s haiku above shares his deep insight: Look at yourself as a part of, or from a bird’s-eye view of, the universe.

In contrast to the universe, humanity is so small, a tiny entity in the immeasurable universe that makes me feel faint, and our existence and the drama we create in our lives seems so small. Indeed, we are nothing but a speck of dust, even less than a speck of dust. { }

But often our dramas become so huge and tremendous, more than we can manage with our emotions. Then, here comes a question: Are we real, or in a dream, or nothing but dust? Are we watching shadows only, shadows we cannot possibly capture and hold, as in my dance?

Actually, here is another view we can explore. There is each individual’s unique universe that reflects himself, while on the other hand there is the universe that contains all that surrounds us, the whole of existence. The universe is composed of experiences, encounters, nature, smiles of children, my dog’s happy bark, the sun, the moon, and water. The universe is what nourishes us and what watches us. Will it expand year by year, or by the experiences we gain, or by what we learn? I ask myself, “Is that a beautiful one, the universe that reflects me?” Oh, I doubt that... But how could a universe so rich in stories and lovely moments be anything but beautiful?

After many years of creation, The Moonlight Penetrates Through comes to my mind as a new lens through which to view the end-of-year installment of my memoir: the hands, the mirrors, the reflection of myself, the other human beings, many other beings, the sentient and the non-sentient, and then the universe itself.

Now, take a big breath in and out. With a smile, let us welcome our new universe.

Wishing you all the brightest and most beautiful 2025!

Postscript

Sachiyo Ito will return with further chapters of her memoir in 2025, when she will discuss dance as a mirror reflecting culture, the backbone of her belief in dance for more than sixty years.

The posting of this chapter to JapanCulture-NYC.com was paid for by Sachiyo Ito and reprinted here with her permission. Susan Miyagi McCormac of JapanCultureNYC, LLC edited this chapter for grammatical purposes only and did not write or fact-check any information. For more information about Sachiyo Ito and Company, please visit dancejapan.com. ©Sachiyo Ito. All rights reserved.

Support JapanCulture•NYC by becoming a member! For $5 a month, you’ll help maintain the high quality of our site while we continue to showcase and promote the activities of our vibrant community. Please click here to begin your membership today!

Susan McCormac 11/25/24 Susan McCormac 11/25/24

Sachiyo Ito’s Memoir: Chapter 11

Chieko Genso — Photo by Ray Smith

This year renowned dancer, dance educator, and choreographer Sachiyo Ito has been serializing her memoir on JapanCulture•NYC with monthly installments, each chapter revealing a different aspect of her early life in Tokyo and career in New York City.

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

Poetry in Motion for the Time of Contemplation

Please Call Me by My True Names

In my memory, the bright morning sunlight during the walking meditation along the cliff over the Pacific Ocean was sublimely beautiful. In my mind’s eye, I look up at Rev. Hanh’s face as we walk up the hill, the brilliant sun shining behind him. Nowadays, this image returns to me on my morning walks with Joy, my dog. I must say it was the stroke of luck of a lifetime that I was able to meet Thich Nhat Hanh—the Zen monk, poet, and peace activist recommended for a Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King Jr. in 1967—and get to know his teachings.

My first retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh and his sangha was in 1990 at the University of California at Santa Barbara. Although I am not a Buddhist, his teachings and poems have greatly influenced my work. It was he who inspired me to begin choreographing dances to poetry, which I began to do from then on. It was at this retreat that I also met Sister Chan Khong, a longtime associate of Rev. Hanh’s. She was kind enough to set aside time to meet with me so that I could show her the dances I choreographed and gain approval to show them publicly. Happily, this permission was granted.

I presented dances based on Rev. Hanh’s poems for the first time at my concert Dedicated to World Peace in 1991 at the Clark Studio Theater at Lincoln Center.

The main poem I choreographed for the concert was Please Call Me by My True Names, which appeals to the interconnectedness of all beings, both sentient and insentient. I titled my dance, though, An Invitation to Bell. The title may sound strange, but my intention was to ring the bell in a gentle manner, rather than by striking it, and to invite people to listen to the sound of the bell. The bell would signal the start of an interactive walking meditation, a time for us to pause and focus on breathing.

Through audience participation in the walking meditation, I hoped that Thich Nhat Hanh's call for humanism was heard and felt. I titled the concert Dedicated to the World Peace to reflect Hanh’s message calling for compassion, reconciliation, and inner harmony and held it on the weekend celebrating Martin Luther King Jr., who supported Hanh’s work.

Although the theme of the concert was sweeping and grand, one small, very human moment stands out to me. The Clark Studio Theater was small with a capacity of 100, but well equipped with lights and a high ceiling, which made set designer Bob Mitchell’s magical ball descending onto my hand possible in the piece “Moon Child.” For the stage set of Please Call Me by My True Names, I had to bring bamboo sticks, more than eight feet long, that would hold scrims across the stage horizontally and vertically. It was quite a trip to carry them from the shop to the theater. Somehow, I got them into the subway train!

Looking back on it now, I think that world peace was too big a subject for only a minor dancer to advocate for.

Spoken Poetry

Then I had the good fortune to meet Kim Rosen, who performs spoken word poetry, and Jami Sieber, a cellist, and collaborate with them for the 15th Anniversary Concert of Salon Series in 2013. I met them at one of the retreats they were offering, and a few years later I invited them to the concert. Luckily, they were able to combine an East Coast visit with their tour schedule and were able to participate.

I was used to poems, when spoken aloud, being referred to as “recitations.” Kim did not call her work “recited,” but rather “spoken” – “spoken poetry.” She would memorize poems and speak in a very moving manner, powerful enough to send us listeners into tears. With Jami’s cello providing a beautiful accompaniment, Kim’s speaking was deeply touching. Together, they offer workshops for healing around the country.

Thereafter, I presented a series of choreographies to recited or spoken poems.

In 2010 I presented “Poetry in Motion” at Joyce Soho, based on poetry including not only Hanh, but those of others as well: Neruda, Mary Oliver, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Rumi. These dances were accompanied by percussionists Yukio Tsuji and Egil Rostad. Singers Beth Griffith and Elizabeth Knauer recited the poems, including my favorite Chieko-sho, which you may remember from previous chapters. The poem Only Breath by Rumi inspired me for its cross-cultural work where the human spirit gathers as one. Different ethnic dance forms represented cultures across the world, including Indian, Russian, ballet, and contemporary dance. To represent Japan, I chose a karate master, Tokumitsu Shibata, who impressed both artists and the audience as he combined karate with my choreographed movements so well that it was simply amazing. The concert was one of the most exciting collaborations of my career.

Renku and Dance

Inspired by the teaching and poetry of Rev. Hanh, I began a work combining haiku, walking meditation, and dance. Walking meditation requires quieting and focusing the mind, which also helps in both the composition of haiku and the creation of dance. I began presenting this as a workshop at spiritual retreats, such as Dai Bosatsu Zendo.

The most memorable venue where I gave this workshop was the Morikami Museum and Japanese Gardens in Florida, where I had been previously invited to perform Japanese dance at local art galleries as well as Delray College.

“Ito danced to a haiku written by suburban Delray Beach resident Douglas Davy.
’She was very deliberate,’ he said. ‘You could watch a performance, but it’s taking something written and interpreting it . . . It was extraordinary.’”

— Quote- Michelle Mundy, The Palm Beach Post, March 8, 2002 Source

By my third visit to the Museum in 2002, the facility had been beautifully renovated, including the addition of a Japanese garden. My program was titled “Walking Meditation, Poetry, and Dance.” I conducted the walking meditation for participants in the auditorium, then continuing into the outdoors and around the garden; this stroll would serve as the basis for the haiku composed later. Upon returning to the theater in the museum, I improvised dances to the haiku stanzas presented by the audience. The pine trees in the Japanese garden were just as magnificent as those we see in Japan and proved to be very inspiring for the composition of haiku. The breeze through the pines was so lovely that it brought to mind the line, “Rustles of the wind, or whispers of the pines…” from the Noh play Matsukaze (Pine Wind).

In 2003, the program An Evening of Renku and Dance, held at Japan Society in collaboration with the Northwest Conference of Haiku Society of America, was the beginning of my collaboration with Haiku Society of America. Six poets, along with three musicians and I, were on stage, ready to improvise on whatever haiku the poets might compose. We concluded the program with a haiku from a member of the audience. It was a humorous one, written by a lady from India, about a bug in the head! And so, my dance was humorous as well. After the performance, she gave me a beautiful red silk Indian scarf, a gift I cherished for many years. I was happy and perhaps a little relieved as the program ended with a lot of smiles.

The collaboration with Haiku Society of America did not end at the Japan Society concert in 2003, but continued through 2023 in my Salon Series, led by Penny Harter, John Stevenson, and the late William Higginson.

To collaborate with me on linking renku and dances requires the ability to write haiku on the spur of the moment while watching my dance. For this improvisation of dance and stanzas, spontaneity is the essence of the endeavor, rather than contemplation. It requires a genius to write a stanza on the spot, making a quick decision on the choice of words upon observation of the dance. I must bow to all three poets, who so effortlessly showcased this skill. Bill was a prolific writer, instrumental in introducing haiku to the Western world, while his wife, Penny, was more than a haiku poet. Although their penmanship is unbelievably prestigious, they were incredibly kind and generous in supporting my work and collaborating with me on Renku and Dance in my Salon Series. As for John, he has been with me all these years, a partner in words and footsteps. My gratitude to him and my respect to his haiku and scholarship as a writer, thinker, and poet is more than I can express. His haiku is often humorous, yet it has a deep, humane touch. His essay in my Salon program on the theme of resonancewas incredibly insightful:

“There is no meaning to light without darkness, no meaning to darkness without light. Conflict, however, is not the only way of looking at these mutually dependent aspects of reality. A great deal of their interaction is characterized by harmony and resonance.”

One of my favorite haiku by John, chosen from among far too many, is this:

A deep gorge...
Some of the silence
is me
— John Stevenson
Geppo, July/August 1996

John would gather his friends from the Haiku Society of America for my programs and come down from Ithaca, where he lives, by train for the day to join the program. Hence, our Renku and Dance were held several times across the decades of the Salon Series and featured in the Salon Series finale as well. I was so pleased that John could join us for the final program.

Renku and Dance inspired the workshop Dance and Poetry of Japan, held at senior centers in Chelsea and the West Village in New York. Participated in by seniors who love poetry or Japanese arts and culture, the program has been repeated for the past four years. The seniors are great composers of haiku, and they bravely answer the challenge to make Japanese dances based on haiku and renku. Together, we share our life stories, inspired by our poetry composing process and dancing. We converse about our histories, the countries we come from, and through the poetry we create, we find ties that connect us across ethnicity and culture, rather than boundaries that separate us. Together, we come up with new dances to illustrate our poems. Watching the seniors learn new forms of dance is simply amazing. I call them seniors, but their interest and curiosity keep them young at heart, which is a valuable lesson for us all. The ephemeral quality that is shared by poetry and dance, particularly Japanese dance with its subtle evocativeness and suggestiveness, gives us a vast possibility of expression, of ways to tell the stories of our lives. It is something I am thankful to have discovered in my life.

Listening to Sand
pouring sand
from one palm to the other— she listens
foam slips
from a clam shell, sand draining with it
carried out above
the sea, sand drops from a gull's cry
at the sea's edge her feet slap the sand-breaking waves
listening to sand she remembers night wind—
dune grasses yielding
— Penny Harter for Sachiyo Ito, written during her dance to Chieko: The Elements (Chieko: Genso)
Copyright © 2008 Penny Harter

Susan McCormac 10/11/24 Susan McCormac 10/11/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: CHAPTER 10

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

The Cranes

“Yume (Dream), the closing piece for this program, is a remarkable signature piece for Ms. Ito’s dancing and acting. It is a poem in movement and truly shows the wide range of Ms. Ito’s knowledge and abilities.”

— Mme. Peff Modelski - Attitude, Winter 1997/98

In Chapters 6 and 7, I explored the theme of transformation through dance. In Chapter 7, I discussed a transformation from a beautiful being into an ugly one: the lovely maiden turning into a hideous snake in the Dojoji story. But what about transformations going the other way, from the mundane to the ephemeral – like in a dream, where you trade your arms for wings and fly?

Birds hold a universal fascination for mankind. They are depicted in poetry, painting, and song across cultures. We watch them in their migrations, knowing as they fly overhead that the season is about to change. In the West, the official bird of October is the swan. In Japan, the birds that represent elegance and quintessential beauty are also waterfowl: the tsuru (crane) and sagi (heron). They are highly valued for their purity of color and the graceful sweep of their wings in flight. Another bird that is prevalent in Japanese art is the white-fronted goose, often depicted flying through the skies of autumnal paintings.

In the Kabuki dance Azuma Hakkei (The Eight Beauties in the East), geese become messengers of love when a character in the dance entrusts them with his love letter. What an enchanting idea it is! In another Kabuki dance, Fuji Musume (Wisteria Maiden), geese play an important role. At the end of the dance, the lyrics of the music describe the flight of the geese in the twilight sky:

空も霞の夕照りに
名残惜しむ帰る雁がね　
The sky is hazy and the evening light is glowing,
the geese return home reluctantly.

We are left with a lovely and memorable image, an appropriate farewell to the end of the dance. The words “returning geese” make me wonder where they are going as I raise a hand to view them. Is this gesture a metaphor for two lovers returning to their home?

Hiroshige ukiyo-e painting in Omi Hakkei

As I child, I used to dream of flying. I was not transformed into a winged bird, but into Ten’nyo, the angelic figure depicted on the ceiling of Todai-ji Temple in Nara. There are many ways to analyze the psychology of flying dreams, but the only premise that resonates with me is that of freedom.

When I was young, I did not carry the pressures and worries that I do as an adult. My subconscious, unencumbered by responsibilities, must have taken flight very easily. Since then, I have loved “the flying in dancing,” whether classical, Kabuki dances, or my own works.

I choreographed flight in Chieko: The Element, the dance I created based on the work Chieko-sho (Collection of Poems for Chieko) by Kotaro Takamura. In one of the poems in the collection, “Lemon Elegy,” there is a line: “Chieko flies!” I had my singers sing this in a high-pitched voice, almost like an exclamation. In Chieko’s case, flying was a metaphor for leaping into a realm of insanity. I envisioned my own movements as that of a white bird, flying into the black space beyond the stage, the darkness of the theater becoming a spiritual world separated from reality. I believe that Kotaro wanted to express that Chieko found release from the worries and responsibilities she carried as a woman, wife, and artist in her flight. In doing so, he placed her on an eternal pedestal; in another poem, he expressed, “Chie-san, you are young forever.”

Other expressions of emancipation can be found in dances and plays in the genre of Kyoran-mono (the insanity pieces) in Kabuki plays, in which the protagonist loses his mind. My favorite is Onatsu Kyoran (Onatsu the Insane), the famous work created by Tsubouchi Shoyo in 1914. I performed it at Pace University Theater in 2004. This performance was a dream come true for me. Not only was I able to invite Shogo Fujima, a renowned dancer, to come to New York from Japan as a guest artist, but I was able to rent the exact same costumes from the original production from the Shochiku Kabuki Costume Shop.

While the portrayal of an insane character may suggest frenzy and ugliness in Western theater, in Japanese classical theater, an otherworldly, ephemeral beauty is a hallmark of insanity. I often think that we dancers are very fortunate to be able to transform ourselves into such characters.

*Sagi Musume* (*The Heron Maiden*) at Mitsukoshi Theater, Tokyo

The first Kabuki dance I performed that was inspired by birds was Sagi Musume (The Heron Maiden) at Mitsukoshi Theater in Tokyo in 1968. Beloved from its first presentation in 1761, Sagi Musume has been recreated many times. The mystery of whether the heroine is a woman or a heron unfolds as she moves from joy to despair, before suffering her final fate in Hell. The white color of the heron suggests the innocence of a young lady before she experiences the turbulent emotions of a love affair, while the snow functions as a metaphor for both purity and the fleetingness of love as it melts away. The weight of the heroine’s thoughts is reflected in the heaviness of the snowfall, amplifying the drama of the Hell scene at the end, as the snow falls on the suffering heron. Since then, I have performed this piece numerous times in the U.S., and the long white sleeves and trailing hem of the costume have turned gray from brushing the floors of so many stages.

Performing *Sagi Musume* for Japan Society. Photo by Thomas Haar

My first original work with birds as a theme was Crane, which I presented at the 25th anniversary concert celebrating my American debut. This dance was inspired by one of my greatest supporter’s love for the red-crowned crane, one of Japan’s most beloved animals. I met Mary Griggs Burke at the celebration of her 75th birthday in 1991, which also commemorated her acquisition of a painting of a scene from Ibaraki, a well-known dance drama in Noh and Kabuki.

With Mrs. Burke at the post-performance reception of the 25th anniversary concert in 1997

The theme of the painting was a transformation of an old woman to a demon, so I created an infernal dance, accompanied by two dancers from my company. I had fractured my foot a few days before the performance, but knowing that the show must go on, I danced regardless and did not let anyone know of my injury until after the evening was over. You can imagine Mrs. Burke’s surprise when she found out after the party.

Over the following years, Mrs. Burke’s support for my work was very important. After the 25th anniversary concert, held at Florence Gould Hall in 1997, she held a very special reception and tea ceremony at her residence for my guests.

Mrs. Burke was also a supporter of both the International Crane Foundation in the U.S. and the Japanese Crane Foundation. With her love of these beautiful birds combined with her love of Japanese art, she amassed a fabulous collection of screens depicting cranes from the Edo era, created by artists in the Rinpa school of painting.

When the International Crane Foundation in Wisconsin held a celebration for her 80th birthday in 1996, I was invited. I was thrilled to create another crane dance, this time based on the folktale Yuzuru (Twilight Crane). It was a magical evening. I had a special crane costume made with one white, sheer sleeve designed in the shape of a wing. In the story, the heroine first appears as a woman, although her true form is a crane. In the end, she returns to her avian form. I wanted to represent the character’s half-humanness to the audience with the sleeves’ one wing – to capture the essence of being caught between two worlds. The entire outdoor stage was dark but for a single bright streak of light. I felt as if I were entering a void in the darkness of that space, about to step into an infinite universe at the end of the dance.

Two decades later, in the installment of the Salon Series that introduced Japanese folk tales, I choreographed another Twilight Crane, accompanied by a flute and an ancient koto. Inspired by a Chinese Opera costume, I had the special sleeves designed as wings for my costume. I also invited a weaver to the program. After giving a demonstration of weaving on her loom, the same type used by the crane in the story, she became a part of the performance by being cast as a shadow. In the original tale, the crane, living as a human, secretly pulls out her feathers to make a beautiful fabric that her husband can sell in the market. I was very fortunate to be able to borrow the weaver’s piece of fabric to use as that woven by the crane. At the end of the piece, the wing-sleeves became large as I spread them, affecting a farewell gesture as the heroine departs the earth, abandoning her life as a human to return to her true form as a crane.

In 2008, I created a dance of cranes for a trio set to a modern koto composition by Sawai Tadao, Tori no Yohni (Just Like Birds), for dance students at Stephens College, where I was a visiting professor. These pieces were choreographed in a contemporary rather than a classical style. I was extremely happy with the result as the students, all trained ballet and modern dancers, performed so beautifully. It was also a lot of fun to go to local stores and choose fabric for costumes with the director of the costume department. I was very lucky to be invited to teach at a college that has such well-established and longstanding theater and dance departments. They make every effort to create the best college production possible and present them with great pride.

One of my most poignant performances came in October 2020. Salon Series No. 67: Prayer for Healing and Peace once more featured cranes as the central theme. In Japan, cranes are the symbol of longevity, healing, and happiness. Over the course of that spring and summer, we had watched the world come to a halt, overcome by disease. In spite of the pandemic, I decided to present the program. Of course, the circumstances of the lockdown necessitated that the performance had to be livestreamed, a first for my company.

As a prayer for the victims of COVID, I offered the dances Dedication, and Seiten no Tsuru (Cranes in the Blue Sky), performed by two of my dancers and me. The program also featured an origami demonstration by Colin McNally, whom I met during my Free Children’s Workshop program. Among the schools where I gave workshops in 2019 was the Beginning with Children Charter School in Brooklyn, where I taught Mr. McNally’s students. In 2020, hearing that he and his class had completed the senbazuru project, or one thousand folded paper cranes, I invited him to participate in the Salon Series program. Folding one thousand paper cranes has come to invoke well wishes of healing and recovery for those who are ill.

