"Da Dad Dada"

Two and a half years have passed since my father's sudden death in the spring of 2015.

What suddenly came was not only the parting.

There were several reunions with him, accompanied by a repair of our relationship. But the period of three months was by far too short.

The one instance in which we were in time was when he, who had also been a dancer, saw me dance on stage with his own eyes for the first time, four days before he died. At the time, I figured the reunion had come about for this purpose.

He died right before I was to fly back to Germany.

I had to get ready for the funeral, dispose of his belongings, make the exits from both his condominium and mine, prepare for my departure, and perform other tasks, all within a limited time. In completing them all, the significance of the reunion was my emotional support.

I recall being in an abnormally excited state, which may possibly come through in my blog.

There was no leeway for acceptance of his death and our parting.

It was several months later that I gained the spare time to rebuild my life and sit around quietly by myself.

Once I had settled down, I was visited by a deep sense of regret.

It was the first time ever for me to lose someone that close to begin with.

We had promised to meet again two days after the day he died.

If I had gone to see him earlier, perhaps something would have changed.

If I had asked him this or said that.

If we had communicated with each other as dancers, released from the distorted family relationships.

If he had stayed alive.

It took me more than another year to be done with this thinking about what should or could have been.

The sense of guilt I felt toward my mother also delayed the task of sorting out my feelings.

I felt that I had found the end of this whole sequence of events this spring, after we scattered his ashes at sea on the anniversary of his death.

I'm not sure if two years is a long time or a short time.

I still cannot find the right word for this aftertaste.

I believe that one of the purposes of this "Da Dad Dada" project is to cause some alternative to appear.

"Sinking in the Sea"

About six months ago, I buried him by scattering his ashes at sea on March 5th, the anniversary of his death.

At the time, just going to the funeral had been all I could handle, and I had left the ashes from his cremation with my mother. As far as she was concerned, he was a stranger; they had not even created a family register (the equivalent of getting a marriage certificate) together. I had to admire her magnanimity just for keeping the ashes, but she even went along with me to scatter them, saying that she wanted to "see him through to the very end."

When I thought of scattering ashes, I had a mental picture of holding them in my hands and letting the sea breezes blow them away under a sunny sky. But the employee of the ash-scattering business we consulted recommended a different procedure in advance. He suggested putting the ashes into little sacks that dissolve in water, choosing a time and place with no other people around, and throwing the sacks somewhat far from the side of the boat. In advance, he had put the ashes into water-soluble sacks for the number of bereaved (two in our case). This was humdrum enough, but the amount of ashes was far larger than what we could hold in our hands, and my mother and I had to laugh about the gap with what we had pictured. Scattering ashes at sea is legal under almost all conditions, but is attended by issues of a psychological nature involving those around, unless a boat is privately chartered at considerable expense. We had therefore made reservations for a late-night cruise on a large ferry, and headed for the port right after picking up the sacks filled with the ashes.

At 1 in the morning, my mother and I got up on the third-floor deck after all of the other passengers were asleep. The only light came from a single lamp that looked like the kind used on construction sites. The sea and the sky were pitch-black. Far in the distance, we could see the lights of the harbor from which our ship had departed a few hours ago. Placing a little photo of my father in an L-sized frame at my feet along with the flowers we had bought in the port before leaving, I talked a little with my mother in the chilly sea breeze.

Because we were getting pretty cold, we finally brought out the sacks. We again felt a little funny because of the difference from what we had imagined, but stood next to each other at the railing and gamely threw the sacks into the distant blackness. It would probably be more accurate to say that I hurled my sack as hard as I could. We could just barely make out the sound of two splashes amid the hum of the ship's engine and the sound of the water against the hull. Then we threw the flowers. Blown by the wind, they flew in a different direction from the ashes.

It was over so quickly and I was feeling somewhat taken aback, when I noticed my mother was folding her hands in prayer, and followed her lead. We did not have any particular conversation after that; we descended the stairs and went to bed.

When we awoke the next morning, the ship arrived in one of the outlying Japanese islands. This island is a fair distance to the south of Tokyo, and spring had already come to it. There were plum trees in bloom all over. Many people think plum blossoms are unspectacular, but the island had whole groves of the trees. Carried by the warm breeze, their sweet fragrance was almost stifling, and made me feel as if what we had done last night had occurred in the distant past. It was a break that could not have been clearer.

Besides being the end of all the whole tumultuous story, it was at the same time the beginning of understanding of absence. From that day on, I began to understand his death with my heart, on a level different from that of regret.

I can never meet him again. Absolutely not. I never once positively wanted to meet him. But now, even in the unlikely event that I would want to meet him at some time, I definitely cannot. Cannot. Cannot. Cannot. No matter what train I take, what plane I ride, or what website I visit, I cannot meet him. I was surprised myself at how I had not understood anything.

