As far as I can remember, the first time my grandmother started telling me about Kabuki, I was eight. Eight is the age at which I began to realize that though granny could be conveniently labeled ‘ballerina’ and grampa ‘Film Person,’ there was more to them than that. I started asking questions about how and where they’d lived. I started wondering about their careers as teens, young adults. The first thing I remember being told about was ‘Japan.’ The Japanese culture has always been a part of my life. I can make sushi, ebi-su, tempura, giosa, know how to serve sake, like the taste of nori and can identify most of the different kinds of sushi, sashimi, the difference between the two, and which ones my grandmother is allergic to. It never occurred to me that there was a reason for the apparent cultural bleed. As it turns out, there most absolutely was. This being: During their lives, my grandparents and their five children spent a year of their lives surrounded completely by Japanese culture, living overseas. There have been hundreds of stories, all now taking on an almost mythical status in the family, of the chair that got chopped shorter and shorter so uncle Paul wouldn’t slouch, of the monkey that attacked my aunt Tania on her way back from the store, of the little food shop on the corner where they were known by name. But the one thing that’s always been a vague presence in the background was what my grandmother just called ‘the dances.’ The dances, something we were brought up to know, that if you go to Japan, you have to see the dances. My grandmother was, of course, the most ardent story teller, as the ballerina that was easy to understand. Legendary performances, seven hours long, with shouting and clapping and eating your food right in the audience. As I became older, the ‘colorful palaces’ became theatres, the ‘samurai’ became ‘actors,’ the ‘dragons’ were now ‘puppets,’ and a hundred other transformations from the fantastical to the realistic. I’m still surprised that I didn’t find this shift of perspective discouraging, but somehow, it wasn’t. Kabuki went from being something completely out of my reach, beautiful framed photos on my grandparents’ walls, in the books stolen out of their libraries, to something very attainable. I marvel that my grandmother never went out of her way to learn more about it. Yet, at the same time, I can see why she didn’t. The nearly untouched books she’s leant me to research in have beautiful photos of how the enchantments were put together, long words to describe something as simple as a hanashimi, a simple concept. She looks at Kabuki through the eyes of an enthralled housewife in a strange country. I, on the other hand, am ready to understand something that has had an undeniable presence throughout my entire life. So on, to Kabuki, and all the spells it casts. As an actor and student of drama, I’m looking forwards to understanding it from more than an audience’s perspective.
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As far as I can remember, the first time my grandmother started telling me about Kabuki, I was eight. Eight is the age at which I began to realize that though granny could be conveniently labeled ‘ballerina’ and grampa ‘Film Person,’ there was more to them than that. I started asking questions about how and where they’d lived. I started wondering about their careers as teens, young adults. The first thing I remember being told about was ‘Japan.’
The Japanese culture has always been a part of my life. I can make sushi, ebi-su, tempura, giosa, know how to serve sake, like the taste of nori and can identify most of the different kinds of sushi, sashimi, the difference between the two, and which ones my grandmother is allergic to. It never occurred to me that there was a reason for the apparent cultural bleed. As it turns out, there most absolutely was. This being:
During their lives, my grandparents and their five children spent a year of their lives surrounded completely by Japanese culture, living overseas.
There have been hundreds of stories, all now taking on an almost mythical status in the family, of the chair that got chopped shorter and shorter so uncle Paul wouldn’t slouch, of the monkey that attacked my aunt Tania on her way back from the store, of the little food shop on the corner where they were known by name. But the one thing that’s always been a vague presence in the background was what my grandmother just called ‘the dances.’ The dances, something we were brought up to know, that if you go to Japan, you have to see the dances. My grandmother was, of course, the most ardent story teller, as the ballerina that was easy to understand. Legendary performances, seven hours long, with shouting and clapping and eating your food right in the audience.
As I became older, the ‘colorful palaces’ became theatres, the ‘samurai’ became ‘actors,’ the ‘dragons’ were now ‘puppets,’ and a hundred other transformations from the fantastical to the realistic. I’m still surprised that I didn’t find this shift of perspective discouraging, but somehow, it wasn’t. Kabuki went from being something completely out of my reach, beautiful framed photos on my grandparents’ walls, in the books stolen out of their libraries, to something very attainable.
I marvel that my grandmother never went out of her way to learn more about it. Yet, at the same time, I can see why she didn’t. The nearly untouched books she’s leant me to research in have beautiful photos of how the enchantments were put together, long words to describe something as simple as a hanashimi, a simple concept. She looks at Kabuki through the eyes of an enthralled housewife in a strange country. I, on the other hand, am ready to understand something that has had an undeniable presence throughout my entire life.
So on, to Kabuki, and all the spells it casts. As an actor and student of drama, I’m looking forwards to understanding it from more than an audience’s perspective.