Mr. McNally was happy to talk about his senbazuru project for cancer survivors, and he showed us how to fold a paper crane. I also discussed twelve-year-old Sadako Sasaki, who famously set out to fold one thousand cranes after being diagnosed with leukemia as a result of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Her memorial at Hiroshima Peace Park is now covered with paper cranes from around the world. The program ended with my friend and guest artist Beth Griffith, a wonderful singer and actor, singing “Amazing Grace” as a light to guide our healing in the darkness of the pandemic.

Like the birds, we perform migrations of our own over the course of our lives – evolving from carefree dreamers to responsible adults who light the way for those who come after us. My journey began as my dream, then dancing as a crane, then evolving to a Salon Series, Prayers and Healing though Symbolism of Cranes. Was it a long flight, you might ask? Actually, it was a quick trip for seventy years – almost like being in a dream.

Susan McCormac 9/22/24 Susan McCormac 9/22/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: CHAPTER 9

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

Rocky’s Kabuki to Montevideo

During my career, I was privileged to perform extensively beyond New York and the United States to other parts of the globe.

For the month of September, as we embrace autumn transitions to new opportunities, exciting times at school, and new friendships, I would like to share with you in Chapter 9 these treasured experiences and encounters that have touched my heart and strengthened my mission.

Kabuki in the American West

“Rocky’s Kabuki” was the eye-catching title of the article in the Billings Gazette announcing my performance at Rocky Mountain College in Montana in 1985. It illustrated how rarely Kabuki and Kabuki dances were seen in the West. Of course, even in New York City during the 1970s when I began performing, Kabuki and Kabuki dances were still a little-known theater and dance form.

My tour of the American West, covering the states of Montana, Idaho, and Arizona, was sponsored by The Institute for Studies in the Humanities in Ogden, Utah, and supported by the Asia Society and Japan-US Friendship Commission. The Director of the Institute, Dr. Carol Browning, accompanied me throughout the tour. The colleges I visited were Rocky Mountain College in Billings, College of Great Falls in Great Falls, Carroll College in Helena, the College of Idaho in Caldwell, Northwest Nazarene College in Nampa, and Grand Canyon College in Phoenix. In all of these places, the staff did their best to accommodate my requests to make the performance possible: things such as having an assistant in the dressing room and cleaning the stage. Even with their enthusiastic help, I wound up performing what I called the “Mop Dance” – the school auditoriums were so dirty that the hems of my kimono, as they trailed along the stage floor, became as soiled as a mop! I remember that at one of the colleges, a staff member was cleaning the floor with an old mop while wearing his outside shoes. He beamed a huge smile at me as he cleaned and said, “You can see I’ve cleaned it nicely for you!” I could only smile in return and thank him while I wondered to myself if I could afford to have the Wisteria Maiden costume remade for me by the Shochiku Kabuki Costume Shop in Tokyo. It was very worrying, for Kabuki costumes are dreadfully expensive, and I thought that the hem would wind up ruined.

It is well known that the Japanese take their shoes off upon entering a house, as a sense of cleanliness is an important element in Japanese culture. It is less known that in the traditional theater, the stage is considered to be sacred; for our dance, music, and drama began as offerings to divinity, and so the stage must be especially clean, pure, and pristine. Experiencing the cavalier way Americans treat their stages was something of a shock.

Before the tour, I had thought my performances were meant only for the students and professors on campus, but it turned out that the entire community in the areas of these states was invited. It was so wonderful to exchange conversations with so many people from so many different walks of life! It was very nice to talk to those who had visited Japan and would love to go there again.

Although the art form was unfamiliar to them, I must say that those who attended my performances in the West, both students and from the community, were all very patient as they waited through the several costume changes during the performance. I hope that they at least found the narration about Japanese dance and culture in between each dance informative enough to make up for the waits!

Genius and Genesis in Kabuki Show
“To see Ito dance is to be transported across time and distance, and to become a witness to centuries of precision in drama and movement.”
— Peter Fox, Billings Gazette Regional Editor (Review at College of Great Falls), 1985

Introduction to Germans: Bonn International Tanz Workshop

“Sachiyo Ito proved herself to be a master of the Noh and Kabuki dance forms and the illusive beauty and poetry of these over-400-hundred-year-old art forms…Miss Ito garnered warm applause for this guided glimpse into Fairyland.”

— Daily Gazette, 1983

In 1983 my travels took me to Germany to host a workshop for two weeks. The workshop, directed by Fred Traguth, was kicked off with a performance, which was the most challenging aspect of the entire trip, since I had not slept for over twenty-four hours as I flew to the city of Bonn. The two-week workshop turned out to be a great experience for me, though. One of the things that impressed me was the students’ attentiveness to details: They followed all instructions very carefully. They paid very close attention as I taught them how to fold kimono, and they all learned it perfectly after only one demonstration! The Germans I met were immaculate, precise, and orderly, but they loved to have fun, too. My new friends all loved wine, which surprised me, because most Japanese people think that beer is the German drink of choice.

Alaska and Touring with AllNations Dance Company

Sachiyo Ito told a story of Urashima in dance... For many it was the first opportunity to see Japanese dances and understood why less is more . . . Hiroshige print come to life!”
— Judith Boothby, Dance Magazine, April 1975

From 1973 through the mid-80s, I toured with AllNations Dance Company. AllNations was directed by Herman Rottenberg, a lifelong board member of the International House at Columbia University. Herman, or “HR” as we lovingly called him, and Chuck, our beloved stage manager, were the backbones of the company. Dancers, director, and stage manager worked together seamlessly, and we made a great team. There are so many memories that I cherish from my days touring with them.

I have already shared a couple of stories from the AllNations tours, but there are many others. In Alaska, we performed in Anchorage, the state’s most populous city. We also performed in small towns such as Kodiak and Sitka, where we were treated to a special dinner of moose burgers! The fact that the burgers were made of moose meat was not the only thing we found surprising – the sheer amount of them was amazing. We were served a huge pile of burgers, nearly four feet high. It looked to me to be a Christmas tree made out of burgers! Our hosts thought that dancers were big eaters, since dance is so physically challenging, and we received the meal with deep gratitude.

The AllNations tour was not the only time I visited Alaska. I had given a solo performance at the University of Alaska at Anchorage, and a board member of the Anchorage School District invited me to give workshops in several schools as a resident artist for three weeks. I was given a small house during the residency, which was the smallest I have ever seen, but it came equipped with a garage. Everyone in Alaska told me to come during the summer, when the weather was so nice, but the way the timing worked out, the residency took place in January, in the depths of winter. I had never experienced before such cold temperatures and such dark days. While I was there, the temperature got as low as minus 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Every morning at 8:00 a.m. I was picked up to go to school, and I arrived home by 4:00 p.m. It was dark when I left the house, and it was dark when I returned. It was easy for me to understand the high rate of depression in the state, but seeing the bright smiles of my students every morning brought back the feeling of sunshine and made me very happy! I was impressed by how well Alaskans handled the cold and the dark, but I was also impressed by how well they handled the snow. Making a trip to the grocery store was an almost unimaginable experience. There was so much snow, and I had to shovel it all to keep the garage and driveway clear. It was the first time I had had to shovel snow in my life – you see, I am a city girl from Tokyo. Not knowing how to shovel snow, I wound up with my first-ever backache. Upon my return to New York, I had to see a chiropractor and spent everything I earned on medical treatment.

While touring with AllNations, I never had to shovel snow, and for that I was very thankful! However, that didn’t mean that there were not any problems. In one chaotic incident, some of our luggage was lost as we flew between cities. Unfortunately, this luggage contained the costumes for our performances. Thinking fast, we changed the program and improvised a few things to ensure that the performance would be on time and smooth. With only a few minutes to go before the curtain rose, we were feeling proud of ourselves for our grace and composure under pressure. Suddenly, the luggage arrived, and we switched back to our original performance plan! Even though the performance was saved by the timely arrival of our costumes, we learned a valuable lesson about adapting quickly to unexpected circumstances.

Speaking of unexpected circumstances: One year, our tour stopped in Maine in the middle of spring. It was late enough in the year that our hotel didn’t have heat. This wasn’t a problem except that during our visit, it became unusually cold. When we went to sleep at night, we had to put our costumes over ourselves to keep warm. Costumes to the rescue once more.

After Alaska, the cold couldn’t dampen my spirits, but being spotted by an immigration officer in Portland did. I was buying stamps at the local post office when the officer started to question me. He escorted me back to our hotel to check my ID and the performance permit, which was held by our stage manager. Everything was fine, but it was quite scary to be questioned by a government official. In the end, though, our trip to Maine was a very positive one. The incident with the immigration officer can never spoil my memories of Maine’s incredible natural beauty, especially one of a lovely rainbow over the rocks and waves at Bar Harbor.

In Urashima, the dance mentioned in the review above, you need to toss and catch fans; it’s a very tricky move. There is a film of the Kabuki dance Momiji-gari (Maple Leaf Hunting), performed by Ichikawa Danjuro the 9th, the legendary Kabuki actor. During the filming he dropped the fans but didn’t want to reshoot the footage. He expressed that the successful tossing and catching of the fans is not as critical to a performance as one might think, since there is much more to the art of dance than performing a successful maneuver. In all my performances of Urashima, I had never dropped the fans. Not in Maine, not at Japan Society, and not during my Salon Series performances – until this past January, when I missed catching them during my performance at the annual New Year’s Dance Party which I host for my students. Although we know that showing off is not good, we still want to succeed in our endeavors, particularly as we are not the great Danjuro.

We were so young and fearless back in those days. I am grateful for the time we shared together.

South American Tour

In 2006, I visited four countries in South America on a tour sponsored by the Japan Foundation of Japanese Foreign Ministry. This once-in-a-lifetime experience took me to Chile, Argentina, Paraguay, and Uruguay. On this tour I was accompanied by my two best students, Jamie and Minako, and our performance program was a unique mix of Japanese dance and Okinawan court dance.

We had been warned about the tight security measures we could expect before we departed the United States, and we experienced them as soon as we disembarked the airplane in Chile. It took more than an hour for us to get through customs as they carefully checked our luggage. Border security agents opened each bag of costumes and props. I was incredibly nervous, not because we were carrying anything that would land us in trouble, but because each piece had been meticulously packed to avoid damage – many of the stage props were very fragile.

Our first performance was at the University of Chile, and there I was impressed by the staff sent by the Japanese Embassy to help us, as they were so considerate, taking their shoes off to clean the stage just as if we were in Japan. More specifically, the embassy staff, my dancers, and I worked together to do Zokingake (a way of cleaning the floor with a wet cloth while on your knees). Later, we gave a performance at the Ambassador’s residence, which was a perfect setting for Japanese classical dance, including the lovely gold screens.

We did not have the time to do any actual sightseeing, but in between the three performances we gave, we were able to walk around the city of Santiago a little bit. The sky and the mountains were so beautiful and striking, with streets dotted with sculptures. I would love to revisit and see more of the lovely city someday.

After Chile, the next stop on our tour was Argentina. While Brazil has the largest number of Okinawan immigrants in South American, Argentina is home to the second largest Okinawan population on the continent. Although Okinawa lies far across the Pacific Ocean, I learned how strong the Okinawan identity is and how tight the unity of the community is, held together greatly by their traditional arts of music and dance.

In Buenos Aires, we performed at the Okinawa Kenjin-kai Kaikan, or the Okinawan Association Building. The size of the building was impressive: it was three stories tall and included a concert hall, lecture hall, classrooms for Okinawan Karate, and a restaurant. During our stay, we were treated to wonderful food, but the best dish of all – the best Okinawan dish I have had in my life – was at that very restaurant!

I gave my first lecture and demonstration over the course of almost three hours, as the interpreter translated my words from English to Spanish, and then translated back and forth during the Q&A portion. This was a huge challenge as I had had barely any sleep before the presentation due to flight changes and airport delays, but I was very pleased by the eagerness of the audience and the warm welcome they afforded me. The attendance at our performance the next day exceeded expectations, attracting not only Okinawan immigrants and those in second and third Okinawan immigrant generations, but those with other ethnic backgrounds as well. Afterward, we joined the audience at a lovely reception with an array of Okinawan food. I must add that the ladies of the Association were a tremendous help. Even though we did not ask them to, they came to our assistance with hairstyling and costume changes. Without them, the success of our performance would not have been possible.

We finally got to do a little bit of sightseeing in Argentina. A very big treat was to see a performance of tango in San Telmo, the neighborhood where tango was born.

Over the entire tour, we had only one upset. Jamie, one of my dancers, was initially not allowed to cross the border from Argentina into Paraguay, as she was required to present a visa to enter Paraguay. Minako and I were allowed, as holders of Japanese passports, to enter without a visa; Jaime, a holder of an American passport, was not. We had to leave without her while she waited for extra documentation which was quickly arranged by the Japanese consulate. She caught up to us the next day, and it was such a relief! I was glad she was safe and back with our group. The quick thinking on the part of the Japanese consulate had also allowed us to keep to original performance schedule, as she was able to arrive before performances started. I was also very happy to hear that she had spent a wonderful day sightseeing in Buenos Aires.

The TV studio in Asuncion, Paraguay, where I had an interview and showed a short dance, had set up for a coffee commercial shoot. I picked up a cup and posed with a smile; I hope it helped the Café commercial!

Paraguay was a delightful country. While there, we enjoyed meeting with students at the Nihongo Gakko (Japanese Language School). What a surprise it was to see so many youngsters studying Japanese!

Our performances here were held to suit the Paraguayan lifestyle, with the show starting late as 9:00 p.m. We would finish the performance close to 11:00 p.m., and after tidying up, we would get back to the hotel around 1:00 a.m. I found these late nights to be brutal. On our last night, after only one hour of sleep (but really, no sleep) we left for the airport; after the next flight, another long lecture and demonstration was waiting. All I could think of were the words uttered by my neighbor, a French mom: “You do what you got to do!”

The last meal of our tour was at the Ambassador’s residence in Uruguay. The resident cook was Thai and had studied Japanese cooking. The presentation was so beautiful and authentically Japanese – better than we had seen in Japanese restaurants – that Minako, who acted as a photo-recorder of our tour, took many pictures of the dishes. The Ambassador’s wife treated us with a special Japanese sweet, highly prized even in Japan itself: Toraya’s Yokan. For her to share such a rare delicacy with us, sent from halfway across the globe, showed her amazing kindness, and we enjoyed it with profound gratitude. Oh, it was so sweet and delicious!

Congreso Mundial

In 2009, I performed in Spain at an event sponsored by the International Dance Council of Spain/UNESCO, a conference of dance history and dance culture. I performed during an evening program with several other dancers from around the globe. It was wonderful to see dances from other ethnicities while I waited for my turn. It was there that I met the Russian gypsy dancer Julia Kulakova, who would later dance in three of my Salon Series programs as a guest artist. I never imagined such a chance meeting would lead to our delightful collaborations.

During the all-night dance performances, I found myself drawn to Flamenco dance. The most striking dance I saw was performed by a solo Spanish dancer. Her beautiful features were set off by the white pantalone she wore, and rather than the commonly used castanets, she used a cane to create the rhythm of her dance. It had a masculine quality to it, which fascinated me, as it was a stark contrast to Japanese classical dance. Her white shawl against the dark blue of the night sky was so picturesque and is vivid in my memory. To me, the color of the dance evoked by Flamenco is red. But in this case, white, with its neutral quality, evoked a controlled passion rather than the exuberance we usually see. The contrasting expressions of Japanese and Flamenco dance lingered in my mind for the rest of the night, together with that of the beautiful image of the moon against the clear sky.

In all of these places, I was blessed with the opportunity to introduce my art form, sharing its beauty all the while discovering new ways to look at the art through the lenses of different cultures.

At the Airport

While we waited in the Florida airport for our connecting flight to New York after the South American tour, the words Kawara Kojiki (Riverbank Beggar), which I wrote about in Chapter 1, came to my mind. Even though I was called a Kawara Kojiki in a derogatory way, I didn’t mind because it only meant a traveling artist, and I knew the history: It was the term used for the very founder of Kabuki, Okuni, and for the dancers who came after her. Also, the importance of the role of itinerant performers, who placed the cornerstones in the foundation of Japanese performing arts, was inarguable to me. I would be happy to be one of them.

Furthermore, great poets and monks, from Saigyo to Basho, and many more were lifelong travelers. They found not only the truth of life but a home in the natural places they visited on their travels. Traveling was the quest of life.

But it is sad and lonely not to have a home, to be a rootless traveler. The loneliness of the traveler inspired myriad poems and literature, and it seems almost to be a central theme in the Japanese poetry and essays and travelogues.

My friend Jun Maruyama was not a poet, but he sent lines almost like a poem on a postcard from Cape Tappi. He poignantly wrote:

“Cape Tappi is crying with wind,
I cannot keep standing straight.

Despite the harsh, howling wind,
beach flowers bloom here and there,
so naïvely.

The clouds are low, hanging over the Tsugaru Strait.
I am trying to keep collars of my leather jacket high up.”

This coast of Aomori, where you feel like the northernmost edge of the world and the bitter wind blowing on Cape Tappi, has often been used as a metaphor for loneliness.

I have made so many visits to perform at colleges, museums, festivals, and other cultural institutions over my life – almost a hundred in the past 52 years. The most touring I ever did was from the mid-1970s through the 1990s. Then, I used to say to myself, “I spend half of my life in packing and unpacking.” It made me feel as if I was a lifelong traveler, departing from and returning to New York, yet always unsure of whether New York was a permanent or temporary abode of mine.

After all, we are all travelers forever seeking home, peace, stability, and comfort. It seems to me that the cosmos provides us with everything we seek, just as it did for our predecessors, even if in unexpected ways. Our own individual universes surround us with the things that make our homes: dancing, teachers, students, audiences, people’s smiles, sunshine, flowers. I am blessed that my little universe has been able to expand through the encounters I have had in my travels through America, Europe, South America, Greece, China, Singapore, and so many other places.

Dance has been the language I have used to make so many new friends; Russian dancers, Flamenco dancers, the orphaned children with whom I danced in Kathmandu. Dancers who have taught me, and those I have taught. I am a part of them, and they are a part of me.

I can still picture the scene at the airport after the South American tour: We three dancers, while waiting for the plane to New York, sitting on the floor with our luggage around us, tired by the whirlwind of touring four countries. Quiet but content, looking at the empty space: We were happy Kawara Kojiki.

Susan McCormac 8/20/24 Susan McCormac 8/20/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: CHAPTER 8

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

Summer Festivals and My Roots

August is the time of O-bon holidays, when the Japanese honor their ancestors and welcome their spirits home to visit. My childhood memories of this time are of visiting the cemetery with lanterns, and being scared by fireworks under my geta clog, thrown by neighborhood boys. We children half believed we could talk to our deceased grandma or granddad. These were sweet and innocent times, and each year, the summer breeze brings them to mind.

O-bon developed as Japanese traditional beliefs and Buddhist customs of honoring ancestors merged. A holiday known for its large bonfires, O-bon coincides with Natsu Matsuri, or local summer festivals. These festivities of music and dance meant to welcome the spirits of the ancestors are a time of vigor and energy, which seems contradictory to traditional Japanese culture’s emphasis on reserved manners and maintaining grace and subtlety. Sometimes they can get quite rowdy; in the town of Nishimonai, which I visited in 1974, I heard there had been drunken clashes between the carriers of the mikoshi, a portable shrine, and the villagers, resulting in at least one death. Perhaps, being subdued for most of the year, people need time to unleash their pent-up energy. Even into the 1960s and ‘70s, countryside areas focused on farming and fishing maintained very traditional lifestyles, where liberties could not often be taken. Festivals in Tokyo, where one could find more freedom of expression in daily life, seemed to tend to be calmer.

Minzoku Geinoh (Performance Folk Art)

Learning about, or rather, peeking through the door into a new world of dance, culture, and art in New York from 1972 to 1974 made me think closely about the roots of my own dance form. Back then, I only knew about the precedent to Kabuki, which is the Noh Theater, and had very limited knowledge on anything earlier. I realized that I was insufficiently equipped with the resources and knowledge I would need to continue my mission of introducing Japanese dance to wider audiences, and I felt an urgency to know where my own tradition came from. Upon finishing my MA in Dance at NYU in 1974, I returned to Tokyo from New York, and embarked on a journey to investigate the roots of Japanese classical dance so that I could discuss my dance tradition with American audiences and students in more depth.