To touch what cannot be touched, see what cannot be seen, or hear what cannot be heard. Only the boundless longing for this miracle becomes the wellsprings of corporeal movement. And now, I walk alone, in search of a way to meet someone who cannot be met.

"Lamentation and Action"

One theory holds that Neanderthals, a species of the Homo genus that appeared about 400,000 years ago and became extinct a little over 20,000 years ago, paid their respects to their dead with flowers. The reason is that researchers discovered large amounts of petrified flower pollen by their remains in the 1950s and 1960s. Some researchers have naturally denied this, but I personally hope it is true.

Even among animals, there are reports that certain species engage in practices that resemble funeral rites. Elephants, penguins, and horses, for example, all of which live in herds. To what extent is the feeling of grief embedded in instinct, and how do "we" link it to physical action?

That reminds me: I once thought I had discovered the character for "flower" used as part of the character for "burial," but when I looked more closely, I was disappointed to see that what I had taken for "flower" was actually the character meaning "death."

Regarding the origin of the Sino-Japanese character for "funeral":

The character is crowned with the grass radical, which may also be construed as indicating flowers. This accords with an act of condolence. One theory holds that the bottom element also indicates flowers, and the middle element, which is the character for "death", the corpse. If so, the whole character is a cross-section diagram with flowers strewn under and on top of a corpse.

Diagram

- A radical symbolizing growing grass

- A radical symbolizing dried bones remaining after the flesh has been cut away, combined with a modified version of the character for "person" (= the dead)

-> A corpse laid in a grassy field

"Saori"

When producing and staging this work in Germany based on a story involving my father, I felt that I first had to cut out my change of surname in 2012.

The related details are noted in my written memorial. To put it simply (since it would be difficult to find the concerned place in the memorial), I began using "Hara," my father's surname, in 2012. Before that, I used my mother's surname. I changed my surname in the family register, so "Hara" is now on all of my ID documents.

I made this change as a kind of ceremony for transforming (not resetting) my life and becoming a dancer. In reality, it played a great role for designing a new personality. In this connection, I must note that the persuasiveness of an act changes considerably depending on how much identity others feel in the surname.

As compared to Western cultures, occasions for being called by your surname in Japan are far more numerous. Right from early childhood, Japanese people are called by their surname with the suffix "san" attached by their teachers and friends. Even when they become chummy with others, the custom is to use part of the surname in the nickname. This practice presumably exerts a certain influence on the formation of identity.

Since coming to Germany, I have often experienced the difference in respect of the sense of belonging, as symbolized by the conventions for self-introduction (first name followed by last name) and addresses (first name followed in order by last name, street, state, and country). Even in graduate school, professors and students may call each other by their first names. I realize that different background factors also come into play here, however.

Be that as it may, what was a momentous step for me is apparently just a trifling modification to people here. I can readily imagine from their expressions that, in their minds, they are asking "Why? Saori is 'Saori'!"

I still haven't decided if I will eventually cut this part out or leave it in with some explanatory comment. This point is buried in this work like a land mine, and a close examination of it is also an important process. At first, I had some doubts about the wisdom of having created a work that depended so heavily on the Japanese language outside Japan. The cost of translating and proofreading to accurately convey what I wanted to say also could not be ignored. Nevertheless, there is a big benefit in being able to see the core of this work through such "close examination," and I therefore want to take full advantage of this welcome environment.

"Killing the Magic of Theatre"

When gazing at the archives of Ken Hara (to call my father in this way), I end up thinking that something must be missing in a person who dances before others. I want to say that something is definitely wrong.

I do not take to the space that is theater. Theaters have a kind of magic. To tell the truth, I feel overwhelmed by their time and place, and feel a quiet upsurge. (I often react in the same way even to installations that are huge, dark or shining, or that move.) But when the performance is over and I leave the hall, I feel indignant or enraged. This happens over and over. It may be that I have been superimposing the person Ken Hara on theatrical space, at least over the last few years. On the other side of the light he radiated on stage was a mix of exaggerated expression akin to a personality disorder, falsehood, and excessive, theatrical, egoistic behavior. He had danced in the show-biz world from an early age, and he eventually acted like this unconsciously. The duplicity of talent and sickness in the same person never changed, right up to just before his death. This is one of the major reasons why I am skeptical about the magic of theater. You might even say it is a trauma.

As might be imagined, there would be no point in handling my father's life in this work as if it had been something beautiful. If beautification were the object, having someone else handle it may be expected to produce something wonderful.

But even though I say this, I too am now brazenly getting up and dancing in front of others, and that can only be termed very ironic. When this contradiction becomes too much for me, I recall the words of Emma, a character appearing in the Moomin comics. Emma is a rat that runs a theater.

