デュオ

英譯本：”kazuo ohno’s world”  第94頁6-41行,第96頁1-8行,第97頁1-6行

      Irrespective of how accomplished or talented one may be, one inevitably remains incomplete without some form of interaction with others. Tatsumi Hijikata, for instance, always stressed the importance of form in dance; he believed that once the structure and choreography had been established, the content would subsequently emerge of itself. In his own words, “Life catches up with form.” Kazuo, on the other hand, even to this very day, holds the diametrically opposite view:form comes of itself, only insofar as there is a spiritual content to begin with. While both approaches sound like viable working practices, one and the same person could never employ such conflicting methods.

A similar dramatic tension underlines my working relationship with my father. It is Kazuo who places the utmost significance on the spiritual aspect of dance. For him, movement is utterly dependent on a spiritual presence. I, on the other hand, invariably emphasize the most physical aspects; I concentrate in as much as possible on the form dance assumes.

A good illustration of our differing approaches could be seen in when we performed A White Lotus in Bloom at Tokyo’s FM Hall accompanied by the pianist Miyake Haruna. There was a grand piano onstage, whose beautiful curved lines struck me forcefully. I wanted to try to incorporate its arresting shape into the visual backdrop. Yet Kazuo, in typical fashion, wouldn’t have anything of the sort. He said he wanted to dance more freely and not be in any way constrained by what he considered an unnecessary prop. Though our opinions openly clashed on this issue, I nonetheless was determined to avail of its beautiful shape in the scenic space. I thought to myself at the same time: “If Kazuo isn’t going to dance with that piano in the background, well then, damm it, I will!”

Also, our conceptions of space clearly differ: Kazuo is inclined to take advantage of the entire scenic space; he freely utilizes the auditorium, the aisles, the floor, the seats, or wherever he deems fit to create his universe. I, on the other hand, dancein a restricted area within the confines of the stage. But I consider this is a positive feature of our working relationship, in that having contrasting viewpoints and ways of relating to space only enriches our work.

Also, our conceptions of space clearly differ: Kazuo is inclined to take advantage of the entire scenic space; he freely utilizes the auditorium, the aisles, the floor, the seats, or wherever he deems fit to create his universe. I, on the other hand, dancein a restricted area within the confines of the stage. But I consider this is a positive feature of our working relationship, in that having contrasting viewpoints and ways of relating to space only enriches our work.

Kazuo frequently quotes from Swendenborg’s tale of a man and wife who, despite their inherently different, and often clashing personalities, went on to become reconciled and united as a single angel in heaven on their departure from this world.²³ Our relationship onstage could be described in somewhat similar terms. While having separate identities and completely opposite approaches both to rehearsal and performance, we nonetheless successfully merge into a larger whole. And yet we somehow manage to retain our individual voices. Ultimately though, when it comes to setting foot onstage, we both realize that our separate identities must merge as one.

We don’t try to upstage each other or engage in rivalry. Notwithstanding that we are two individuals, with very independent streaks, the public is left with the impression that we jointly strive to create a single entity in our work.