In my quest for knowledge, I turned first to Minzoku Geinoh, the performance folk art, from which Kabuki — and eventually Nihon Buyo, the classical dance – developed. This led me to my next focus: Okinawan dance and culture, which has preserved early Japanese traditions while maintaining its unique cultural identity. My investigations into Okinawan dance led to my doctoral research in the 1980s.

Minzoku Geinoh has led to many traditions that are still alive and vibrant around Japan. I could not have discovered everything I did without the help of many people. Reflecting on it now, there were so many people I interviewed who did not mind sparing their time, giving me guidance, and teaching me the richness of the Japanese heritage.

My first guide through performing arts festivals — in the 1970s, there were many as 10,000 around the country — was Dr. Haruo Misumi. He is a well-known scholar on folk ethnology and a proficient prolific writer of many books on the performing arts. He recommended several festivals to me where I could witness the most beautiful and significant dances in searching for the roots of Japanese dance.

One of them was Nekko no Bangaku in Akita Prefecture. I had an interview with older performers and musicians, and it saddened me when they expressed their concern that there would be no more people who could transmit the traditions of their music after they died. Although the young people from the village were required to perform Bangaku at the local festival, none of them had learned the old music. It was not yet the millennium, but the 1970s, and the disruption of the transmission of old folk traditions from one generation to the next was already happening around the country. Now, with renewed recognition of traditions, I hope younger generations have regained the energy for performing, despite the difficulty of passing down an oral tradition.

In another distant area, Shiraishi‐jima Island in the Seto Inland Sea, the villagers welcome and send off their ancestral spirits (at) with their version of Bon Odori, Shiraishi Odori, during the summertime. My guide that night was an old lady. That evening was so beautiful; we were on the beach, and danced there in the moonlight. From time to time, she would sit on a straw mat to rest, while I listened to her delightful stories of her dancing in the festivals in the past.

I also made a visit to Gujo City in Gifu Prefecture to see their summer celebration. Gujo Odori is known for having a wide variety of Bon Odori dances and songs. Walking around, I was surprised to see many shops selling geta, or traditional wooden sandals, in the city. Why? Supposedly, after dancing all night, the dancers would have worn their geta out! One woman I interviewed told me her memory of dancing all night long. When she was tired, she would sit and rest for a few minutes, and then get back on her feet to dance until dawn. Dancing all night long used to be common in many Bon Odori, but has been banned for the past few decades due to security concerns voiced by village and town councils.

During these years I met one of the pioneering scholars of ethnology, Dr. Yasuji Honda, who was collecting data and conducting interviews of his own. It was an honor for me to meet him: he was so kind as to give me some professional direction, along with his thoughts on festival culture and suggestions of some festivals that I should observe. He must have been in his 80s, but he was still on his own two feet doing fieldwork. Witnessing this, my bow to him was very deep, with respect to his lifelong work.

My research to discover and observe beautiful traditions was full of adventures. Not only did I not have the luxury to stay at decent inns; I was not as organized as I should have been. In Nekko, there was only one bus a day, which I missed on the day of my departure. I ended up asking to stay the night at the village chief’s home at the last minute! He was very kind, and let the intruder stay. Another time, I was visiting the oldest Nembutsu Odori, or Buddhist Chanting Dance, in Nagano Prefecture. Again, at the last minute, I had to ask for permission to stay at the temple where the performance took place, for I did not realize the festivity would go on that late into the night! Another incident occurred at the Shamenchi Odori in Yase, Kyoto. That night, I had to climb over the closed gate of the youth hostel where I was staying, as I had been shooting photos and enjoying the dancing until after the gate time passed, and I was locked out.

I have already written about my friend Jun Maruyama, the documentary specialist of folk performances and festivals, but I will reintroduce him and his work, since he is also a figure in my research escapades. The first time I met him was at the Nishimonai Bon Odori. After that, whenever I returned Japan to travel to and observe folk performances, he would be there. I found him at such places as Nachi no Himatsuri, the Fire Festival in Nachi, and Hana Matsuri (called also Yuki Matsuri in some areas). At the Hana Matsuri in Nagano Prefecture, we were attending an overnight ceremony. The night was freezing, below zero Celsius, but the village men were supposed to take off their clothes and go into the river for an exorcising ritual at midnight. There were quite a few photographers there, and one of them joked that I, the only woman there, should follow them and watch them diving into the water. Right, I thought, I would have loved to photograph them – if not for the horrible cold! Maybe, if I had a third winter jacket to put over the two I was already wearing, I might have gone. Another time, after visiting Sadoga Shima (Sado Island) to see the On’ndeko festival, I found myself (again!) without a place to stay overnight. I ended up in staying in Jun’s room at an inn with a futon over my head, trying to keep warm and get a few hours of sleep. Another time, after witnessing Oni Kenbai in Iwate Prefecture, he was kind enough to offer me a ride to Tokyo. It was an overnight drive from Iwate, and I tried to help him stay awake by talking loudly, and even slapped his cheek! It was such a relief to arrive in Tokyo at dawn. The miso soup we had for breakfast at the restaurant right off the highway never tasted so good as then – even now.

Nishimonai Bon Odori, Kakunodate, Akita. Photo: Jun Maruyama

Okinawan Research

Okinawa is located at the southwestern tip of Japan, just east of Taiwan. Its unique geographical location placed Okinawa as a crossroads of various cultures of Southeast Asia, and contributed to its creating very special dance forms.

I first saw Okinawan dance at a concert presented by the Kawada Isako Okinawan Dance Troup in Tokyo in 1972. I was immediately struck by the beauty and grace of the women’s dance, On'na Odori. The subtle movements of the dance style seemed to be similar to those of the Noh Theater. Intrigued, I would come to find both similarities and differences between Okinawan dance and theater forms and those of mainland Japan. Despite the similarities between the two styles, Okinawan dance is indigenous and reflects its peoples’ history, life, and traditions, making their dance forms uniquely Okinawan.

I realized that looking only into fragments of cultural background would not be enough to accomplish my goals, and I decided to learn Okinawan culture and dance.

In 1976, I visited Okinawa Honto, Okinawa’s main island, for the first time in my life. I was eager to study Okinawan court dance in Naha, the prefecture’s capital city. Fortunately, Mr. Tokio Yamanouchi, a photographer who was a colleague of my mother’s, kindly wrote letters of introduction to three celebrated Okinawan dance teachers on my behalf. The big manila envelopes contained a stage photograph of each artist which he had taken. These artists were Minoru Miyagi, Setsuko Tamagusuku, and Takako Sato. All of them were incredibly kind to give me a chance to observe lessons at their studios, and even offer trial lessons for me to take.

The first studio I visited was Mr. Miyagi’s. His troupe would be the first to introduce Okinawan court dance and drama to the United States for the first time in 1981. The address in Naha was confusing, but I was lucky and came across a neighbor who said, “Oh, that dance studio? Yeah, right there! They dance and do summersaults till wee hours – sometimes until two or three in the morning!” The dance I tried there was a male dance, Zei, taught by renowned teacher Ms. Hiroko Kaja.

Ms. Tamagusuku was a very beautiful lady. When I visited her studio, she was practicing the dance Shudun with her students. As she danced, she started to cry, overcome by her emotional expression of Shudun’s heroine. Then she snapped out of it and said, “No, I shouldn’t be crying! I should make my audience cry.” I wanted to study with her, but she had more than a hundred students, so it seemed there was no space for me to join her studio.

In the end, I chose Ms. Sato as my teacher. She was the most eager to teach me, an outsider so to speak, and became my teacher through the 2010s. Her desire to perform outside of Okinawa was so strong that I asked the performing arts director of Asia Society to invite her to the United States. In 1986, with sponsorship from Asia Society and the Okinawan Association of NY, her troupe Ryubu Hana no Kai gave their first performance in New York. I had the honor of taking part in the concert. Twenty years later, I invited her troupe to the 50th Anniversary Concert of my performance debut held at Pace University in 2006. I cannot express my gratitude enough to Ms. Sato and her troupe for coming to show support for my work.

Studying at her studio was an interesting experience. Although class started at 7pm, students would trickle in between then and 8pm. As a student from Tokyo, I had been ready and waiting for their arrival at 6:30pm, dressed in yukata – already wet with sweat after only a few minutes in warm Okinawa. It was then that I learned about “Okinawan Time,” which flowed at a more relaxed rate than the rest of the world! Every time a student arrived at the studio to join the class, we would all stop practicing and bow our greetings to each other before resuming the lesson. Around 9:30 or 10pm our teacher would come down from upstairs, give directions and corrections, after which most students would leave. At such a late time, the night became animated and alive, for then her rehearsal with senior students would start. We would finish the lesson at midnight, and then talk.

There were times when she was sick and I spent my entire stay taking care of her. Other times, all I did was accompany her to rehearsals, holding her pocketbook wherever she went. Sometimes, I would wind up standing behind dancers during rehearsals. This was actually lucky for me, as I was able to learn new dances in this way. It also exposed me to amazing students. There was one in particular who was exceptionally talented. She learned a whole dance piece without any instructions on the steps and passed a special certification contest. How did she do it? She had been assigned to be an assistant that year, and as she sat and turned the CD music on and off during rehearsals, she absorbed the choreography by watching alone. Another student came just to clean the studio in order to prepare for a rehearsal with musicians, and still another came to clean up the teacher’s costumes the day after a big concert. The respect paid to her by her students was almost beyond imagination. The mentor-disciple relationships that I witnessed in Okinawa still hold true. Perhaps it may have been so a hundred years ago in mainland Japan as well.

I owe all these teachers so much for inspiring me to incorporate Okinawan dance techniques into my choreography. Ms. Sato even bestowed upon me special permission to perform and teach Okinawan dance. However, I was never able to reach the point of authenticity.

Documentary

My growing fascination with Okinawan dance, to which I was introduced on my quest to find the roots of Japanese dance and other performing art traditions, led me to my Ph.D. My dissertation on the origins of Okinawan dance was completed in 1986. It goes without saying, my dissertation could not have been written without the support of many people.

When I began writing my dissertation, I felt as if I was living in the NYU library – spending hours, day and night, working on my draft. Like many of the other students I noticed, the vending machine of snacks and drinks in the basement seemed to be our best friends! The exhausting hours of work and poor nutrition paid off, though, and my project slowly took shape.

As the arguments for my theory developed, my dissertation needed to include field research in order to support them. For that purpose, I turned to EARTHWATCH, an NPO organization, which recruited staff for documentation. Among those who joined my team were amateurs who had interest in Okinawan culture: videographers, photographers including Katei, who was a regular contributor to National Geographic, and a Laban-certified Dance Notator. From September to October 1985, my crew and I visited five islands in Okinawa: Honto, Ie-jima, Taketomi-jima, Iriomete-jima, Ikema-jima. In Naha City, the dancers at Ms. Sato’s studio were very supportive and willing to be recorded and photographed to help document the court dances. At the Prefectural Museum, we had a special treat. The staff rolled out scrolls depicting Ryukyuan Bugaku-zu dancers from the 18th century for us to photograph. We watched wide-eyed as they handled the precious documents with their white gloves. This record was an especially important one for my dissertation research, as it shows the visit of Okinawan court musicians and dancers to the Shogunate and Shimazu residence in Edo (Tokyo).

Dance Ryukyu Team with Okinawan Supporters (sponsored by EARTHWATCH)

Those who supported and helped us in the villages we visited were invaluable. Without their willingness to allow us to photograph and record the religious ceremonies, some of which are secretive and off-limits to outsiders or even to villagers other than priestesses, it would not have been possible to accomplish our mission. In Ikema-jima, as instructed by the village officials, we camouflaged ourselves and our cameras with leaves and branches so that the Shinjo, or priestesses, would not see us. They were not supposed to be seen during the festival ceremonies; witnessing the priestesses dancing is prohibited, since it might bring about a bad omen.

Priestesses at Uhkui (Yukui)Ceremony, Ikema-jima, Okinawa. Photo: Katie Thompson

Shinugu Matsuri, Gushiken, Motobu, Okinawa. Photo: Ryukyu Shimpo Newspaper, September 15, 1985

Mr. Matsukawa and Salon Series

Throughout my memoir, I have cited many people to whom I owe my career. Speaking now of Okinawa, I cannot neglect to mention Mr. Shigeichi Matsukawa. The greatest supporter of my Okinawan dance, he was the one of founding members of American Okinawa Association of New York, chair and later the board of trustees. Not only did he endorse me to members of the AOA to introduce Okinawan dance to American audiences, in spite of the fact that my dancing would never meet the standard of pristine Okinawa court dance, but he was personally happy for me when I obtained my Ph.D. with my dissertation titled The Origins of Okinawan Dance. To congratulate me, he came over to my studio with gifts: a big, beautiful vase and a copy of the entire Encyclopedia of Okinawa published by Okinawan Times Publications! His praise was too kind, but encouraged by his support and my passion for Okinawa, I presented several programs on Okinawan dance and theater at my Salon Series. The Salon Series, held three times a year for 25 years, was a collaborative program designed to introduce Japanese performing arts to audiences in New York. I gave programs in Okinawan themes from 1980 to 2000 such as “Okinawan Karate and Male Dance,” “The Joy of Okinawan Music,” “The Classical Dances and the Contemporary Dances of Okinawa,” and “Tamagusuku Chokun and His Kumi Odori (Court Opera) as National Identity.”

The last one was a particularly fun way to explore interactions between Okinawa, China, and Japan in the early 18th century. It was Tamagusuku Chokun, the dance master, who first presented Okinawan Court dance and drama to Chinese emissaries in 1719. There is a record of his visiting Edo and witnessing Kabuki, specifically Ichikawa Danjuro’s performance. It is suspected that he incorporated Danjuro’s Mie, the Kabuki technique, in his drama Nido Tekiuchi. His work proved the importance of performing arts as a source of cultural importance, as he proudly showed the unique arts of people of the Ryukyu Islands. Without the support of Mr. Matsukawa and the American Okinawa Association, I could not have introduced Okinawan dances to New York audiences.

Dilemma of a Classical Dancer

In the 1960s, during my college days, there was a movement to spotlight Minzoku Geinoh. The government formed the troupe, called “Nihon Minzoku Buyo-dan” (Japanese Folk Performance Dance Troup), and called upon classically trained dancers to join. As I watched their performances, I felt that something was missing. It was only many years later that I realized that dance is not composed of only movements, steps, and gestures, but something more.

I was driven to research, photograph, and interview people who were making efforts to keep traditional arts alive; I had the desire to absorb the essence of the treasures they had kept, and I learned the beautiful dances such as Nishimonai, Owara-bushi, and Shiraishi Odori. Then, when I was back in New York, I introduced these dances to my audiences. But I began to doubt these performances by myself and my company. I am from Tokyo and have been trained as a classical dancer. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that it was impossible to capture the true essence of these dances, the beauty, the genuine spirit. I was not of these places. I did not bathe in their water, nor eat their traditional foods, nor take part in the ways of life that these villages had passed down for hundreds of years. I would always be an outsider looking in, one whose roots lay hundreds of miles away. Even though we dancers can give a nice stage presentation, it was obvious that steps and movements are not only what make up a dance. The blood, the bone, air, spirit, soul – these are the things that give the dance itself life. My dilemma, as a Nihon Buyo dancer trained in classical techniques and style, was that I had to decide if enthusiasm and desire was enough to be performing a dance that I felt didn’t belong to me.

For a time, I put aside questions of authenticity, and propelled by my love and passion for the beauty of heritage and traditions of Minzoku Geianoh, I choreographed works inspired by the dances I had observed. One of them was Natsu no Gyoretsu (Summer Procession), which premiered at the Riverside Theater in 1982 with music by Yukio Tsuji. The dance was inspired by the Otaue-shinji, or rice planting ceremony, of Aso Shrine in Kumamoto Prefecture in Kyushu.

Ayako-mai and Salon Series

Another outcome of my research in Minzoku Geinoh that became an important inspiration for the creation of several dances was Ayako-mai, the itinerant performers' dance of the pre-Kabuki period. Decades later, it led to an unusual presentation during Salon Series No. 58.

The program was titled “Itinerant Performers in Japan and Russia and Impact of Anna Pavlova.” Russian Gypsy female soloists paved the way for ballerina Anna Pavlova's acceptance and success. And although it is not as well known, Pavlova influenced the New Dance Movement in 1920s in Japan. My guest, Julia Kulakova, performed a Russian Gypsy dance while my dancers from my company presented Oharagi Odori, from the Ayako-mai repertory.

Although the program focused on the unarguable contribution of female itinerant performers in Japanese performing arts history, it confirmed the importance of honoring the roots of Japanese dance. Okuni, the founder of Kabuki, was one of those female itinerant performers. Lacking permanent theaters, performers used to tour as itinerants from village to village until a stable theater system was established in the mid 1600s. Following Okuni’s sensational success in 1603, women’s kabuki troupes, called On’na Kabuki (Women’s Kabuki) flourished and travelled around the country. Ayako-mai is the name of the repertory that has been handed down through centuries in two villages in the valley of On’na-dani, in Nigata Prefecture. The two villages share almost the same repertory, but with differences in styles, movements, and lyrics. I heard a lot of talk from each village claiming, “Our way is the correct way!” when I visited to learn the dances in 1975. During the rehearsal, the night before the performance, the choreographer for Takaharada village, came up to me and said, “We are short of hands. Why don’t you help tomorrow… something like make up?” “Oh? Me? Yes, sure!” I uttered with delight.

The style of Ayako-mai is much freer, less introverted, and with less confined movement compared to Kabuki dances, whose techniques were developed by men’s observation of women and their femininity. I incorporated these more uninhibited styles and techniques into my choreography in such dances as Haru no umi and Uruma.

Looking back now, it is interesting to see how one’s experiences in the past emerge in their present self. It goes without saying that all of our experience nourishes us and becomes a part of us and who we are.

During the 1970s, my quest to find the roots of my dance tradition in the Minzoku Geinoh and Okinawan dance showed me an immeasurable inheritance. Despite the difficulty of, or the failure to, capture its genuine beauty and artistry, I believe that finding one’s own roots are a crucial task. One’s roots are an essential resource for inspiration in the creation of new work for an artist, in both modern and traditional disciplines. Although I understand it could be seen as disrespectful and even as offensive to our traditions, we cannot be afraid to make mistakes and face criticism in our trials and endeavors. Perhaps an artist may be allowed to be a “selfish dreamer” – someone who keeps chasing one’s beliefs, aspirations, and dreams.

“Whoever I am now, and whoever my friend is, 50 years later, we are part of this feast of the past.”

— Mary Oliver, Blue Iris

Susan McCormac 7/19/24 Susan McCormac 7/19/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 7

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

Dojoji: Dojoji 2001 and 2002

July finds us halfway through the year, as far from its beginning as its end. In traditional Japan, this is a time to perform Misogi – a purification ceremony meant to cleanse and renew the spirit after half the year has passed. In modern times, we try to relax and enjoy summer’s slower pace, storing our energy for the busy autumn that awaits us; even Christmas feels like it is “just around the corner.”

Thinking ahead to the holiday season reminds me of the New Year’s Eve ceremony called Joya no Kane (Bell on New Year’s Eve), an important occasion for the Japanese to close out the year. During this event, a temple bell is struck 108 times. These 108 tolls represent delusions we have had during the course of the year, one driven out with every strike. Listening, we are slowly cleansed, and we can welcome the New Year with a fresh mind, soul, and body – a great panacea. The sound of the bell being struck and the resonance of sound after the strike helps us to meditate on the past year as it passes away from us.

Along with the bells of the New Year, there is another bell that has rung throughout my life: that of Dojoji. You may remember the story of Dojoji from the previous chapter – a tale of transformation, revolving around a woman’s unrequited love and its disastrous consequences. The characters in the dance are a maiden and a monk, but it is arguable that the bell, although inanimate, is a character in and of itself, and a very important one.

*Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji* — Pointing to the Bell

“Sachiyo Ito is a graceful dancer/choreographer/teacher of quiet power. On April 2, 200I, she offered Dojoji 2001: an 'Evening of Japanese Classical and Contemporary Dance’ . . . they crafted a subdued tension around the topic of unrequited love, in a modern interpretation of ‘the timeless drama of human desire and transformation.’"

