I would like to begin by asking everybody present about just how familiar you are with what we commonly call “dance”?

Some of you might like to watch classical ballet, some might have learnt Nihonbuyo [traditional Japanese dance] or participated in Bon Odori at your annual local street festival, others might have well enjoyed disco in your younger years. You may all differ with respect to your tastes. Some of you, however, might not have been exposed to anything like dance since your kindergarten years or junior high-school school arts festival.

No one knows with any certainty when human beings first started to dance ... In Japan, the most well-known account of dance is to be found in Kojiki [Records of Ancient Matters], in the myth in which the celestial goddess Amenouzume performs a spontaneous dance in order to lure the sun goddess Amaterasu out of the cave in which she’s hiding. Obviously, however, we’ve been dancing from a much earlier time period. I can well imagine that dance existed long before humans ever invented “speech,” and that our ancestors communicated with each other through dance, just as birds and animals do in their courtship rituals. Long ago, hunters would dance in order to thank the natural deities whenever they caught a big fish; farmers would dance when praying for a good harvest. Whenever people were afflicted with sorrow upon someone’s death, they would dance. Even nowadays, whenever we’re unexpectedly happy, don’t we speak of "jumping for joy." Before we can express our happiness through words, our body moves as though a reflex. This suggests that the “seeds of dance” are still dormant in our genes, irrespective of the extent to which we’re involved with dance in our daily lives.

Kitamari’s dance-works seek to arouse those “seeds of dance” that each and every one of us unconsciously carry around within us.

Human beings have long sought ways to commune with natural objects and deities such as the sun and mountains. Atago, a new dance piece based on the theme of Mount Atago, deals with the various ways in which we still commune with the otherworld. The creative process behind Atago was influenced by the Kyogen piece Saga Dai-Nenbutsu, usually referred to as Saga Kyogen. This Nenbutusu , or invocation to Buddha, has been traditionally performed within the precincts of Seiryoji Temple in Sagano at the foot of Mount Atago in Kyoto prefecture. For this production of Atago we have invited a Kyogen troop to join our performance; it will feature a musical accompaniment by a gong, taiko and Japanese flute. We would like to take this opportunity to discuss with Keiji Kano, the gong and drum player in the hayashi, the thinking that went into creating this modern-day Kyogen piece.

－ In contemporary society, many commentators still hold the view that tradition is not something to be messed around with.

Kano: That may well be the case, but isn’t Kabuki also undergoing dramatic changes? We would like the Saga Kyogen to stick to the basics, but yet modify it with that little something extra. We, as performers, need to be aware of the fact that we perform both for and because of our audience. We need to learn what our audience wants, and in this way increase our number of followers. At the same time, we don't aspire to be professionals or to take money for what we do.

－ Mr. Kano is also well-acquainted with Butoh. From his experience of Butoh performances he has seen, he could say that Kyogen equally shares in this act of “beckoning a mysterious being.” In that respect, this new dance piece Atago may also be invoking that “unidentifiable being.” What does this kind of collaboration in “beckoning another being” imply for traditional performing arts?

Kano: In traditional Kyogen pieces such as in Taira no Kiyomori, whose protagonist, Kiyomori, has passed on, the players have to lure that dead hero back from the other world. As such, what audiences witness on stage in the Saga Kyogen represents that "other world." The audience looks up at that stage, for it is not the world in which we’re living our day-to-day lives. Take how the player wears the obi, for example: the sash is tied not behind the back as is usually the case, but rather in front. This indicates to the audience that they’re looking at the other world. Even the dedicated costumes belong to the deceased and have their names written on them. In that respect, a Kyogen performance is akin to a memorial service.

－ The Dead enter the bodies of the living, using them as a conduit to play those who have passed on. On occasion, they even wear a kimono of a deceased person they have known personally.

Kano: That's why the Kyogen players wear a cloth beneath their masks, so as not to reveal their skin. They conceal any human traits or characteristics they may have in order to incarnate that “other being,” who is not human. The only visible part of their physique is their hands. This is where the concept of miburi - teburi comes into play, that resurrection of forgotten human gestures. The Kyogen player can only act and gesticulate with and through their hands. The rest is achieved through the mask. It’s as though the players are possessed. The Mibu Kyogen repertoire represents an extreme example, in that the players are more akin to puppets than flesh and blood human beings. They’re transformed into “an other being” which isn’t human.