U.S. Campus Life

The art of spit

By Masako Yamada

I've always considered myself a bit more attuned to the dance scene than the average person. I've taken some kind of dance lesson on and off for most of my life, starting when I was three years old. I had brief fantasies of becoming a dancer from the time I was in kindergarten to the time I was around 10 years old. By that time, I realized that my natural dancing talent was not great. I nevertheless enjoyed practicing and watching different kinds of dance.

In college, I took dance in lieu of taking mandatory physical education classes. I bought season tickets to watch the Boston Ballet. I even tried out for the Wellesley College dance team, and when I failed, I still went to their recitals. In grad school, my interests expanded to include salsa and ballroom dancing (mostly watching).

However, I realized this weekend that I'd never really gotten beyond traditional dance forms. For the first time, I attended an "experimental" modern dance recital in what used to be a loft in the industrial section of Boston.

I was shocked from beginning to end. Little did I know that the artists would be chanting in gibberish about the origin of the Earth. I didn't expect to hear the choreographer crescendo from a low moan to an ear-piercing scream while motioning with her hands. I didn't expect dancers in blue to make "blip" sounds like a dripping faucet and then start running around like drops of water. I didn't expect the trombonist to make all possible squeaks, squawks and screeches with his trombone while moving with the "music."

The performers kept my attention, and indeed, they moved me. If that is the intent of art, then they succeeded. The strongest reaction came after the following scene: the trombonist was covered in white handkerchiefs, and one of the dancers picked up the handkerchiefs one by one and hung them on a laundry line. There was a story of the migration of birds painted onto the handkerchiefs. The trombonist and dancer both screeched during this scene. Finally, after all the handkerchiefs were on the line, the trombonist exhaled a mighty puff of air ... and a VERY LARGE torrent of spit came out of the end of the trombone. At least one liter of spit must have shot out of the trombone. I could have sworn that some of the spit must have gotten on the audience, since some sat directly on the dance floor.

My friend commented, "That was very organic, very earthy." I was thinking exactly the same words, probably since it's a positive way of describing an uncomfortable scene. The scene moved me ... to the extent that I felt sick for the remainder of the day. At the same time, I felt ashamed to feel such disgust, since art isn't necessarily supposed to be "pretty." Spit is a fact of life, and we shouldn't deny its existence, right?

In a sense, the performance succeeded in forcing me to think about the meaning of art and, even perhaps, about the realities of human life. But I came out of that performance craving even more the gorgeous forms ballerina create in spite of being dizzy and feeling incredible pain in their toes. I appreciated the disciplined beauty of opera singers tossing off the most difficult scales with ease. I said silent thanks to Beethoven and Schumann, who turned their private agonies into beautiful harmonies instead of guttural screeches. Heck, I even appreciated the "aesthetic beauty" of common people who try to duck into a private space when they want to pick their nose, or who try to put on a smile when they're having a lousy day. I think it's admirable to want to please the public.

I feel I've been exposed to a kind of emotional expression that is different from traditional performance arts, and I'm still interested in attending this kind of recital in the future. However, I still don't know whether I'd call it art. It felt more like a lecture. My friend told me that sometimes, it can be interesting just trying to feel the sensations of one's foot as one grips the floor. I told him it may be interesting for the dancer, but is it interesting for the audience?

Shukan ST: Nov. 16, 2001

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