— Madeleine L. Dale, Attitude 2001

The Challenge

The Dojoji legend is one of the oldest and best known in Japanese folklore. Dating back to the eleventh century, it was turned into a Noh play in the fifteenth century and then into a kabuki play in the eighteenth. It is such a popular theme that it effectively became its own genre, called Dojoji-mono. This legend has become one of the foundational works of Japanese performing arts.

Creating a new work in the Dojoji canon can be considered a kind of revolt against tradition. It was a challenge to create my own dances for Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji (Maiden at the Dojoji Temple), the well-known Kabuki dance drama that was first staged in 1753. Among many Dojoji dance dramas, Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji depicts the sequel of the Dojoji legend and is arguably the most enduring Kabuki dance. Incredible costume changes, breathtaking colors, and the dramatic change of the heroine from a beauty to a monster against the background of spectacular cherry blossoms have ensured its popularity over the centuries.

As a classical dancer, to perform Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji is considered reaching a pinnacle of one’s art, for it shows absolute mastery of dance and acting technique. One needs the permission of one’s dance school to perform it on stage. During my early years in the U.S., my aim was to introduce the most emblematic dances of Kabuki to American audiences; therefore, I presented Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji at several concerts: the American Dance Festival (my debut in the U.S.), Riverside Church Dance Festival, and at events at Japan Society and Lincoln Center. I danced it just as I was taught to, every time, for many years.

Why then, after so long, did I take on the challenge of creating my own Dojoji dance? The answer is simple: I wanted to cut through to the heart of the dance itself. The heroine has real emotions that are hinted at in a very subtle manner throughout the dance. However, the storyline gets lost in the accompanying lyrics, and it ends with an abrupt and surprising change of character. Coupled with the intense visuals on the stage – the many outfit changes, the falling cherry blossoms – the dance seemed to me to be too ostentatious, becoming nothing more than a costume display.

Looking back now, I realize that some of my motivation lay in having seen many innovative works outside of Japan, particularly in New York. After almost thirty years of performing in the United States, I felt that it was time to create my own works. Perhaps I was too bold. But in those days, at the turn of the millennium, I felt a different awareness around me, and hope for the new era. I wanted to see Dojoji with fresh eyes, in the context of the new epoch we were entering, rather than the usual story of love and hate. I wanted to focus on the universal theme of the human condition, a theme that transcends time and space, east and west.

During the 1990s, I was fortunate and blessed to encounter the teachings of Tich Nhat Hanh, and I created dances inspired by his poems. Then, as I began to perceive the Dojoji story as a new work, I could see my vision and choreography clearly through the lens of his teachings. I am more grateful to him than any words can express for the inspiration he gave me for both Dojoji and my life’s work.

In creating the new version, my goal was to expand on the themes of desire and destruction, but in a global context: Obsessive desire for modern technology and material things leads to the destruction of environment and ecology; racism and tyranny result in wars among nations and devastation of culture.

The first version of my entry into the Dojoji canon, Dojoji 2001, was presented at the Sylvia Fuhrman Performing Arts Center in 2001. The second, Dojoji 2002, was presented at the Theater of the Riverside Church at the 30th Anniversary Concert commemorating my U.S. debut. There was development from 2001 to 2002 in the scale of the production: Dojoji 2002 had a longer performance time and more actors and dances, along with an expansion of music, poetry, and sets.

I am aware that I went far beyond my capacity for artistic expression and technique and resources available for the production. However, in the undertaking, I realized we could apply the global themes of Dojoji 2001 / 2002 on a personal level, to our day-to-day lives.

We can see our emotional turmoil resulting in tired faces, mirrored in our own bathrooms. How can we come to terms with ourselves? Is there any way to find peace within our own hearts? Perhaps, if we can find peace within us, then peace on a larger scale is possible.

These questions and thoughts led me to create a new opening scene, a walking meditation, each step carrying the minds of both the performers and audience closer to the heart of these matters. If my efforts to pose these questions and show these trials touched only one person, then the overexertion will have been worth it.

The Genre and the Bell

In the Dojoji story, the focus of the narrative is on love and hate between a woman and a man. A woman, Kiyohime, falls in love with a monk, Anchin, who spurns her advances. Rejected, she turns herself to a demonic serpent who chases the monk. When the monk takes refuge in the Dojoji Temple, the woman destroys both him and the temple bell, inside which he is hidden, by burning them to ashes.

The genre Dojoji-mono is divided into two groups: one that follows the original storyline; the other, a sequel that takes place a few hundred years later. There is a myriad of versions of the tale in the first group. According to the Engi Emaki (Scroll of Origin of the Temple) handed down at the Dojoji temple, the sequel took place 400 years after the initial incident. Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji belongs to the latter genre.

In the sequel, the monks are raising a new bell to replace the old one. Women have been barred from the temple, but a maiden enters regardless, and begins to dance before the new bell. At the end of her dance, she reveals herself as the demonic serpent, just as from the original story, and leaps into the bell.

The bell is of grave importance. For not only does it serve as a symbol of the woman’s desire, longing, passion, anger, jealousy, and eventual self-destruction, but it is also a symbol of taboo, human delusions, and attachment. It also functions as a symbol of Buddhism. The importance of the temple bell in both Buddhist teaching and Japanese culture is illustrated by the opening lines of the medieval story The Tale of the Heike Clan. The concept of impermanence is depicted most beautifully through the sound of the bell as its ringing fades away.

The sound of the bell of the Jetavana Grove echoes the impermanence of all beings.
The color of flowers of the shala trees teaches us that the prosperous ones must decline. The proud noble ones can live no longer than a spring night’s dream does.
The strong warriors shall perish at the last.
They are nothing but dust before the wind.

There is another play in which the bell takes center stage. In Miidera, named after the temple in which the play takes place (known as having one of the three best sounding temple bells in Japan), we find the same setup as Dojoji: The temple is off limits to women, and they are forbidden to enter. In Miidera, the woman has entered the temple to search for her lost son. In both stories, women enter the temple despite the prohibition, breaking a taboo in the process. However, in Miidera, the woman strikes the temple bell and is reunited with her lost child, evoking a sense of selfless love. Here, the bell brings two people together and remains whole. Conversely, in Dojoji, the woman enters the bell, as if to be united with the man inside, and emerges as a snake, capable only of destruction. The bell illustrates transformation, but ruinously so, and lies broken in the end.

To elaborate on references and implications of myths of the snake throughout the world would take more pages than I am allowed here. However, in Japan, the snake has been seen as a metaphor for the hideousness within, and to me, it is an expression for both the hideousness and ugliness found in the mirrored image of ourselves, caused by the negative seeds we carry within, such as attachment and anger.

I used to use the word for the story of Dojoji as “surrounding” the bell and the woman. The coiling, spiral movement and image around the bell illustrated the transformation in us humans and non-humans perfectly.

The Research

Prior to the creation of my work Dojoji 2001, I researched its background heavily. This included visits to many folk performances of Kagura such as Kurokawa Noh in the northern Yamagata Prefecture, where Dojoji is titled as Kanemaki; Kumi Odori (Okinawan Court Opera), titled as Shushin Kaniri in the south; and several performing arts in surrounding areas, including Mibu Kyogen in Kyoto. Of course, I also made the essential pilgrimage to the Dojoji Temple in Wakayama Prefecture!

Watching the Kurokawa Noh performance was a big assurance about the centrality of the bell in the story, as it is the essence that threads throughout the storyline. To me, the bell became the main character of the story. The other, presumed protagonist was not there; I said to myself, “Where is the handsome man?” The absence of the man becomes a source for our imagination and fantasy. An appearance of the man would destroy the fascination, although he has been depicted in plays and dances. To me, the imagination inspired by the story and symbolism of the bell seemed to be compelling enough on its own.

Upon visiting the Dojoji Temple, I was surprised to see countless donated plaques and photos, displayed in the alcove of the main room of the temple, with words of prayers and gratitude. These had been offered by actors and actresses in kabuki, modern theater, and film who had visited the temple to pray for the success of their performances.

Another surprise was the number of tourists from around the country, as many as a hundred visitors a day – the count at the time when I visited the temple. I gave a sigh; the Japanese, young and old, through the ages and even now, have been fascinated by the Dojoji story. I took the hour-long group tour led by the Abbott, and we all listened intently to his convincing, vivid storytelling as he showed us the Engi Emaki scroll.

Since the Dojoji legend was born as a Buddhist morality tale, the scroll ends with paintings describing both Anchin and Kiyohime becoming Bodhisattvas, after being saved by the prayers of the Abbott, and entering enlightenment and reaching the Pure Land of Western Paradise. Another surprise! Such salvation does not happen in Noh and Kabuki, which I’m sure you can well imagine.

Then, I visited Hidaka River, for I was curious as to how dangerous it was to cross it. The Hidaka-gawa Iiriai-zakura (The Hidaka River at Twilight Cherry Blossoms) of Bunraku Gidayu (the puppet drama) describes the scene of Kiyohime’s transformation upon having to cross the wild and rushing river. The drama depicts the argument between Kiyohime and the boatman, who rejects her request to take her across the river in his boat despite her pleas, and this prompts her transformation. Turning herself to a serpent, Kiyohime swims through the river, as long as 192 kilometers (119 miles)! But even before arriving on the bank, she had already run the distance from the Masago village, where she began her search. The road of the hunt for Anchin to Dojoji along the shore is now called Kiyohime Kaido (Kiyohime Shore), which is 960 kilometers (596 miles). After the river, it is another 15 kilometers (9 miles) to reach Dojoji Temple. The length of the New York and Tokyo Marathons are only 42 kilometers (26 miles), so she is the world marathon record holder. What a power her passion and desire propelled!

Upon arriving at the river, I was disappointed to find only a dry riverbed. Well, indeed, I thought to myself, it was a long time ago.

As for the cursed bell, ever since it was burned down, reinstallation has never been successful. Every time a new bell has been installed, it is said to have brought disaster, such as famine and natural calamities. Still, the site on which the bell stood has been enshrined. Though there was no bell, it has attracted visitors for many centuries – a good lesson in encouraging tourism.

Inspired by the comical direction of the Mibu Kyogen performance I saw at the Injoji Temple, I have incorporated comic elements in my choreographies of Dojoji, including dialogues between the monks and visits of modern tourists to the bell site. A humorous touch was often used to preach Buddhism to commoners in medieval Japan; those touches of levity also play a role in highlighting the impermanence we experience in our lives.

One of the caretakers of pilgrims and visitors to the temple was a lady in her 80s. She was incredibly kind to me on my first visit in 1999, and I did not forget her. In 2003, I surprised her by returning to the temple, showing photographs from the performance of Dojoji 2002, which she was very excited to see.

“The Bell at the beginning of the night
echoes forth impermanence of life
The bell in the middle of the night
Echoes forth all that are born must die.
The bell at the dawn resounds with destruction of all,
While the bell at dusk resounds with infinite joy
that invites those who leave the mortal pleasures
to Nirvana.”
— From Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji

In these lyrics, as well as similar lyrics in the Dojoji in Noh, the bell and its toll symbolize Buddhist teachings of impermanence, as mentioned earlier. Further, the bell has another representation as well: that of salvation. The physical construction of temple bells was costly, and a donation to the temple for this purpose was seen as an act of repentance. Pious donations could pave one’s path to Nirvana. There are centuries of lists of donations of precious combs and hair ornaments from women who wish to be saved; this record becomes all the more poignant when held up against the Dojoji legend.

There is a phrase in the lyrics of Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji that keeps running through my mind. “The clouds of the Five Hindrances are cleared now, so now I can watch the moon that shines the truth.” That means we women supposedly have five hindrances for reaching enlightenment, since we have delusions and desires, and are not pure.

In my youth, I used to think, “So men are pure, clean, and have no delusions?!” In both Miidera and Dojoji, women were able to break the taboo and enter the temple, but the problem was that there was a taboo to be broken to begin with. My naïve impression was that most temples (depending on the sect) were very discriminatory. I took this question to my teacher. Perhaps she thought I was too young to understand the meaning of the words, as she only suggested that I go up a mountain to watch the clouds clear from the sky. I did go up somewhere to watch the sky. This did help in executing one movement with a fan, for it became deeper once I had a better picture of the landscape in my mind, but I did not achieve any clarity on the Five Hindrances! It was only much later, when I found the concept expanded on in an encyclopedia, that it became clear. The ultimate teaching is, of course, that both men and women can enter Buddhahood through Buddhist Practice.

The Fantasy

Surrounded by the full-blown cherry blossoms, beneath their gently falling petals, a beautiful dancer performs and charms the temple monks. Suddenly, she transforms into a demon. In Noh, the mask used for this role is called Hannya, a demonic mask used to portray women in the throes of jealousy. There is a distinct lack of demonic jealousy masks for men. Why have there been no such demons in classical plays? Well, men wrote the plays. They wanted to be loved and chased as much as they wanted to die heroic deaths. Or perhaps, was it a playwright’s act of revenge to write about jealous women, a reflection of his own unrequited love? Was it simpler – just an awe of one sex towards the other?

The Collaborators

Robert Mitchell, who created many sets for Broadway and off-Broadway shows, was so gracious to collaborate with me again after my productions of Poetry in Motion at Lincoln Center’s Clark Studio Theater and Joyce SoHo in 1990 and 2010. It was he who created the bells for my production of Dojoji. Without the bells he created, my Dojoji would not have had the impact it did. They served successfully as a symbol for the timelessness of the themes of the story.

One bell was a replica of the Noh theater style made in damask, while the other was his own interpretive creation. His second bell was ingenious, transforming mid-performance. It began as a ring on the floor, which rose toward the ceiling at the sound of the first bell. Thus, the shape of the bell materialized, telling us that a centuries-old story has awakened and now repeats, hinting the universality of the themes. I had a novice striking the classical bell, as the act of awakening the spirit of Dojoji. My hope was that the toll of the bell would evoke the timelessness of an endlessly cycling story. The striking of the bell would also awaken the ghost of Kiyohime from her long sleep, then drive her to the bell, the symbol of her desire and anger.

I must commend Bob’s amazing professionalism and willingness to go above and beyond in his work. For example, to make a special sacred area on the stage, he suggested that we go to a carpet store and look for a carpet that could allow me to dance with a gliding walk – to me, this seemed like an impossible idea. We looked at so many materials at the carpet store and eventually found one! He was also known for his accuracy of measurement in creating exact diagrams for building stage sets, which once led him into a heated argument with the theater staff about its measurements and specs in one of the theaters where we had productions. I still recall the unforgettable, innovative, and beautiful sets he made to depict underwater and sacred shrine space scenes at the French Alliance Theater for the 25th Anniversary of my debut in the U.S. in 1997.

In 2006 I visited Bob at his home. He was bed-ridden, but he and I were able to exchange smiles. The following day, he passed away.

For many years afterward I used to think about the bell he made. One day I visited his friend Patrick in their loft. It was a brief visit; he came to the door in a wheelchair that had to be lifted up the stairs by his aide. I was grateful, even though we only had a chance to exchange a few words. His eyes were as gentle as Bob’s.

I was also fortunate enough to work with creators such as the mask maker Sarah Bears and the costume designer Reiko Kawashima. I still have the stuffed snake Reiko made. How she carried the heavy and enormous snake to the Riverside Theater, I still do not know. We worked together often, and she became my favorite designer for other dances.

For Dojoji, I got to work with young male dancers who were either hip-hop dancers or trained in classical ballet, and it was a very interesting experience for me. In addition to Dojoji, I trained them in an Okinawan dance piece, accompanied by drumming, happy tunes, and fun-filled movements, to contrast with Dojoji’s heavier story. Meanwhile, for Dojoji, I fused Okinawan movements and elements from the Minzoku Geinoh with the classical male style dance as its choreography. I was very pleased that they could incorporate these mixed styles.

I do not list Mr. Shoji Yamashiro (AKA Ohashi Tsutomu) as a collaborator, but as an artist who contributed to creating Dojoji 2002. Like fate, I came across his music, Gaia Echophony. I asked for his permission to use a part of the work, and he was so kind as to encourage me to use it. I incorporated it with live music and other newly recorded sounds.

That word – Gaia – pursued me then. It was such an intriguing word. Twenty-five years ago, we were not as aware of the words “climate change” as we are today, words which now alarm us, as we realize the threat to current and future generations on earth. I discovered the Gaia Hypothesis, an idea that took hold of me and never let go. Gaia comes from Greek mythology; she was the goddess that personified the Earth. The Gaia Hypothesis is the idea that Earth and all of its biological and ecological systems form one single entity. Whether you believe it or not, understand it or not, one must at least acknowledge how deeply we are interconnected with the world around us. Humans and other beings, both sentient and non, cannot exist without others. Chains of events affect everything on the earth, both in positive and negative ways, and climate change has now become the most pressing matter. The very interconnectedness that defines us has the power to destroy us. If the changing world is the strike on the bell, are we doomed to fade away in its echo?

Looking back at my work now, I can say that I was headed in the direction to explore these concepts, but I did not sufficiently coax them to the surface. Then, I was unable to do so within my capacity; that exploration was beyond my comprehension and vision. Now, at this age, and as I write my memoirs, I have begun to seek a way to express it, even if only in a minor way, with my next project.

Gaia, nature, and the dance…

My Mother’s Funeral

My mother was ill for 8 years.

I was her only daughter, so my brothers looked to me as the one to be by her side. At the beginning of her illness, I took care of her in New York for ten months, after which she received care at a hospital in Massachusetts. After that, though, she had to go back home to Tokyo, where she felt the most comfortable.

During the years that followed, I would fly to Japan to be with her whenever her illness became serious. I flew back and forth between Tokyo and New York more than twenty times in seven years. The last time I flew to Tokyo for her was for her funeral, and I arrived from the airport in the midst of her wake.

Next day, I placed the postcard for the Dojoji production in my mother’s coffin, beside the white silk of her kimono. “I’m very sorry, Mother. Please forgive me, though I cannot stay and accompany you to the crematory. I hope you understand. Please watch the dance from up above.” We were in tears as we surrounded her to say goodbye. I had to leave then, to catch my plane to New York. Dojoji 2001 would be performed in less than a week.

Cancelling my productions or any performance engagements because of personal or family matters has not been an option in my life. For that matter, even when I broke my foot, I performed several times.

That moment as I stood by the coffin, there was nothing in my head. It seemed that time froze as if we were in eternity.

Empty Bell
Press against our hearts
Bell of empty resounding.
Your dying note, an
Amulet across eons:
The medallion of desire
…
Beauty of Gesture
Is captured after it
Has been lost: voidness
Embraces us, puppets of
Play in a cave of shadows.
Since nothing endures, nothing is destroyed; since
Nothing is, nothing
Is not, since there is nothing
To know, knowing is nothing.

— Mackenzie Pierson 2001

The bell and the man were burnt to ashes, and we all return to the earth.

Susan McCormac 6/13/24 Susan McCormac 6/13/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 6

Photo by Heather Shroeder

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

TRANSFORMATION

Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki (Ichikawa Girls’ Kabuki)

Greetings to June!

Welcome to the season of utmost beauty, heralded by shimmering light emanating through bright green leaves.

The Japanese have a word dedicated to this: komorebi, which means “sunlight leaking through leaves.” The transformation of glorious light to beautiful shadows dancing on the forest floor reminds me that transformation has been a central theme that runs not only through my work, but my life.

My training in professional performance (stage debut was in 1956) began in the late 1960s, when I joined the Ichikawa Joyu-za (Ichikawa Actresses Troupe) as a member of the chorus. The troupe was originally called Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki (Ichikawa Girls’ Kabuki).

Kabuki is known worldwide as an all-male theatrical discipline. However, in 1948, this all-female kabuki company was founded.

Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki was a sensational success during the early Showa Era (1926–1989) because the girls were phenomenally good actresses, playing both the male and female roles of the standard Kabuki plays. The company did not tour the mainstream stages, but rather local towns and city centers in various prefectures. Their acting, singing, and music in Gidayu was so good that the audience (including myself!) would often be driven to tears during the performance. As the years passed and the members of the troupe grew older, the name was changed to Ichikawa Joyu-za. The entire company—from the actresses, musicians, and singers to the stage crews and costume hands—were all female, with the exception of the choreographer. My impression of him was that he was very strict, as befitted one in our tradition. I was honored to join and gain valuable stage experience and learn the makeup and costuming.