"The theater is the most important thing. By going there, anyone can see how they could live even if they don't have the courage to, what they can hope for, and also what they are like just as themselves."

She is using the word "theater," but I think the same can be said for a performance in a museum or outdoors. There doesn't have to be a story involved. What makes physical expression decisively different from painting or sculpture is that the performer and viewer are directly linked by body as the medium.

I choose this means of expression for burning all the various occurrences that lurk in living as a human being into my body. I do not feel any strong longing to a dream-like extraordinary world. I want a strong body whose actions and movements will not be eclipsed by the lighting and sound arrangements.

Quite possibly, what I have been calling "magic" all this time is simply the setup that cancels out the existence of viewers.

In theaters, there must be a blackout before the spotlight is put on the lead.

To put it in terms of the connection between Ken Hara and myself, when I talked with him, I was cancelled out as far as he was concerned, like the members of the audience at the theater. That was not all; I was always finally dragged onto the stage and made into a performer in the role of "my beloved daughter." This overboard expression of his love for me made for a sharp contrast with the sorry state of relations in the family.

Viewed in this light, I must continue to think carefully on the question of the nature of the "strong body" I mentioned above.

"Pointing at Death"

My father's funeral turned out to be a small ceremony attended by only about 15. This was because of the suddenness of his death and my virtually complete lack of knowledge about his circle of friends and acquaintances. But even though they were few in number, the attendance by my father's friends and one of the members of the group who appeared on the stage with him introduced me to new sides of my father, albeit on the day of our parting. By the same token, at least one of them remarked, "I didn't know he had a daughter!"

The direct cause of my father's death was cerebral concussion due to a fall at his home. When I saw his face in the mortuary at the funeral home after an interval of two weeks, his forehead showed signs of internal hemorrhage that had not been there when I last saw him. At the sight of them, there immediately arose in my mind the image of an old man turning cold on the floor at home, as if I had been there. For the body before my eyes, time had stopped on March 5, 2015. It was the body of the man who had wept tears of joy to see me dance a few days before then and had clearly told me "I want to live a little longer" a little earlier, right in the room where he fell. It was all I could do to discharge my role as the chief mourner; during the ceremony, I never imagined that it would impact me to this extent.

The labors demanded of the bereaved at funerals were greater than I had anticipated; the people who most want to spend the time in serenity are therefore the busiest. While the social and physical matters that must be taken care of following a person's death are unavoidable, I also resented the related conventions and customs as being utterly pointless and coming at a time that would better be devoted to psychological adjustment, each at his or her own pace.

But over the last two and a half years, I came to understand one thing: people are bad at resigning themselves to loss. Funerals are held for the purpose of bringing close friends and relatives together to share and confirm the fact that the person in question has died. Non-existence is much more difficult to actually grasp than is existence. The mourners gather around, gaze at the face in death, present flowers, and confirm the state of the dead before cremation, after cremation, and in the cinerary urn. By performing this procedure, which could even be likened to the occupational safety method of "pointing and calling" to confirm steps of work, the mourners gradually resign themselves to the person's loss of existence.

Without the funeral, I myself might have simply blurred the boundary between the fact of his death and my wish in not accepting it myself.

Although she had said she could not attend, even my mother gave me a bouquet of flowers for the ceremony. Besides being tokens of condolence and decoration, flowers serve as a link between the living and the dead at funerals. While they have already been cut off from soil and water at their roots, they continue to radiate an unmistakable shine as living creatures and have the mission of rotting together with the dead in the afterworld where we cannot go along. This occurred to me when I laid my and my mother's flowers in the coffin. It was like drawing the line declaring that we could go no further. I felt that this, too, was part of the farewell ceremony.

To say a little about my mother, from early childhood, she let me make my own judgments and decisions concerning my father. This is why I almost never mention her when writing about him. Her policy could be paraphrased as follows: "If you want to go and see him, go and see him. If you don't, don't. I am not going to have anything more to do with him, but he is your only father." When I was in grade school, my classmates often teased me for coming from a home without a father. I sometimes took my irritation out on my mother, as I recall. Her feelings about it were undoubtedly tangled, but she never once took anything out on me.

This piece naturally took shape a little at a time, with the help of many different people, but it could never have been born without the both admirable and passive help beginning long ago from my mother, who respected me as an individual and did not intervene in my relationship with my father.

It will soon be just one month before its premiere performance.

I began this project without knowing exactly for what purpose, and what kind of ending would satisfy me. As it turned out, I believe it, too, is a long, drawn-out funeral. It is a process of confirmation with our past selves that was missing from the first funeral. I can now see the end of the ceremony of parting from my father, whom I hated, loved, scorned, and respected, extending all the way from my early childhood to my present age.