Since the troupe gave performances at locations off the beaten path, the facilities were not as nice as they were in the big theaters. The backstage areas and dressing rooms in these old buildings could be quite drafty, which was difficult in the winter. I remember how cold it was to paint oshiroi, the white kabuki makeup, on my face and neck with a brush dipped in icy water. Touring with actresses whose whole lives, from childhood onward, twenty-four hours a day, were dedicated to performing, was a wildly different experience from what I had grown up with in the traditional Japanese dance circle. It taught me about what professionalism as an artist is.

Did their artistry of acting, of transforming into the characters’ personification of men, mean they were attempting to capture the other gender’s quality? I wondered if it is a human desire to act as the opposite sex. Eventually I realized that it was a different philosophy: They did not want to become the opposite sex, but to accomplish the transformation of their art and become whatever the character needed to be—male, female, somewhere in between, or without gender of any sort. I believe it was the human emotions, the suffering and love, that they did best to express through characterization. The universality, when and where (centuries ago/Japan), did not matter.

They were keen to listen to the choreographer’s critiques after each show and to dedicate themselves to improving for the next one. For them, acting was not just a desire for transformation, but their life, their breath, and their blood.

AIDS Fundraiser Performance

In the early 1980s, New York was poised on the eve of a great cultural shift, although I didn’t realize it at the time.

A career in the arts generally placed one in queer or queer-adjacent spaces, although the culture seemed to me to be more discreet than it is now. There was an exclusive club on East 51st Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues called Garden Club, or GH Club for short. The front door used to reveal a crowd of men in formal attire, dressed extremely well in suits and ties. A sense of pride prevailed in the club, and one sensed it was a privilege to be there. This was one of New York’s gay clubs. Although I was not one of them, I was allowed entry since I was a friend of the owner, Giro, my former dance student. The atmosphere was protected, safe, and the guests’ manners were graceful, gentle, and never vulgar.

Giro drank vodka; according to him he liked it as it does not smell of alcohol, which might be unpleasant to his patrons. That was one of his criteria of being a true “gentleman.” His mottos were “Be dressed well so that your partner, guests, or friends won’t be embarrassed at a gathering,” and “Be punctual; keep your appointments.” He hated those who broke them. I know when his finances dwindled down and he had no decent suits to wear, he borrowed formal attire like tuxedos from friends when the occasion called for it.

One day in 1983, Giro asked me to perform for an event at his club.

“Do you know AIDS? We are doing a fundraiser for it.” This was the first time I had ever heard of AIDS. It had only appeared in America in 1981 and wasn’t even called AIDS until late 1982. Even for some time afterwards, many of those around me had never heard of it, and widespread awareness would not happen for several years. So, the fundraiser held by Giro in 1983 was one of the first of its kind.

The event took place over several days. There was an artwork auction featuring works by Warhol, Vasarely, and Mapplethorpe, opened with a champagne reception. The main event was a brunch, which is when I performed. The event was a runaway success, and the club was so crowded that I had nowhere to dance except on top of the grand piano! I do not recall how much money Giro raised, but he was very pleased with the good result.

Giro was my friend for a decade, but we only used to meet a couple of times a year. Sometimes we would meet for tea at the Plaza Hotel—he took all of the nuts on our table upon leaving as a souvenir (!) although you can imagine how embarrassing it was to me, to behave thus while being surrounded by beautiful people. Another time we went for a drink at One if by Land, Two if by Sea, one of New York’s most storied restaurants. He would tell me that his boyfriend was a member of the Italian Mafia, and I would think it was a joke, but it might have been true. On one occasion, he entrusted me with several paintings, which I kept at my apartment. Several months later, I was asked to return them. That night, returning the artwork in a torrential rainstorm, was my last visit to the GH Club. The evening affair reminded me of a Jiuta-mai dance, in which there is a gesture of the heroine looking at her sleeve. This translates for a woman looking at the teardrops gathering on her sleeve, expressing sadness. I looked down and saw that my kimono and I were indeed wet. Afterward, I discarded the drenched kimono I was wearing, recognizing it as a kind of metaphor.

Many years later I bumped into him on the street right in Chelsea, where I had just moved. He told me he was staying with a friend whose entrance of the apartment building had a lovely spiral staircase, just around the corner. He invited my mother, who was visiting me then, and me to dinner, and I accepted his invitation. But remembering his drinking, which my mother noticed at one brief meeting we had had before, she declined the invitation. I believe he must have come to my building exactly at the appointed time. I haven’t seen him since.

Whenever I pass by an apartment with a spiral entrance on 23rd Street, although I am uncertain if that was where he stayed, I imagine he might appear, well-dressed as he used to be. Is he alive, well and happy? Or has he passed away?

Just a year ago, I noticed a Pride Flag held by the window of the apartment.

I only pray wherever he is, on earth or in heaven, that he is happy and enjoying his vodka.

Chieko and Dan

I have a dance titled under various names: Chieko, Chieko-sho (Chieko Anthology), Chieko Genso (Chieko the Element). The name has been changed with each new revision and presentation. Without the first presentation with Dan Erkkila, the composer, and the singers and actresses at Japan House in 1974, I would not have repeated and revised it so many times. This makes it sound like I was unhappy with Dan’s work, but it was quite the opposite: The music is so lovely that I keep coming up with new ideas and choreography for it.

Dan was a composer and flute player, who was introduced to me by Jean Erdman, the modern dance pioneer, who was a board member and supporter of my company for many years, and Teiji Ito, a great percussionist and improv musician. Teiji was the nephew of Michio Ito, another legendary modern dancer. Their great teamwork, often including Teiji’s wife, Cheryl, was an inspiration for me to produce works in my early days. We had fun performing together as an ensemble in such places as the Theater of the Open Eye, the YMCA at 53rd Street, and New York Botanical Garden. The last time I saw him was at Bellevue Hospital, where he was getting treatment for AIDS. Unfortunately, he succumbed to it in 1992. He was far too young to leave us without more of his beautiful music, one of the many bright talents whose lives were taken by this cruel disease.

I remember the time when he and his friend Steven allowed me to stay at their apartment on Bleecker Street while I was looking for my own place. On the walk downstairs from their fifth-floor apartment, the fragrance of baking bread from the Italian bakery on the first floor would reach me, and it was so inviting! The bakery was one of the oldest establishments in New York City. I never tasted it, since by the time I came home and was ready to buy bread for supper, the day’s bread was sold out – rumor had it, by noon! The 1970s and ‘80s were the good old days in the Village. It was a home to many artists, with Italian cafes with Italian paintings and old rugged couches, rusty gold-gilded espresso machines, and the most delightful espresso.

In Chieko, Dan’s ephemeral music intoned by the female chorus made it possible for me to leap into the world of Chieko. It was a place where you could play, a world beyond humanity, a world of insanity, a world of transparency. For this dance, I chose a white costume, a symbol of death, because it seemed there should be no reality, no color, no happiness or unhappiness. We did not have any set, no backdrop, just a simple spotlight in a few sections. I loved the spare space, the vacancy. While dancing, there was someone in white in the darkness.

It was only decades later that I was able to explore more of the world of “fantasy.” That was through the collaboration with Robert Lara at my series of performances called “Salon Series.” He introduced us to the world of Mexican mythology, bringing the world of a thousand years ago to life.

Fantasy and Illusion of Transformation in Theater and Dance

I was very fortunate to have Mr. Robert Lara accept the invitation to appear in my Salon Series No. 59, titled “Fantasy and Illusion of Transformation in Japanese Dance and Ballet,” in 2017. Mr. Lara, who heads the New York Baroque Company, was a soloist for the acclaimed Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo. Very graciously he offered to give a presentation of makeup used for him to become a queen of Mexican legend, and we all watched as his makeup artist demonstrated the application of makeup on him. He also discussed the transformation of genders in ballet and performed an excerpt from his work La Catrina. (La Catrina is a symbol for the Day of the Dead, Mexico's lady of death. She reminds us to enjoy life and embrace mortality.)

The large number of attendees we had showed keen interest in the subject of transformation. Perhaps in our daily lives we have an unnoticed desire in our subconsciousness to experience transformation for ourselves, as shown in the symbolism of Mexican mythology, which went beyond mere reversal of gender roles.

We had planned to give the second collaboration in June 2020 with a different theme, but unfortunately, it had to be cancelled due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

My next exploration of transformation was with Ernest Abuba at Salon Series No. 69. Ernest was an actor, director, writer, and scholar with whom I had the honor of collaborating in several Off-Broadway productions, including Shogun Macbeth.

Transformation and Transition: Kabuki, Shakespeare, and Now

For a Japanese dancer, it is a joy to become the character of a Kabuki dance: the wisteria spirit in Wisteria Maiden, for instance, or the heron in Heron Maiden, tormented by unrequited love. I love dancing these roles.

Fuji Ondo (Wisteria Melody) from Fuji Musume (Wisteria Maiden)

However, playing the role of a man is the one I find so interesting and fascinating, as well as a challenge. I particularly love Wankyu, the character from Sono Omokage Ninin Wankyu (Wankyu, the Two Shadows), a Kabuki dance first staged in 1774. In this story, the man who cannot live without the woman he loves goes mad. The music is superb and lyrical, and at one point it seems to be too fast a tempo to dance!

Up until 2021, I had only had the opportunity to perform this role once, at my recital at Japan House, inviting Sahomi Tachibana to dance with me in the role of Wankyu’s love, Matsuyama. Nonetheless, I used to practice the dance all the time, almost as a compulsion. In the summer of 2021, I was lucky enough to have a good young dancer as an intern and train her in the role of Matsuyama. The dance was presented at Salon Series No. 69.

Wankyu (Wanya Kyubei) *in Salon Series No. 69. Photo by Heather Shroeder*

During this presentation, we looked at transformation from various angles: from one gender to another, from the ordinary to the extraordinary. We also considered the transformation of actors and dancers in characterization through different times and places: from Shakespeare to Kabuki and from the sixteenth century to the present.

It was wonderful to dance Wankyu, but discussing transformation in theater with Ernest was another great opportunity. Ernest gave us insights into the transformation from the Shakespearean age to the current Broadway shows.

Our talk gave us a chance to trace the long history of transformation: man to woman, woman to man, which seems to be more prevalent recently, and I imagine it is because of the resurgence of women’s roles and power as we go forward in societal and cultural evolution.

In 2013, Ernest and Tisa Chang, Producing Director of Pan Asian Repertory Theater, invited me to choreograph their production of Dojoji: the Man Inside the Bell. It was written by Ernest, directed by Tisa, and included my performance. Actually, they were first inspired by my production of Dojoji 2002.

The Dojoji, the Archetypal Drama of Transformation

The Dojoji legends, concerning a woman and a bell, have been prevalent since the 11th century in the literature, dances, and dramas of Japan. The theme of a woman’s unrequited love has been popular across the world for centuries. Numerous works on this theme have been created: folk performances; the classical theater of Noh, Kabuki, and Kumi-odori; ballet; Flamenco dances; contemporary dramas such as the one by Yukio Mishima; numerous film productions; and even anime.

Most intriguing is the sequel version of the story, when the spirit of the woman returns to the Dojoji temple, where the story takes place in the world of imagination, symbolism, and fantasy. The epitome of this is the Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji (Maiden at the Dojoji Temple), first presented in 1753.

It is a goal for every classical dancer to perform Kyoganoko, as it requires mastery of techniques. In my early years as a classical dancer, I was focused on expressing “transformation” as a woman in various stages from the young to the old, as well as emotional changes from happiness to jealousy to anger.

However, looking back to Dojoji 2001 and 2002, which I choreographed after nearly 30 years of performing in America, it seems I wanted to create my own works, no matter how bold the idea of challenging a heritage and tradition hundreds of years old might be. At that time, I directed my focus to the universal human condition of attachment as a force of destruction.

After two decades now, I realize that we each possess the power of transforming ourselves. Amazingly, human history has proved that we have such power within us.

In the case of Dojoji, the power of transformation turned negative. But can we use this transformative power for a positive result? Can we water positive seeds in our subconsciousness to bring them to flower in our conscious minds as kindness and compassion?

Upcoming Chapter 7 will be about my works Dojoji 2001 and Dojoji 2002, the research prior to the productions, and collaborators.

The posting of this chapter to JapanCulture-NYC.com was paid for by Sachiyo Ito and reprinted here with her permission. Susan Miyagi McCormac of JapanCultureNYC, LLC edited this chapter for grammatical purposes only and did not write or fact-check any information. For more information about Sachiyo Ito and Company, please visit dancejapan.com. ©Sachiyo Ito. All rights reserved.

Susan McCormac 5/22/24 Susan McCormac 5/22/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 5

Sachiyo Ito and Company at the 2024 Japan Parade. Photo by Jon Jung.

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

AFTER 50 YEARS: JAPAN PARADE AND MY 1970s

Welcome, May – the beautiful season of green leaves, and Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month!

A very important springtime event for the Japanese community is the Japan Parade, which has been held annually on the second Saturday of May since 2022. My company participated in the parade for the third time on May 11, 2024. I must say that participating in a parade as a Japanese classical dance company would have been totally inconceivable when I arrived in America from Japan in the 1970s!

Sachiyo Ito and Company at the 2024 Japan Parade. Photo by Jon Jung

Last year’s parade was a very gratifying moment for me; it seemed emblematic of how far we Japanese had come in American culture. Fortunately, my company was in the first group of the parade, and from my vantage point on our float’s highest spot, I had a perfectly unobstructed view of an incredible sight: the black and white horses of New York Police Department in front of us, leading the way.

There are two things that the parade highlights about the difference between the New York City of today and the New York City of the ‘70s when I arrived here: the recognition of the Asian and Japanese community in the city, and how much safer the city has become over the years. Even though Asians still deal with racially motivated attacks, it is certainly safer now than it was in the ‘70s. I noticed the beginning of this change in public perception when, during his term as mayor, Mike Bloomberg held receptions at Gracie Mansion in honor of what was then called Asian Heritage Month, culminating with the 2022 organization of the Japan Parade.

Sachiyo Ito with Mayor Michael Bloomberg in 2006

In this chapter I would like to talk about the culture shock and the dangers I encountered in 1970s New York, not to dwell on negative experiences, but to provide a contrast that allows us to appreciate and support the current direction toward a peaceful community, a melting pot of cultures.

Culture Shock

My first stay in the U.S. in 1972 was spent in a dormitory at Connecticut College during American Dance Festival, where I made my American debut. The first thing I experienced was taking a shower instead of taking a bath. The bath ritual is a very important one for the Japanese. Not only is bathing privately in the home significant, but public bathhouses are as well – they function like a social center to the local community. When I was growing up, everyone in the neighborhood hung out at the public bathhouse. They spent time catching up with each other, discussing what their families were up to, exchanging personal news.

In the U.S., bathing is almost never communal, and the act of regularly sitting in a bath itself is somewhat unusual. I used to joke with my friends, “Well, I never took a shower in my life, until I came to America.” Then they would look at me and say: “Oh, really? That doesn’t sound clean…”

Another shock was the manner in which college teachers were addressed. In America, students called teachers by their first names. In our culture, this would be considered a sign of disrespect.

This manner of addressing others led me to an enlightening book, Tate Shakai no Kozo (Personal Relationship in the Vertical Society) by the cultural anthropologist Chie Nakane. According to her, Japanese society is a hierarchical society, and an individual is nothing but an attribute. Therefore, an individual’s first name is less important, while the last or family name, which often indicates rank and/or title, is sufficient and indicates where we are in the hierarchy of our community. Thus, Japanese people will give their family names before their given names.[i]

Conversely, calling my friend Mary Page “Mrs. Alford” (mentioned in Chapter 2) made her upset. Since we were close friends, she felt we should address each other by our first names. Once she remarked on this, out of respect and love, I began addressing her as Mary Page. I recognized that addressing someone by their first name reflected friendliness, though in the beginning it seemed to me to be disrespectful.

Yet another shock occurred once I began my master’s degree at NYU, when I saw my classmates sitting on the floor of the dance studio during discussions and lectures. Many sat with their legs open and even did leg and body stretches during the teacher’s talks. I thought to myself, how rude their manner is! In Japan, we must sit properly on the floor with knees bent, and women should have knees tightly closed. This is how I discovered ‘stretching’ at the beginning of dance class!

Undeniably, being Japanese in American society has created a perplexing situation where a balance is difficult to strike. I am “too American” when I am in Japan and express “yes” or “no,” or “white” or “black” clearly, something I had to learn to do once I lived in America. On the other hand, when I am in America, I am “too Japanese” – too understated and ambiguous in my way of speaking. This manner of expression and communication is also reflected in our dance form as “subtlety,” which I talk about when I teach my workshop “Japanese Culture Through Dance” in schools.

I want to share an insight from the ideas I discovered in another informative book. My experiences, particularly in the ‘70s and ‘80s, were a good example of amae, as explained by the psychoanalyst Takeo Doi. It means "to depend upon and presume another's benevolence." Amae is, in essence, a request for indulgence of one's perceived needs. Doi cites the example of being offered tea in an American home. In Japan, if tea is offered upon visiting a friend’s home, a Japanese person is likely to say “No, thank you,” as a show of politeness, but the tea would be prepared anyway. Whereas in America, “No” is “No,” so alas, the tea would not be prepared![ii] This situation must be familiar to other Japanese here in the USA, and conversely the other way around, to Americans visiting or living in Japan.

Speaking of my culture shock in my early days in America, here is an episode. In today’s New York, there are hundreds of Japanese restaurants, but in the early 1970s, that number could be counted on two hands. In 1974, to promote my concert at Japan House, I was visiting Japanese restaurants asking if they would allow me to leave flyers for my performance for their patrons to take. (One restaurant, Edo, located in Union Square, seems to be the same establishment that I visited back then, though I’m uncertain if it is even possible for a restaurant to stay in business that long.) As I swung open the door with a cheerful greeting prepared in my mind, all of the customers, who were all men (really!), looked up at me. Meanwhile I was frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed, looking at their chopsticks and the dish called Donburi which many of them were eating. I stood spellbound for a few seconds. Nowadays, such a scene would not be at all unusual, but back then, seeing about a dozen Japanese businessmen in suits with chopsticks made me utter, “Oh, Japanese food!” I should add that I had not had a chance to dine at a Japanese restaurant since my arrival, for eating at such an establishment was unaffordable for me. I suppose the surprise was not so much about the food, but rather about seeing only Japanese men, all in suits, as is commonly seen in Japan. The population of Japanese people in New York City then was mostly businessmen working for Japanese firms, whereas now there is a wider Japanese demographic, including people in independent professions and the arts, and of course, more women. Back then, the predominant population of men reminded me of Tokyo, where 80% of the population was male at the beginning of the Edo Era (1603-1868). I felt as if this scene at the Edo restaurant was a “time tunnel” in New York!

Dangerous City in the 1970s

I experienced three different robberies in those early days, one of which was particularly frightening. I used to live in the West Village, which was close to NYU, where I studied, and in later years, where I taught. While crime was rampant in the city at that time, the West Village was not the worst neighborhood. However, that didn’t mean that I was safe. In the first incident, during which the robber found me in my apartment and tried to strangle me, the policemen who were sent by the 911 dispatcher looked at me up and down and then said: “Good! You are alive!” and then left, without even taking notes on the attack or the attacker’s description. Obviously, as I soon learned, robberies were nothing but small incidents for this city. For a few weeks after the robbery, with my neck and shoulders still bruised, I felt as if I saw the man who had robbed me whenever I saw anyone who even slightly resembled him. I was robbed two more times during my stay in the Village, but they only rummaged through the things in my apartment as I did not own anything valuable enough to steal.

I was also mugged four or five times. One mugging occurred on a rainy day in Central Park, just off 5th Avenue near 72nd Street, in the afternoon. Even then I knew that it was a dangerous area to walk through in the rain, and I should not have been walking there, even though it was light rain. But I was distressed and not in a frame of mind to think of my surroundings — I simply wanted to walk across the park to Central Park West to my friend Miriam’s home, where I was staying briefly. The mugger tore my coat and took my purse, which contained an important letter that was also the cause of my distress. The policeman who came to take my statement on the mugging only added to the trauma of the situation, as he paid less attention to the report he was writing than to flirting and touching me in a suggestive manner. I must say I was shaken by both experiences. Miriam came home that evening, but I did not mention what the policeman did to either her or to my other friend who came to comfort me; I told them only about the mugging, not about the sexual harassment. The important letter in my purse had come from the Immigration and Naturalization Office, denying the appeal by me and by NYU to extend my H-1 visa. What an irony it was, come to think of it now, that I wanted to stay in a country where I could easily be mugged in broad daylight, and harassed by the very people meant to protect me.

“Homelessness Time”

The 1970s were hard years for New York; they were difficult for me personally, as well.

I had a brief period which I used to call my “homelessness time.” Although I was not living on the streets, I did not have a permanent address; perhaps it may be better to call it a “base-less time.” During this period, I had to move almost every week. I tasted the harshness of staying at the YMCA on 34th Street, at the Martha Washington Hotel, and at other hotels for transient residents. One of the sad scenes I witnessed was a woman who screamed at a certain time every evening in the bathroom, hitting the tub, which you could never imagine stepping into due to its filthiness. I felt only pity for her, wondering what put her in that extreme state. I felt a little sorry for myself as well, sighing as I watched the few pedestrians walking through the blistery northern wind through the YMCA window. The iron bars on the window made me feel as though I were trapped in a prison. I had no words while I gazed outside.

It was a complicated situation that had landed me in such a place.

Before leaving the States to begin my doctoral research in Japan, I gave up my rental apartment in Long Island City, and purchased an apartment in Woodside, Queens. The real estate agent assured me it was a good building, one of the buildings owned by Frank Trump. I never asked why it was good, but I suppose the broker wanted me to know that the premises were run by a well-known real estate magnate. Upon returning, I found out that the deal was a scam. I had no place to live. Losing my down payment was but a small part of the ordeal; far more devastating was not having a place from which to operate my life.

To add insult to injury, several of my planned performances were then cancelled. I had taken a train to my friend’s home in Pennsylvania where most of my things were kept, in order to pack costumes and props for these performances, which was no small undertaking. Upon returning to New York, with everything ready, the cancellation notice arrived.

My sojourns in the transient hotels were the opposite of glamorous. I worked hard to keep my space tidy, but sometimes fate would work against me. After moving into one of these hotels, I opened the medicine cabinet and about two dozen cockroaches came pouring out. The toilet area was so filthy that I tried not to look at it until I finished cleaning it. One day, I was trying my best to get rid of the carpet’s bad smell by vacuuming, and the phone rang. It was my friend, Jun Maruyama, a photographer. He specialized in documenting folk festivals, which were a passionate pursuit of mine in the 1970s. Whenever I was back home, I made trips to visit folk festivals – to learn the dance forms, or to conduct interviews and take photos for documentation. He said he had come to New York to photograph the New York City Marathon. It did not sound like his kind of work, but perhaps the travelogue magazine he worked for as a freelancer might have sent him to write an article about New York. He said he would like to meet for dinner. What a big surprise it was to receive a call from Jun out of nowhere in this worst of situations!! “What shall I wear?” was the first thing I asked myself, for none of my kimonos were with me. Nonetheless, I put myself together and we met at a restaurant on the Upper East Side. I was shocked to see how sick he looked, having lost nearly 20 pounds. Between my dismay and his lack of talkativeness we didn’t have a very engaging conversation; I decided not to tell him about my housing situation.

It was raining, just like the night when I first met him in Akita, in the north of Japan. The raindrops on the window and on the pavement were very beautiful, glistening in the lights from the restaurant and streetlamps. I had the feeling that he must be suffering from cancer or AIDS, and that he had come to see me before he died.

A year or two after this meeting, I was back home in Tokyo. I visited the building where his office had been to try to find him, but in vain – his office did not exist anymore. At the travelogue publisher’s, I was told they did not know where he was. From time to time, whenever I had a chance to visit Hibiya Library, I would look in Who’s Who in Photography to see if maybe I could find his name there and find out whether he had passed away or not, while silently hoping that he had just dropped contact with me and was continuing his work.

So many years have passed since then, but the manner of his greeting, by raising the brim of his hat with a smile, is still as vivid in my memory as if it were yesterday. And it was raining… Sometime, sooner or later, I know I will meet him, up in the sky, and call out to him, “Hi, Maruyama-san! What’s up? When is your next trip to photograph a festival? I want to go and take photos with you!”

Nishimonai dancers. Photo by Jun Maruyama

Why have I stayed in New York despite these difficult situations? For one thing, my life’s philosophy is that difficulties occur wherever you are, so it is up to you to cope and to decide to go forward and carry on your life’s mission. Another thing that has held me here are the supporters and friends I’ve met since my arrival, the artists with whom I have had the good fortune to collaborate, and the performance opportunities I have received which allowed me to realize my dream.

All of the unfortunate circumstances I have discussed above make the good times shine much brighter by contrast. My life in the 1970s wasn’t all bad; far from it! I had some very fortunate experiences as well, which led me to realize my mission and dreams.

Pacific Overtures: Broadway Show

In 1976 I gave a workshop for the cast of Stephen Sondheim’s Pacific Overtures. The workshop was an unofficial one, given at the request of the directors, and I don’t quite recall how it came about, but I do remember I was facing the chorus, actors, and dancers in a big studio. Two dancers from the cast became my students. One of them, Leslie Watanabe, later joined the Pearl Lang Dance Company and now is the assistant director of the dance department at the University of Oregon. I remember his performances in my productions, as well as those with the Theater of the Open Eye and at Japan House, quite well. He danced Oni Kenbai with the traditional devil mask as well as a lock of my hair, which he said would be a talisman of spiritual support and would bring him good luck while performing. Pacific Overtures stayed in my thoughts long after I gave that workshop. Inspired by the song “Chrysanthemum Tea” from the musical, which so fittingly reflected my experience of seeing an incredible sunset on the West Coast, I choreographed a dance entitled The Sunset. I never dreamed of actually working with Mr. Sondheim himself, but a decade later, I was requested to work on the 1984 off-Broadway revival of Pacific Overtures as a Kabuki consultant.

St. Croix, USVI

In 1977, I gave a concert and workshop on St. Croix, sponsored by the Virgin Islands Council on the Arts and Theatre Dance. It was my first time in the Caribbean; I had never seen such beautiful turquoise water until I visited the island. The humidity was so high that I grew nervous about the state of my costumes, worrying that they would be damaged even in the short week that I stayed there. The director of Theater and Dance, Atti Bermudez, welcomed me with her sunshiny smiles and warm hospitality. I was invited again the following year to give another workshop. It was a unique opportunity to introduce Japanese classical dance to the islanders who had never seen it. I also met a Japanese man there, and my performance was the first time he had ever seen Japanese dance in his life!

He was the manager of the Citizen Watch Factory. We were introduced by friends at a party and had dinner together once after that first meeting. What a big surprise for me when he later wrote a letter to me with a marriage proposal! After I left St. Croix, he came to see me one night in New York on very short notice. It was snowing that night. I was wearing a shawl covering my head and kimono collar. The sky was pitch black; against it, pure white snowflakes were falling on us. He needed my reply right away, on the spot. All I could say was, “I’m so sorry, it’s just too sudden…,” although it would have been nice to live in that paradise. The next day, he flew to Tokyo to meet the woman whom his parents had arranged for him to marry through the practice of Omiai, which is similar to arranged marriage. I believe my reply worked out well for him, for when I visited the island again to teach, I met him, his wife, and child at a dinner party thrown by our mutual friend. And there another baby was on the way! I was very happy for him.

Looking at the photo of Wisteria Maiden that I danced at the theater on St. Croix, it’s hard to believe I wore three layers of kimono in the island’s hot weather!

University of Hawaii at Manoa

In 1978 there was a Pan-Pacific conference of dance scholars held at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. It was such an honor for me to give a demonstration for one of the great Japanese scholars, Masakatsu Gunji, a prolific writer on the Japanese performing arts, especially Kabuki and Kabuki dance. Some years later, I was invited to his home in Tokyo, and I had a chance to show him videos of my performances in New York. I remember his comment, “You are the Japanese dancer in New York.” This sent my thoughts into a whirl: My dance is not good enough to express the beauty of this art; it is not enough to study the art (of course, I need to learn feverishly to continue my mission!). My ability to dance, both my interpretation of the classical dances and my own choreography, had evolved by living outside of Japan. I had to consider: Am I good enough to allow myself to introduce the art of Japanese dance to foreign audiences? Furthermore, there is the matter of the way an art form is changed by being performed by a human who is constantly changing with their environment, a question that goes beyond technique and authenticity of presentation of tradition. I asked myself: What can I do? The answer was to do the best I can, to seek the teaching and advice of mentors and authorities like Dr. Gunji seemed to be the only way going forward.

Philadelphia Museum of Art: Isamu Noguchi Retrospective

An invitation to perform from the Philadelphia Museum in 1979 was a great honor for me because it was a performance for the Isamu Noguchi Retrospective. Mr. Noguchi was pleased with my performance at his retrospective opening, particularly my choreography for the dance Haru no Umi, and he invited me to his studio in Long Island City. When I visited him, I took my friend, writer Ernestine Stodelle, who was writing a book on Martha Graham, for whom Mr. Noguchi had created many backdrops and artworks. Ernestine was so happy to be able to meet Mr. Noguchi, although she asked only one or two questions, as we had agreed beforehand not to bother him too much. There was an enormous number of sculptures in his studio and garden, and it felt to us as if we were walking through an endless trunnel of sculptures. I still don’t know how an artist of his stature had time to spare for us, me a humble Japanese dancer, and my friend who tagged along.

Dublin Theatre Festival

Also in 1978, I was invited to Ireland by the playwright Ulick O’Connor to create choreography for the production of his three Irish Noh plays. Titled Homage to Zeami,[iii] the trio of plays were presented as a part of the Dublin Theater Festival. William Butler Yeats had created Noh-influenced plays, including At the Hawk’s Well, in 1916, and I was pleased that the centuries-old Japanese tradition of the Noh Theater that inspired Yeats was carried through to this modern Irish playwright.

Ulick was the third playwright to write and produce plays inspired by Noh theater after Yeats and Padraic Colum. Ulick showed a spirit of challenge when I met him at the Chelsea Hotel – a famous haunt of many artists. Already considered a controversial figure in the theater world, Ulrick was eager to subject his audiences to a theatrical experience unlike anything they had seen before. We both knew that the pendulum of the public’s opinion could swing hard in either direction, both positive and negative. It is not easy to incorporate the subtlety and grace of Noh’s acting style into western theater, in which the execution of gestures and delivery of speech may be large and bold. Noh’s acting also requires movements accompanied by chorus and music, which is unusual in Western theater. A provocative performance was expected, as the Sunday Times noted and asked: Would the audiences accept the plays, would they say yes – or no – to Noh. I was happy to accept the challenge and the experience. Having never really worked with actors particularly, a fascinating discovery for me was their delivery of speech. The cadence of their speaking was amazingly beautiful, almost like music. On the other hand, guiding them to move in rehearsals was an uphill battle. They were trained in delivering speeches eloquently, but many had only minimal body discipline. Worse yet, with masks on, they lost the ability to use the facial expressions they normally relied on as a tool to bring their characters to life; hence, body and hand gestures, all very subtle, had to come into play. All in all, it was very fulfilling to instruct them on incorporating stylized movements into their acting.

At the beginning of the project, I was worried that out of O’Connor’s three plays, two would give me trouble. I was not sure if I could work with Submarine, about a ghost, or The Grand Inquisitor, about an archbishop. But as I worked on staging and coaching the actors, I found that all three plays were tied into the theme of “haunting” and that Noh’s compressed, suggestive, and understated approach to dramaturgy turned out to be quite fitting. The mask maker, Gay Dowling, did a tremendous job, creating mysterious effects very well, which pleased everyone in the production. The third play, Diedre, based on the Irish fairy tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows, tells of the romance of Deirdre and her lover and ends on the note of pine trees. After the lovers were buried across a lake from each other, pine trees grew on either shore, and decades later their branches were united. The idea of connecting pine branches as a symbol of the eternal love of two people was inspired by the shape of branches commonly seen in Japan. While visiting scenic areas on the outskirts of Dublin, I found that there, the pine trees stood straight up to the sky, unlike those in Japan. I had to smile at the twist to the ending in the fairy tale; the different kind of Irish pines that was Ulick’s invention.

All in all, the experiences I had during the 1970s, both good and bad, negative and positive, taught me valuable lessons. They helped me to learn about life and gave me the tools to find my way forward on the path that I would walk for the next four decades. They have also served as a source of inspiration for the creation of my dances. Our experiences make us who we are, and I am grateful for every single one of mine.

[i] Tate Shakai no Kozo (Personal Relationship in the Vertical Society), Chie Nakane, 1972.

[ii] Amae no Kōzō (The Anatomy of Dependence), Takeo Doi, 1971, Kodansha International Tokyo.

[iii] Zeami is the actor/playwright/author who established Noh theater with his father Kann’ami in the14th century. He is the father of Mugen Noh (the Fantastic Noh).

The posting of this chapter to JapanCulture-NYC.com was paid for by Sachiyo Ito and reprinted here with her permission. Susan Miyagi McCormac of JapanCultureNYC, LLC edited this chapter for grammatical purposes only and did not write or fact-check any information. For more information about Sachiyo Ito and Company, please visit dancejapan.com. ©Sachiyo Ito. All rights reserved.

Susan McCormac 4/7/24 Susan McCormac 4/7/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 4

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

SAKURA (CHERRY BLOSSOM)

*Photo by Donald Peterson / PETERSONLIVE.COM*

It’s spring! Let us smile at the blue sky!

The loveliness of this season may inspire you to sing the popular old song: “Sakura, sakura, yayoi no …”

In this season of flowering, I would like to share my thoughts on flowers, specifically the beloved Sakura, or cherry blossom. Not only are these beautiful blooms an integral part of Japanese life and culture in general, they also feature prominently in dance and have become a central theme in my life as well.

First, let us explore why Sakura is so important in Japanese culture. Then, I will share with you what Sakura means to me personally, for these flowers have come to reflect the essence of the deepest philosophy of my dancing.

The light pink color of the blossoms of Somei Yoshino, the predominant type of cherry tree found in Japan, suggests naivety and the beauty of adolescence. Its delicacy has found a home in Japanese culture, which tends to emphasize the subtle rather than the brash. The ephemeral quality of the flower, and the shortness of its peak, makes one’s heart race as one strives to catch sight of its beauty before it falls. In ancient Japanese mythology, Sakura was revered as a divinity, one which would bring good harvests. The name of this goddess, Sakuya, shares a root with the word Sakura.

In spring, Japan has the Sakura Yoho, or Sakura Forecast, which functions just like a weather forecast would. It tells us when the trees will be in bloom in what parts of the country and helps people to plan their Sakura-centric spring events, of which there are many!

Ohanami, or flower viewing, is a special outing to see Sakura and have picnics under the trees. It is one of the nation’s most well-known pastimes and has been one of the favorite ways to view the flowers for centuries. Ohanami became popular among the nobility from the eleventh to the twelfth centuries before its popularity spread to commoners over the course of the Edo era, spanning the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries.

*Ohanami. (Photo from* *Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan*)

*Ukiyoe of Ohanami in Edo Era. (“A Hanami at The Edo Castle Yoshu” by Hashimoto Chikanobu)*

*The Kabuki dance* Sakura-gari, performed here by my dance company, depicts the same scene in Edo of people enjoying flowers by the Sumida River. Photo: Tony Sahara at Sakura Matsuri at Brooklyn Botanic Garden

*Ohanami calls for* wagashi, or Sakura themed sweets, made only in the spring. I love them all, but they are too beautiful to eat! Photos from *くらさか風月堂*, *JAPAMIGO*, *9GAG*)

I recall having seen the Japanese film Wonderful Life (titled After Life in English.) The characters of the story are deceased and must choose only one moment, the very best one, in their lives to take with them forever into paradise. An old woman chooses a time when she saw beautiful cherry blossoms falling, the flower petals fluttering and being blown by the spring breeze. It was a striking moment, and it reminded me how much the Japanese love and respect the beauty of flowers and how important they are in Japanese life.

There is a Japanese word, Setsugekka, which is a portmanteau of the words for snow, moon, and flowers, and which has become a phrase in and of itself, referring to the inherent beauty found in nature. It is a fundamental concept that has fostered Japanese arts and culture. It is a metonym for beautiful scenery in nature and expresses the beauty of seasons: Winter by Snow, Fall by the Moon, Spring by Flowers.

Setsugekka雪月花 (Photos from Wallpaper by yasha.kachin / Wallpapers.com *webjapan_mofajp* *Yarachan / Pixabay.com*)

As Isamu Kurita wrote in his Setsugekka no Kokoro (The Heart of Setsugekka), “Snow symbolizes impeccable beauty and purity, and the moon the immense expanse of the universe, while flowers symbolize phenomena of our existence that appear and disappear as conditioned by time and space.” In many Japanese dances as well as literature (particularly poetry), when flowers are referred to, they are implied to be Sakura. As Kurita eloquently says, the flower symbolizes impermanence.

In the 1970s, I was inspired by the writings of Zeami, who founded the Noh theater as it exists today in the 14th century.

In his Fushi-kaden, also called Kadensho, he said, “The flower is fascinating because it withers and falls. So are the performing arts.” This is called Karon, or Flower Theory. The cherry blossom, more than any other flower, is best suited to illustrate this point as its life is so short.

*From* Kadensho *by Zeami* The Taiyo: Noh, Kodansha International Tokyo, 1990

I interpret the flower as dance, rather than music or theater, which Zeami included in his art of “total theater, combining dance, music and drama.”

As soon as a dance is created, it disappears. As soon as it is born, it dies. You cannot capture it in your hand like a piece of art. That fleetingness is the very life of the dance, which makes it more precious, wonderous, fascinating, and beautiful than other art forms.

I tell myself and my students, “Every time we dance, whether performing or practicing, it is the only and last time for us to dance, the only chance for us to do our best.”

The preciousness of each moment is found in our day-to-day lives: This morning’s beautiful sunlight is the only time it will be shared with a neighbor; the moon perfectly balanced on the spire of a building is a singular point in time that can never be repeated. The moments that never return should be treasured, just as Zeami taught in the 14th century.

More than a decade ago, I came across the work of Kaneko Daiei, a Japanese philosopher of the 20th century. He says, “Flower Petals fall, but not the Flower.” This means that the truth of the flower lives forever. A mentor’s teachings, a mother’s hug, kindness from a stranger, a dance performance, or an encounter with a beautiful sight—if it touched our hearts deeply and left us with a lifelong impact, a moment can remain within us forever. These true flowers of life are precious gifts, and I feel so fortunate and grateful to have been given them. Conversely, I often wonder, “What kind of flowers I can offer?” I can only hope my performances and my teaching could be a true flower for others. These flower theories are ones that I have treasured, and which have inspired me over the years.

In Zeami’s writings, one can find the word Omoshiroki. He says, “Because flower petals fall, it is Omoshiroki.” Omoshiroi, in the modern language, means interesting or sometimes amusing. However, during medieval Japan, it meant fascinating, unusual, or surprising.

In the 1980s I had a dear friend who used to say, “You have to be a surprise to people.” I didn’t understand at first, thinking, “Well, if you are a performing artist, yes, appearing on stage, of course you should be a surprise. But if you mean daily life?” What he meant was a person’s presence when meeting people. Your first impression should be a surprise, one which warms peoples’ hearts and delights them.

It reminded me of Zeami’s word Omoshiroki. The way people find each other omoshiroki is one of the “true flowers” of life, as Kaneko Daiei taught us.

In the lyrics of the song “Itako Dejima,” found in the Kabuki play Fuji Musume, or Wisteria Maiden (originally staged in 1826), the following phrase stands out to me:

“There are many flowers in various colors, but there is no flower more beautiful than you are.”

When I dance it, I interpret it: Each person in the audience is a precious flower, and I try to meet their eyes, to tell them with mine that there is no flower more beautiful than they are. However, even when I am not dancing the Wisteria Maiden, I take the sentiment of the lyrics to the stage with me.

Sakura Matsuri, Rite of Spring

Sakura is the title of one of my dance company’s repertories inspired by the old song of the same name. It is the first dance I teach to children at my studio and at school workshops.

Over the years, I have choreographed many dances on the theme of Sakura and have danced at many spring celebrations centered around these lovely flowers.

Sakura Matsuri, the Cherry Blossom Festival, at Brooklyn Botanic Garden, was inaugurated in 1981. It is the oldest celebration honoring the beautiful flowers in New York City, and over the years the event attracted many people; in 2006, roughly 72,000 people attended the event over the weekend. My company and I had been invited to perform from the first year onwards, but the festival was halted by the COVID-19 pandemic in early spring of 2020. It has not been held since. This is a disappointment, since 2021 would have been our 40th year performing there. The annual Sakura Matsuri performance was what my company looked forward to every year as a rite of spring, having spent the fall and winter dedicated to rehearsing and preparing.

In the festival’s early days, we used to perform in the auditorium. In 1992 we began performing on the outdoor stage, for there were many who could not enter the auditorium and were fighting to get in! I must say that a performance on the outdoor stage is something extraordinary for a classical dance performance.

The years we spent performing at the Sakura Matsuri were studded with memorable incidents. One time, a leg of the bench I sat on at the end of my dance Osen fell apart. I felt very bad, as it was brought to the Garden by the director from her antique collection. Another year, the gold screen that was serving as a backdrop fell on me while I was dancing! Of course, I kept going, and someone came onto the stage to pick it up.

*Flyers for Cherry Blossom Festival in Brooklyn Botanic Garden in 2006 and 1995*

The date of the Sakura Matsuri was timed as best as the organizers could to coincide with the blooming of the cherry trees. The weather was always variable, and sometimes it would feel more like winter than spring. At one of our outdoor performances, it was so cold that my fingers were almost too frozen to tie the himo, or the tie that holds kimono closed, while changing costumes. They brought us small heaters in the dressing tent, but alas, the ceiling of the tent was open! Another year, it was so warm that the floor of the stage became as hot as a frying pan, and we had to wet our tabi in order to keep dancing. Unfortunately, this did little to help our poor hot feet!

The 25th Anniversary Sakura Matsuri was a special one, as we had been one of the longstanding performers who had attended each festival without pause. I had been caring for my sick mother in Tokyo and had returned to New York for one week just for the Sakura Matsuri, to keep my important commitment to the Garden. I spent the week rehearsing with my dancers, performed over two days, and headed immediately back to Tokyo.

*Brochure for Sakura Matsuri at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden from 1997*

Since 2021, we have been invited to perform for the Garden’s Spring Events series, which replaced the Sakura Matsuri. Our performance in 2021 was particularly memorable, for we danced with masks on our faces. The regular blue masks had to be turned over to the white side to match our white make-up!

*Sachiyo Ito and Company at the Sakura Matsuri Brooklyn Botanic Garden at the Herb Garden in 2023*

There have been numerous other cherry blossom festivals I have danced at as well. My 1978 performance at the Newark Museum was the first of many cherry blossom festivals I performed in New Jersey, in Newark as well as other locations. I was pleased to have had an opportunity to introduce Kabuki dance to New Jersey audiences.

“The Cherry Blossom Dance, the Sakura, simply celebrates the nation’s favorite flower, while Fuji Ondo imagines the spirit of the wisteria tree, and Ayame Yukata is a rhapsodic personification of iris flowers that line the banks of a pond. banks of a pond.”
“Kabuki Puts Premium on Refinement, Restraint”
Valerie Sudol
Star Ledger, June 3, 1991

*Sachiyo Ito and Company at the Bloomfest Cherry Blossom Festival, New Jersey, 2023*

In 2006, I took four musicians and five dancers to perform at the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C. The event was held in conjunction with the National Cherry Blossom Festival. I must say it was a miracle we could perform on time because the train was nearly two hours late! We barely had rehearsal time before the curtain rose, but the performance went well after all. The next day was such a treat for us, for we could enjoy the cherry blossoms in full bloom around the Tidal Basin. We were very lucky to be able to see the flowers at the peak of their flowering. The National Cherry Blossom Festival lasts for several weeks each year, and by the time a friend of mine participated in the closing parade, the flowers were all gone.

The luckiest performance in Washington, or at any other place, occurred in 2019. It was one of several sets we performed at the Tidal Basin Welcome Stage at the National Cherry Blossom Festival. As we danced, the flower petals were showering down all around us, almost as if they were dancing with us. The program included Sakura and Sakura-gari, two dances based on viewing the cherry blossoms and hunting for the most beautiful blooms, respectively. What a joy it was! It was the most blessed performance a Japanese dancer could ever have, I believe.

*Tidal Basin ANA Welcome Stage Performance for the National Cherry Blossom Festival April 7, 2019*

I would love to ask my readers: What is the most treasured moment in your lifetime? A meeting with someone? A meeting with a miracle of nature…such as Sakura?

“Like the delicate cherry blossoms that fade all too soon, the unforgettable work of Sachiyo Ito and Company came to an end as the applause died out and the lights dimmed for the final time. All that was left was a barren stage to remind us that art, life and beauty are to be fully enjoyed in the present moment before being released to eternity.”
“Sachiyo Ito and the Spirit of Sakura Matsuri”
Gerri Igarashi Yoshida
The New York NICHIBEI, May 23, 1985

Susan McCormac 3/2/24 Susan McCormac 3/2/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 3

It’s March, Women’s History Month, so in the third chapter of Sachiyo Ito’s memoir, she pays tribute to her mother.

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

IN HONOR OF WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH: MACHI ITO

I owe who I am and my career to my mother, Machi Ito.

Not only was she an artist and journalist, but one of the first women to work as a film director for a TV network, in her case, for Nippon TV Network, the first commercial television network in Japan. In those days it was rare for a woman to work as an artist, let alone in the newspaper and broadcast industries. Her incredible resilience and strength saw her through difficult times. Reflecting on my childhood fifty years later, her career provided me an example for me to follow when it came time for me to face my own challenges, although I did not realize it when I was young.

My mother was thirteen years old when the Great Kanto Earthquake occurred in 1923. Among the 142,800 people who died were her father and several other relatives. Only she and her mother survived, along with a small portion of the family estate. She was in Tokyo for the duration of World War II, and saw much of the destruction of war firsthand, including the Bombing of Tokyo in 1945. The war left my mother with a lifelong dislike of sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes were the only food she could find when her family was forced out of Tokyo and into the countryside to avoid bombing runs. For my mother, the sweet potato came to symbolize war, which she was against. A dedicated pacifist, she was even thrown in prison for delivering anti-war flyers.

After the war, Japan endured a food crisis, as inefficient allocation of resources and reduced crop yields led to widespread hunger. Each rice ball was a treasure. She told me how angry she was when a rice ball that she had finally received after waiting on the food line for hours was snatched from the hands of my oldest brother by a stranger. This enemy was not an American combatant but another human being, who was also fighting to survive—one of the sad truths in any war.

After the war, she married, but her marriage ended in divorce. My mother had wanted to pursue a career as a painter but had to give up her dream to raise her three children—my two older brothers and me—on her own, as well as support and care for her mother. Perhaps, in giving up her brush, she entrusted me with her dream, which allowed me to pursue my own of performing and teaching in the United States. In turning away from her artistic aspirations, she embarked on a trailblazing professional career.

My mother worked for the Yomiuri Shinbun newspaper during the 1940s. In 1951, its founder, Matsutaro Shoriki, founded the Nippon TV Network and requested that my mother transfer to this new enterprise.

I remember that my brothers and I were so excited to see the television set in our home that my oldest brother started doing cartwheels on the tatami floor.

Since broadcasting was in its infancy, it was not easy to recruit participants for TV shows. So, as a family member of the network staff, I was requested to appear in a couple of the early programs. I remember sitting at a round table in the television studio. Wardrobe had dressed me in a yellow dress for filming, which was then given to me to keep as a reward.

My mother’s field of work was making documentaries for the education department of Nippon Television. It seemed to me that the male colleagues she worked with, such as cameramen, musicians, recorders, and narrators, respected her highly, more than other women at that time in Japan. She was very capable “despite” being a woman!

*Obituary titled “A Pioneer of Women Directors” in the Nippon TV Network Newsletter (2001)*

During my elementary school days, my mother’s work schedule kept us apart, as she was either on location filming around the country or editing into the wee hours of the night.

Late one night, a few months after I had started taking dance lessons, my mother came quietly over to the futon where I was sleeping and placed a dance fan case next to my pillow. I slipped my head under the futon cover, overcome with a huge sense of gratitude. You see, unlike the parents of my friends at the dance studio, my mother did not exactly approve of my decision to study Nihon Buyo. She considered it to be too old-fashioned for her anti-establishment views. Yet, she still got a precious gift for me, acquiescing to my choice without saying a word.

She was a most progressive woman. She simply smiled as I studied hard to take the entrance exam for a very competitive high school. For the “baby boomer” students in Japan in those days, entrance to a desired school was not easy. The school I was aiming for was strong in English education, a missionary school staffed by American teachers. (Learning English as a tool of communication was necessary for me as I wanted to introduce and talk about Japanese dance to the world outside of Japan.) However, my mother said that getting high scores on an exam was not a real education, nor was the system of giving grades in art classes. Even without her encouragement, I got into the high school of my choice.

It was not until my high school days that I was told the truth about her divorce and my father’s alcoholism. My two brothers got into a horrible fight, a war between capitalism and socialism, with each brother arguing about which system was correct according to their own ideals. As they threw chairs and tables around the room and at each other, my mother burst into tears. It was the only time I witnessed her in emotional tears; the fight had triggered traumatic memories she kept deep inside.

Up until then, my father was non-existent in my life, and I never asked about him. She told us how much he drank and how he went bankrupt, which inspired a hatred of those who drank heavily. Her intense dislike of alcohol sometimes affected my life: In the early 1990s, an old friend, whom I dated during the 1980s, and I bumped into each other on the street while my mother was visiting me in New York. He wanted to meet my mother very much, but she declined his special dinner invitation because she suspected he had a drinking habit. Unfortunately, and sadly for me, that was the last I ever spoke with him.

My father’s alcoholism was the cause of my parents’ divorce. He abandoned the family when I was very small, leaving my mother in enormous debt. I remember when red tags, the labels of repossession, were placed on our kimono chests and other furniture. My grandmother was crying when people from the creditors came to collect our belongings. Although I was only four or five years old and had no idea what was really going on, I could sense that it was not the money grandma was crying about, but something else. It was for the disgrace of the Ito family. Her great grandfather had served the Shogunate with excellent swordsmanship, but now, the honor of the Ito family was lost. I also remember a scene when my mother left the lawyer’s office, after the repossession incident. With three children in hand she said, “We don’t have money to buy tomorrow’s food.”

Indeed, it is said, “mothers are strong,” but mine was exceptionally so. I cannot imagine the depth of her sadness and the weight of her burden as she struggled to feed her three children and her mother with no money. She was determined to survive. To provide for us, she took various jobs as a writer for radio stations and newspapers.

At Nippon Television, she used to be called Kenka no Ito Obachan or “Ito Auntie, the Fighter,” although she would call herself Nittere no Komachi, or “Nippon TV Komachi.” Ono no Komachi was a famous poetess of medieval Japan and is considered to be one of the most beautiful women in Japanese history. Her name has become a nickname given to particularly beautiful women. Whenever my mother referred to herself thusly, I or anyone else would look at her face and smile.

My mother was a woman of strong personality. She had a quick temper but was also quick to forget. I must confess, I sometimes think to myself, “Am I her daughter? We are so different.”

She was a passionate woman and never lost her curiosity as an artist to truly see the things and people around her, regardless of whether they were strangers or not.

On the other hand, she had a critical eye for many things, including for herself. After she walked away from painting, she refused to pick up her brush again. It made me sad that she never wanted to paint again, even though I offered her canvases and easels at my New York studio whenever she visited.

*The 17th (Kimono), 18th (Mother), and 19th (Flower and a Person) Nikakei Exhibit Postcards by Machi Ito*

I also regret that I could not choreograph dances to the poems she wanted me to during her lifetime. The poet Sato Haruo translated the work of several Chinese poetesses into Japanese and published the anthology under the title Shajinshu in 1929, and it was one of her favorite volumes. In 2013, I was finally able to create dances to some of these poems in collaboration with Yong Hung Jia of the Peking Opera for my Salon Series No. 47. How much I wish that my mother could have seen this program, regardless of my poor dancing, for Yong was such a beautiful singer and actress and gave a wonderful interpretation of the poems! All the more, the Japanese melody that I asked her to incorporate into her performance sounded perfect.

I love reading my mother’s film scripts. The Pastor in Tsuwano City; Spring Light at Mt. Hakkoda, about woodblock artist Munakata Shiko; Hokuhen Niwa (Two Stories from the North), about the Ainu and the poet Ishikawa Takuji; have such a humane, heart touching quality to them. In the last film, one scene featuring a reading of Takuji’s Ichiaku no Suna, one of the most famous poems of the turn of the last century, often brings me to tears.

In the summer of 2023, I gave a special Kabuki Dance workshop to the current students at my studio. I wanted to keep a record of my instruction, since the workshops for dance majors at colleges in the spring went very well, while on the other hand, I was feeling low on energy. At the end of the workshop, I talked as I often do about Ichigo/Ichie (one time/one meeting), a Japanese saying that means that any encounter happens only once in our lives. As I spoke, I felt compelled to tell my students, “It’s incredible to see you all as my students. If I had not kept asking my mother for dance lessons, if my mother had not allowed me to go to the dance studio 68 years ago, I would never have met you, and we wouldn’t be together here and now.” Then I was overcome by a rush of emotions shed a few tears . . . so did some of the senior students.

I can still remember the late afternoon sunlight when I was begging her to take dance lessons, shaking her shoulder. Her “Yes” did not come until many months later. I can see my six-year-old self, commuting to the dance studio and coming home from lessons on the train during rush hour. Back then, passengers were packed into trains like sardines into a tin, and I was surrounded by people. Suddenly, I found myself on someone’s shoulder: a middle-aged man in a suit. As he was picking me up, he said in a loud voice to those around us, “Oh, this little girl will be crushed!”

It seems that who I am now has been helped by all these miracles—by encounters with other human beings, by the kindness they extended to me; and by my mother, who was my first and the biggest miracle. As I said in Chapter 2, there are occurrences and chances that never become a chain of events, but there are those chances that become a chain of life’s events—because of that and because of this. I was able to make an incredible journey thanks to my mother. I am proud to share our story with you as we honor Women’s History Month.

Machi Ito’s film, Kyo no Shimabara (Shimabara in Kyoto) with English subtitles can be viewed on my website, dancejapan.com or through this direct link: https://youtu.be/r6ZO41N8vkQ)

The posting of this chapter to JapanCulture-NYC.com was paid for by Sachiyo Ito and reprinted here with her permission. Susan Miyagi McCormac of JapanCultureNYC, LLC edited this chapter for grammatical purposes only and did not write or fact-check any information. For more information about Sachiyo Ito and Company, please visit dancejapan.com. ©Sachiyo Ito. All rights reserved.

Susan McCormac 2/11/24 Susan McCormac 2/11/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 2

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

DREAMING THE POSSIBLE DREAM

“Is it too farfetched to presume that the art of the dance can serve as a form of cultural ‘communication’ and provide peaceful understanding between nations hitherto indifferent or even hostile? If you ask this question of Sachiyo Ito, an accomplished exponent of Japan’s Classical Kabuki Dance, she will answer that this ‘far-fetched’ idea is her very dream, the reason why she has come to America . . .”
“Dreaming the Possible Dream”
— Ernestine Stodelle, New Haven Register (June 23, 1974)

There are chances and occurrences that never lead to a chain of events, but there are chances and occurrences that do lead to a chain of life’s events, because of that, because of this. I was able to make an incredible journey thanks to my mother, artists, and friends I met in my life in Japan and my early life in America in the ‘70s and ‘80s.

Without meeting Robertson and Mary Paige Alford in Tokyo, I would not have found myself in America in 1972.

In 1970, I attended a concert of Japanese classical dance performed by the best dancers of the time. During intermission, I noticed a foreign couple standing in front of the portrait of Azuma Tokuho that hung in the second-floor gallery of the National Theater. Azuma Tokuho (1909-1998) was an innovative dancer, and with her son, Nakamura Tomijuro, she led her troupe on the first tour of Kabuki performances in the USA in 1954.

The dance she performed was titled Sono Omokage Ninin Wankyu (The Glimpse of Two Wankyu), originally staged in 1734. This was my favorite dance, which I have presented a few times in the U.S. Azuma and Fujima Tomoaki danced a memorable duet. As I was eager to talk about the performance and Madame Tokuho, I could not help but approach the couple to explain about the dance and the subject of the portrait they were admiring, the very same lady whose performance they had just watched. They were delighted to engage in conversation with me and invited me to tea afterwards at their home. We became fast friends and remained in touch after they returned to their home in Norfolk, Connecticut, two years later.

A funny story from early in our friendship involved a simple, but universal, struggle: finding properly fitting footwear! Mrs. Alford had begun taking dance lessons from me and needed tabi (socks worn with kimono that separate the big toe from the other toes). We searched but could not find tabi in her size; finally, we wound up going to Ohnoya, a store right across from the Kabuki-Za Theater, to have her tabi custom made. The tabi maker was so surprised to see her long and narrow feet—a normal size and shape in the West, but uncommon for the Japanese. Their minimum requirement to place an order was a dozen, and most of them ended up unused.

In 1972, Mr. and Mrs. Alford arranged for me to perform at the American Dance Festival in Connecticut, and they were also kind enough to host me for the duration of my stay in Connecticut that summer.

A memorable moment was when Mr. Alford’s mother, a gentle and graceful lady at the age of 80, asked me “Did you sleep well?” on the following day of flying to Hartford, Connecticut, my first arrival in the U.S. “Of course, I did!” I answered, for I had slept through the night and well into the afternoon of the following day, as you can imagine, because of the jet lag.

The Alford family was a good introduction to an upper-middle-class American family in New England. I learned about their manners, although I don’t think I acquired them, and I started to get to know the American way of life.

In the fall of that year, I began studying at New York University, finishing my MA in 1974. During that time, the Alfords moved to Italy. We kept in touch while they were abroad. After many years, they returned to their summer house in Norfolk and I would visit on several occasions, often for special holidays. They loved Japanese art and decorated their home with Japanese screens and paintings. Their friendship is something I will always treasure. There are no words to express how thankful I am for the Alfords for their support of me and my work. I am always amazed that our chance encounter in Tokyo eventually led me to come to the United States and remain here for the next fifty years.

Over the course of my travels and work, I have met others who became dedicated supporters and dear friends.

An early supporter of my career in the 1960s was Mrs. Martha Walker. She and her family have become my life-long supporters.

Martha Walker, who knew of me through my teaching at the Tokyo American Club, requested private lessons, and so I began teaching her at her home in Shiroganedai, Tokyo. My first meeting with her sons is still vivid in my memory. They all greeted me in unison with incredibly good manners. Richard Walker, her husband, worked for Mobil Oil, and was then on assignment in Tokyo. Later the company moved the family to Italy and Iran. By the time they moved back to their New Jersey home, I was already in the U.S., teaching and performing, and we happily resumed our friendship. The warmth of Martha’s friendship was extended to my family as well; she was so kind as to invite my brother and his wife to stay with them after their marriage ceremony in New York.

The Walkers were a very loving couple. For one wedding anniversary Richard had a kimono made for Martha. He enlisted my mother and me to help with the process, and we all went to the Mitsukoshi department store to help in its creation. The kimono was absolutely beautiful, and Martha looked stunning in it.

Martha was truly passionate about Japanese art. In addition to taking Japanese dance lessons with me, she also studied Ikebana (traditional Japanese flower arrangement). She was also enthusiastic about sharing her passion for my work with others. One example of this is when she hired a van to bring ten of her friends from New Jersey to New York to view my 50th Anniversary concert performance in New York in 2006.

Martha and I had a wonderful relationship that spanned over fifty years, until her passing in 2021. I am so grateful for her presence in my life. Not only was Martha a big supporter of my dance company over the years, but so have her three sons, Richard Jr., David, and Steven. They are brothers with loving bonds between one another, and a deep respect for their parents. They continue to support my work, as a part of Martha’s legacy, so that her love of Japanese art continues, although she is no longer with us.

After her passing, I wondered what happened to the kimono which my mother and I helped design at the Mitsukoshi department store? For the kimono and obi were so perfect on her. That image is always with me.

(left) Mrs. Martha Walker with Princess Michiko, the current Empress, in 1973. (right) Mrs. Martha Walker in Kimono

U.S. Debut

In 1972, I made my U.S. debut at the 38th American Dance Festival held at Connecticut College in New London, CT. Coming from the cramped campus of Aoyama Gakuin University in Tokyo, the campus of Connecticut College looked very huge. I was amazed to find many students using bicycles or cars to get from one class to another.

As a part of the festival program, I performed two Kabuki dances: Kyoganoko Musume Dojoji, first staged in 1767, and Mitsumen Komori, first staged in 1829. The audience was very patient because I had to change costumes without any help! In later years, during costume changes, I used narrations recorded on tapes to give information about the dances in the program and their cultural background in order to keep the audience entertained and engaged while I changed.

Arrival in New York

After the American Dance Festival, I decided to study the academic side of dance: its history and aesthetics. I realized that without knowing about dance cultures in the rest of the world, I could not compare and talk about Japanese dance. I needed to gain a wider perspective on dance. In those days, I knew that academic courses on dance such as history, aesthetics, alongside techniques were either at NYU or UCLA. Ultimately, I decided to go to New York City to study at the School of Education at NYU.

New York City was entirely new territory for me. I had no connections there, except for one, Becky Crow. She was a dancer I had met at the American Dance Festival and her parents lived in the city. Thanks to her kindness, I was able to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Crow in the West Village for a week while I got on my feet.

After my interview with the Chair of the NYU dance department, Dr. Patricia Rowe, I was accepted as a student. With that settled, I had to find a place to live and a part time job, one that was permitted to foreign students. I saw a job posting on the bulletin board of the school: live-in nanny for two children, Matthew and Samantha Gold. Mrs. Judy Gold was studying social studies and had a two-fold need: a babysitter during the academic year and an international student to expose her children to other cultures. She decided I fit the bill. Thus, I became a member of the Gold family for two years—and friends for many decades afterwards.

The first memory that comes to mind with the children was our “Mop Dance” for their father Arthur's birthday. Samantha was a star princess and Matthew held a mop, moving right and left representing the universe as the background. I danced Mitsumen Komori. Almost three decades after my living with them, having kept in touch on and off, I was invited to their Thanksgiving dinner. We all talked about that memorable performance. Matthew’s son was the same age as Matthew was when I used to take care of him, and a happy surprise it was to see the little boy behaving just like Matthew did when he was five years old.

In 1973, I began performing for AllNations Dance Company under the direction of Herman Rotenberg, headquartered at International House at Columbia University. I toured many states from Maine to Alaska with wonderful artists such as Noell, who became a Chair at Brooklyn College Dance Department; Hope, who was versatile in Indian and Flamenco dance; Chin, a Filipina, who became an actress later in her career; and Rick, a Hawaiian dancer. I remember we used to work together to make a fun-filled finale after each person’s traditional dance.

Once we chose Noel’s Voodoo dance, and in the height of hypnotized frenzy, my hair bun fell off, which Chin kicked away behind the back curtain. What a relief it was as the action seemed less than a second! We were such a friendly team, and I believe we learned a lot from each other's art with respect and love. I still cherish many memories of our tour and performances.

*The AllNations Company, the Concert Hering Auditorium flyer, University of Alaska (1975)*

Sachiyo Ito told a story of Urashima… Her movements were perfectly controlled in a fashion different from the dance of the West, yet fascinating and lovely. Hiroshige print come to life.”
“Down East with AllNations Company”
— Judith Boothby, Dance Magazine (April 1975)

Another supporter of early days in Tokyo and the U.S. was Mrs. Grace Peyton, though as I recall, neither I nor others ever addressed her by her first name but rather by her husband’s name, Mrs. Alton Peyton. She was the chairwoman of the Officers’ Wives Club at U.S. Camp Zama in Japan, where I used to teach during my college days from 1970 to 1972. Her husband returned to the Army base in Augusta after his tour in Japan. Thanks to her introduction, I also received the Peace International Scholarship, which made my study at NYU possible in 1973.

We maintained our relationship, and she helped arrange my performance at Augusta College in Georgia in 1973, which was my first U.S. performance outside of the Northeast. She also arranged a luncheon performance for wives of officers at the base. The memory of the beautiful flowers there, which at first, I thought were cherry blossoms but were actually dogwoods, is still in my heart like a picture-perfect postcard. The beautiful full-blown dogwood trees were so gorgeous and breathtaking—they were just like cherry blossoms from a distance. For a moment, it felt as if Japan, which seemed so far away, was very close. It was a brief moment of homecoming which I will always treasure.

In the summer of 1974, I was invited to perform at the Ethnic Dance Festival in Barnstable, MA. The Founder and Director of the festival was La Meri, a legendary ethnic and modern dancer, versed in many styles of dance, particularly in Indian and Spanish. She introduced various ethnic dance forms to the world. I was impressed and inspired by her continuing her mission into old age. Her beauty was striking, even at the age of 76. I remember an evening conversation with her; she was emanating radiance into the darkness of the night and was so full of life. In the 1990s, I returned to Barnstable to teach a course called Language and Culture of Japan at the community college there. I went over to the theater, hoping to find that La Meri’s legacy was being continued but I was told that there had not been a summer festival held there for several years. Of course, I said to myself, times have changed. But her beauty, both inside and out, still lingers as if shining a light onto the path of my life.

Last night Sachiyo Ito, the young Japanese classical dancer, gave a performance of rare beauty and exquisite refinement. . . . It would seem to be a symposium of all the arts. Poetry, drama, painting.”
“Sachiyo Ito dances show rare beauty.“
— Evelyn Lawson, Cape Cod Standard-Times (July 12, 1974)

Keeping the Dream

In 1973 I met Beate Gordon and showed her my dancing at the theatre of Japan House, now called Japan Society. After this audition, she chose me as an artist to introduce the arts and culture of Japan to schools in the tri-state area. I began working for Japan House’s education department, teaching dance and culture at public schools. Later, when Beate moved to Asia Society, my work began as their Kabuki consultant and touring artist. Many may know her as an important figure in Japanese history: She drafted the Women’s Rights section of the new Japanese Constitution that went into effect in 1947 after World War II.

In those days, the 1970s, words such as “Kabuki” and “kimono” were hardly known. I used to go to schools with maps of the world and Japan, photographs of Mt. Fuji, Kabuki dances, stage costumes, tea ceremony scenes, Ikebana flower arrangement, and more, to talk about arts and culture of Japan, and show demonstrations to young students. It was first through Beate that I finally began to realize my dream of introducing the beautiful art of Japanese dance to the United States as a grassroots work. Not only did I work for her educational programs, but I also gave many recitals of my own at Japan House.

Further, Beate’s father, Leo Sirota, was a well-known pianist. When Beate found out that my mother was a fan of her father's and had attended his concerts, Beate asked to meet her. She was charmed by my mother’s outgoing personality and enjoyed meeting with her whenever my mother visited me in New York.

*Beate Gordon’s obituary with Sachiyo Ito’s dance dedication in Shukan NY Seikatsu, 2013*

*Beate Gordon (seated, far left) with Sachiyo Ito’s mother (third from right) and Sachiyo Ito (far right)*

My relationship with Japan Society has continued to this day in the Performing Arts Department and Education Department.

Japan Society advertisement with Sachiyo Ito in “Sagi Musume” (“Heron Maiden”)
Original Photo by Thomas Harr. Also appeared in The New York Times Magazine (October 1976), Sports Illustrated (November 1976), and New York Magazine (December 1976).

*Sachiyo Ito performs “Haru no Umi” (“Spring Sea”) at Japan House. Photo by Ray Smith.*

I left New York after receiving my MA from the NYU School of Education’s dance department in1974, as my student visa had expired. But in 1975, I was invited to teach Japanese dance and culture in that very department. I resumed performing for Japan House/Society. Also, I was fortunate to be able to give recitals at their theater. One of the eight reviews by The New York Times about Japan House/Society performances was titled “Control and Grace in Miss Ito’s Dance” by Don McDonagh (1974). I was flattered by the description of me as having “control and grace” since those two words express the essence of Japanese dance and teaching principles. Looking back, the impression often captured by dance critics of my performances in those years such as "a model of control and refinement" in Dance Magazine (1976), also reflected the essence of my teaching that I have aimed at and keep pursuing through my life.

I also began showing my own works in the ‘70s. One of them was a series of dances inspired by Chieko-sho, the poems written by Takamura Kotaro. Being a classical dancer, I had to hold a breath in presenting my creations, knowing my boldness.

*“Chieko Genso” (“Chieko the Elements”) at Japan House*

“Sachiyo Ito, an expressive and powerful performer, is, at the same time, touchingly delicate.” “Who are the Watchers, Who the Dancers?”
— Deborah Jowitt, The Village Voice (February 12, 1979)

I have had the fortune of meeting these people as mentioned above early in my career, which encouraged my mission. Their support was invaluable while I navigated the culture shocks that came with moving from Tokyo to New York in the 1970s.

New York in the 1970s was much more dangerous than it is today. I experienced harassment, muggings, and robberies that I would have never encountered in Tokyo. And as an immigrant, I experienced further hardships surrounding my visa. But none of this prevented me from doing the work I wanted to do and develop. I had supporters such as mentioned above in this chapter. Furthermore, one of my thoughts about life is that “difficulties will occur wherever you are.” My challenges in New York may have been different from those I would have faced in Tokyo, but I would have faced difficulties there as well. The idea strengthened my resolve to move forward.

My financial situation was not something I could tell my mother back home, because I had to seem to be “doing well” for her. I could not complain about any difficulties I encountered. Because she turned down her dream of continuing to be an artist, she entrusted, so to speak, her dream to me by allowing me to leave Japan to pursue my dream. I wonder if others who have left their home country or hometown faced a similar situation.

I must say, looking back at those days, it seems unbelievable that so many people helped to start the life of a Japanese girl with ambition. Just this past summer, I found at my home in Tokyo many letters and pieces of correspondence with those who offered me everything from a night’s lodging or simple jobs to help me survive day to day to public dancing opportunities that became the base for performances in places unknown.

I can only bow to everyone I met with deep gratitude, even those who have caused me difficult situations, for I have learned so much from all these experiences.

Susan McCormac 1/11/24 Susan McCormac 1/11/24

SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: CHAPTER 1

Debut Photo, Kamuro (1956)

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

POIGNANT MEMORY

“Control and Grace in Miss Ito’s Dance”
— Don McDonagh
The New York Times, 1974

Sachiyo Ito at the wedding of her brother Tamiki Ito, 1975

It is a poignant memory, sometime in the ‘90s. I stayed a few weeks at my old home in Tokyo. I came across a photo taken by my brother, who had just discovered an exciting new device, a photo camera. I was his first model. I was 5 or 6 years old. In the aged photo, a little torn in one corner, I was smiling as if I had no worries in this world and expressing joy for being under the beautiful afternoon sunlight.

Then I started to cry because I realized that I had been clenching my teeth to carry on my mission since I began my work in America, without financial resources, taking all kinds of jobs to survive, regardless of circumstances like robberies and the dangers of almost being killed. I never had smiled so naturally from the bottom of my heart. There was a passion, a driving force within me, but I don't think I was experiencing happiness in any part of my life.

As a professional, I faced my students and audiences, addressing them about Japanese arts and culture with "smiles."

Luckily, my work has been reviewed numerous times by The New York Times, Dance Magazine, and other arts publications for my tours around the US and my work in New York. I only glanced at them and never fully read or appreciated the reviews, perhaps with a sense of incompleteness of my life and that I had to go onward without reflection.

It is true that many artists may be fighting with themselves, clenching teeth, to perform, working hard with the feeling, "I've got to do this!" No matter what adverse situations and conditions there are, there is a sense of righteousness that artists can send a message for the betterment of the world through the arts by making it possible to touch people's hearts. I wonder if the artist is nothing but a thirsty human being who has to share feelings and ideas with others?

I remember my older brother calling me Kawara Kojiki, a "beggar at the riverbank," as performing artists in Japan were referred to in the past. In some sense I have been that, but I didn’t mind. So, my response was silence, and only an inner voice said, “So what?”

In Japanese classical dance, Nihon Buyo, to present a performance, centuries-old traditions and authenticity require great resources. What a difficult fight it has been to obtain these requirements.

Seeing my smile as a child, I realized my life is not hard but blessed, as I was able to do what I believed in. Even though pursuing an ambitious and wild mission, I could carry on, thanks to my mother, friends, and all conditions that allowed me to do what I had to do.

With a sense of gratitude and acknowledgement of hard work and consolation, I feel how blessed I am to do what I believe in. No need to clench my teeth, for I can carry on with life as it was meant to be. I can embrace what I have and what I can do with joy, otherwise there is no meaning in life. Now I can smile perfectly at flowers, blue sky, sunshine, and people.

The human being is amazing, one who can do unbelievable things when she looks back. Nature is full of miracles. So, I say to young artists, yes, endeavor and pursue your path even if it has changed course or made a big turn. Life with passion and belief cannot be more beautiful. Let us do everything with joy, though. It will make a better art of whatever we are making. I often wonder if what I’m making is “art” or rubbish. But still, I believe a sincere offering of the heart can be called “art.”

Here I am as Kawara Kojiki

This past spring (2023), I was giving a workshop at a senior center near Washington Square Park. The area is the college campus where I used to walk as a student at NYU more than 50 years ago. The campus around the park is where you can see Kawara Kojiki every day. The same is with Union Square Park and many other parks and subway stations.

At Greenwich Senior Center in New York City

When I came to America with a one-way ticket and a suitcase with three costumes and a few kimonos, I never imagined being here for so many years. But one job led to the other, and to another, and like a snowball rolling down the hill, it seems that the years passed by quickly while I became a teacher, dancer, and choreographer of Japanese dance and the artistic director of a dance company.

Sachiyo Ito and Company at Sakura Matsuri, Brooklyn Botanic Garden

About Kawara Kojiki, the name my brother claimed for me, it did not seem to matter to me, because I am the one, regardless of the name, being disgraceful. But it also shows an important element as a performing artist: Modesty. It is a part of my training.

Whatever others say, there is a calling inside of us. I believe what inspires us most will lead our path.

I don’t know why, but ever since I can remember in my childhood, I used to think about life and death. I was six when my grandmother passed away. I remember that I did not understand her death. I was scolded for being excited during the funeral. It was like a festive occasion because there were so many people gathered at my house that was surrounded by a lot of food and flowers.

After the funeral I suddenly came to realize that my grandmother was no longer with me and the family, and that death was coming to me, also. The idea of death scared me so much that I clung to our housekeeper.

Then, if I only had one life to live, I would want to live it to the fullest, while on the other hand, I was praying to be reborn many times in various incarnations.

People ask me, "What do you like about New York? Is it easy to live there?” I believe that "living" is the same no matter where you are, and that each person's life has its own uniqueness and brilliance, regardless of whether it is painful, sad, beautiful, or joyful.

I have been living my life with too much tension, holding my own mission in my heart to introduce Japanese dance to the world and to play a part in cultural exchange. Putting aside the immaturity of my own art, I have lived my life with ambition, wanting to confirm my life through dance. And New York provided me with a place to do so.

Early Days: Childhood and Dance Training

I was born on July 31, 1949.

I began my classical dance training with Hanayagi Sakura at the age of six.

It is said that in learning “performing arts,” the training should start at the age of six years and six months. This teaching was first advocated by Zeami in the 14th century in his treatise, Fushikaden. But in many kabuki and dance masters’ families, they begin their children’s training even at three years old, just as I witnessed my Noh teacher teaching his three-year-old son.

There is an image of a late afternoon light coming through the living room. I was five or six years old, nagging my mother, moving her shoulder back and forth, “Mother, please let me take dance lessons.”

My desire was turned down at first, because my mother was a single mother, unique in the 1940 and ‘50s. She had to raise three children, so our means were very limited.

However, several months later, I was allowed to take lessons on the condition that I go to the dance studio on my own, for there was no one to take me there, and the trip took an hour with changing trains.

I began taking lessons twice a week at the studio of Hanayagi Sakura. She was the sister of the wife of Takeo Takagi, the editor of the Yomiuri Shimbun newspaper, where my mother worked. I recall gathering my friends in the neighborhood and teaching them dance as I sang and held up a case of a dance fan, which amuses me now. What was I doing?

Sometime during elementary school, I decided I would like to be a dance teacher and performer. I decided one thing during my childhood: I would not get married, which was absolutely a ridiculous idea. Sakura Sensei was single, and although my mother had been married (but single since I was three years old), she was too busy with work and had no time to see her children except on special occasions.

I was a lonely child, so to speak, almost like no mom or dad ever existed in my life. I thought, if I pursue my career, I will not make my children unhappy like this. Then later, Shotoyo Sensei, my second dance teacher, made me change my mind because I saw how wonderful it was to have a family like hers and realized that marriage and having a family would make a richer life that would contribute to richer expression as an artist. Also, a family’s support for work and career is very important. Certainly, I wanted to get married, too, but the truth is no one wanted to get married to me if I pursued my career.

Despite my desire, to have a career in the Japanese dance circle required financial support from one’s family or other supporters, which was not possible in my case. And yet, I wanted to pursue my dream of dancing. Further, my little voice used to say, “I have only one life. I want to make my life worth living as a human being, and I want to contribute to society.” Such a bold proposition for a teenage girl, who was ignorant of the world and the weight of such an endeavor.

Also, there was someone who inspired me a great deal. She was my senior student, Hanayagi Kosen. I witnessed her dancing when she was preparing for her recital to announce the opening of her own studio. She looked so beautiful, even if she is not what we call a “beauty.” I realized a transformation happens when one puts all their energy and heart into one thing.

She was truly alive, shining, emanating her beauty and light. In her case, giving the recital to commemorate her teaching certificate was a milestone in her career. The realization of her dream made her such a beautiful person full of radiance.

Then, later in my adolescence, I began to dream of working outside of Japan and introducing the beautiful art of Japanese dance to other people. That was to me, less costly; it seemed possible to pursue without having a millionaire family.

Sachiyo Ito and Company New Year Dance Odori-zome (2023)

It was too big of an ambition since I did not know anything about Japanese dance yet. Reflecting now, after more than 50 years of teaching and performing, I feel I still do not know enough about dance. Even when I started working in the United States in 1972, I had little idea what dance is, the depth of the art and tradition, and the huge heritage of the culture. Maybe such a realization is true in any art: The longer you trod on the path, the more you realize and how little you know and understand about art. It is immeasurable. But perhaps that makes it worth pursuing and learning.

REFLECTIONS

Tsuki no Akari Wa Shimiwatari

Postscript

Poetry in Motion for the Time of Contemplation

The Cranes

Rocky’s Kabuki to Montevideo

Kabuki in the American West

Introduction to Germans: Bonn International Tanz Workshop

Alaska and Touring with AllNations Dance Company

South American Tour

Congreso Mundial

At the Airport

Summer Festivals and My Roots

Minzoku Geinoh (Performance Folk Art)

Okinawan Research

Documentary

Mr. Matsukawa and Salon Series

Dilemma of a Classical Dancer

Ayako-mai and Salon Series

Dojoji: Dojoji 2001 and 2002

The Challenge

The Genre and the Bell

The Research

The Fantasy

The Collaborators

My Mother’s Funeral

TRANSFORMATION

Ichikawa Shojo Kabuki (Ichikawa Girls’ Kabuki)

AIDS Fundraiser Performance

Chieko and Dan

Fantasy and Illusion of Transformation in Theater and Dance

Transformation and Transition: Kabuki, Shakespeare, and Now

The Dojoji, the Archetypal Drama of Transformation

AFTER 50 YEARS: JAPAN PARADE AND MY 1970s

Culture Shock

Dangerous City in the 1970s

“Homelessness Time”

Pacific Overtures: Broadway Show

St. Croix, USVI

University of Hawaii at Manoa

Philadelphia Museum of Art: Isamu Noguchi Retrospective

Dublin Theatre Festival

SAKURA (CHERRY BLOSSOM)

Sakura Matsuri, Rite of Spring

IN HONOR OF WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH: MACHI ITO

DREAMING THE POSSIBLE DREAM

U.S. Debut

Arrival in New York

Keeping the Dream

POIGNANT MEMORY

Here I am as Kawara Kojiki

Early Days: Childhood and Dance Training

LEARN MORE