Category — SJanoff

Neither my eyes nor ears could process the bizarre performance that was being given to them. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and the feeling disturbed me almost as much as the happenings on stage.

When the dancers of Xover first entered the stage, I thought that for some reason, they were warming up and doing sound checks in view of the audience.  I sat patiently, waiting for the performance to start. As time went on, however, I began to fear that I was wrong, and this discombobulated jumble of dance and noise was the performance.  The dancers, in their uniform white unitards, floated around the stage with what appeared to be complete disregard for the noise that surrounded them. I don’t blame them. No one, no matter how talented of a dancer they may be, could find any sort of rhythm to move to within the “music” that was playing. For me, and many other people I am sure, dance is about the ability to control one’s body in cadence with sound.

Not only were the sounds completely disarrayed, they were quite uncomfortable to listen to. One sound, a strange throaty croak, was repeated over and over again. This sound has been used in many films as the sound a person makes when they are strangled to death. This horrifying repetition was patterned with strange lines that made no grammatical sense (“the moon is full of black”), said in a voice which I imagined belonging to a mentally unstable old woman. I realize that an extraordinary amount of work went into creating the performance, which makes me even more confused as to why it seemed so completely unprepared. If they were aiming for “organized chaos”, I believe they missed the organization and dive bombed straight into chaos. I have never been to a dance performance expecting complete chaos, nor will I ever again. I would like to say the show opened my eyes to a new form of dance, but I cannot be that generous.

This was Xover’s New York Premiere, and honestly, I think they need to go back to wherever they came from.

Thankfully, I was able to shake off any remaining discomfort when the next troupe, GALLIM DANCE, took to the stage. Perhaps they seemed better due to the performance before them, but I believe that I Can See Myself in Your Pupil is the most astounding dance I have ever seen. The originality and color of each individual was refreshing after the white unitards of Xover. The dancers were animated and moved in ways very reflective of the dancing that is popular with my generation. They combined these somewhat spastic movements with pirouettes and leaps that showed their true abilities as professional dancers. The music used was the type of music I often listen to when I wish to energize myself. It was certainly the type of music I enjoy dancing to.

What astounded me most was the chemistry between all of the dancers. There seemed to be an electric charge between all of them; especially in the fun, somewhat raunchy duet. The lighting created a visual feast for my eyes as I watched the dancers contort their bodies in ways that seemed illusionary. I never wanted the performance to end.

Sadly it did, and I found myself enjoying an Odissi dance entitled Vistaar. While the unison of the dancers was quite extraordinary, and the intricate movements of the girls’ feet and wrists quite entertaining to watch, I found my mind drifting back to I Can See Myself in Your Pupil, wishing they would come back onstage. In comparison to that, the somewhat repetitive Vistaar could hardly keep my attention.

I was looking forward to the final performance, as it came from the Ballet Company of my hometown. While the dancers were extremely skilled in their movements, that too could not hold my attention like I Can See Myself in Your Pupil had done. Aside from the fact that the music was from the 1980s, it played out like a regular ballet.

Overall, I enjoyed Fall for Dance, because of the absolutely delectable troupe GALLIM DANCE. I commend the others for their efforts, but no one came close to the utterly beautiful innovation of I Can See Myself in Your Pupil. It completely stole the show and left me with an aching desire for more.

New York is the international hub of the United States, and as can be expected, I spend a lot of my time exploring Japanese things in New York City. I’m sure that everyone has been to a sushi restaurant or two, but there is so much more available. From tiny authentic restaurants to huge street festivals, there are many interesting encounters with Japanese culture to be had in New York City. I have taken my tiny film camera with me everywhere and captured many various aspects of Japanese life in New York that I am looking forward to sharing them with you.

Last Friday, I found myself wandering around St. Mark’s Place in a daze, wishing I was back in Tokyo. I went to Sunrise Mart, the Japanese supermarket there, to pick up some ingredients for dinner and try to pretend I was back in Japan. It failed miserably, and I left the store with delicious food, but an even stronger feeling of emptiness and longing.

I walked slowly up the street towards the Astor Place downtown 6 station, feeling extremely sorry for myself. As I stood on the street corner, waiting for the light to change, I noticed a Japanese tourist next to me, fervently studying his map with a look of total confusion on his face. I watched as he craned his neck to see what street we were on, and then went back to his map, his eyebrows contorted in frustration. After he did this four or five times, I decided to intervene.

“Excuse me, are you okay?” I asked in Japanese. He glanced up, startled, and I repeated my question. A look of absolutely relief appeared on his face as he exclaimed “thank you, thank you!” in a thick Japanese accent.

“I”, he began in English, and looked at me to see if I understood. I nodded, smiling, and he smiled back, continuing.

“I want to go to Bleecker Street”, he said slowly. Being from Miami, I don’t know my way around the city all that well yet, but thankfully I was going to Bleecker Street station in order to get back to my dorm.

“Ah, you have to ride the train!” I told him, adding “I’m going there too.”

So off we went to the subway station. Once we arrived at Bleeker Street Station, I pointed towards the exit, telling him “you go that way”.

He nodded and bowed to me deeply, showing great appreciation and respect. I bowed back, and sent him off with the Japanese expression for “be careful”. He nodded, smiled, and bowed again, saying thank you again and again as he did so.

I turned around and walked towards the F train, smiling and almost crying with joy, thinking maybe, just maybe, not being back in Japan just yet wasn’t so bad after all.

In the fall of my sophomore year, I forgot who I was.

My personality traits, what I liked, what I disliked, my goals; everything disappeared into a gaping black hole called depression. I stopped dreaming. I stopped speaking. I want to say I stopped thinking, because no matter how hard I try, I cannot remember any of my thoughts during the time. All I remember is a distinct feeling of existing on the very edge of life, completely separated from the rest of the world.

Around the time that I finally reached out for help, I also, for a reason I cannot remember, began exploring Japanese culture. I was fascinated by everything about Japan. My friends thought I was crazy, but they were so relieved to see me happy again. And Japan did make me happy.  Every new thing I learned seemed to suck more negative energy away from me. I began studying Japanese, and taught myself two of three alphabets in two weeks. I was like a child in the stage of fast mapping, sucking in information at a great rate with the ability to remember it all. I was proud of myself, something I had not been in years.

In the spring of my sophomore year, I knew who I was. I was a girl who was absolutely fascinated by Japanese culture, was learning the language at an extraordinary rate, and wanted to live out her life in Japan. This has not changed. Every aspect of Japan continues to fascinate me and make me happy. How could it not? Japan was like the light at the end of a dark tunnel that I never thought I would escape. It brought me back into the world again.

I know how strange it seems that what, I feel, saved me is an intangible thing: a country and its culture. Honestly, I question my sanity daily. But if I had not, by some inexplicable force, been drawn to Japan, I have no idea where or who I would be. It is like my mind decided to entirely rewire itself. A renewal. A rebirth. And at the same time I came back to life, I found Japan. I found myself. And I am happy.

Although this is not something I am exactly eager to admit, I am extremely closed-minded when it comes to the literature I choose to read. The only books I will read willingly, with a few strange exceptions, are always about Asian culture. So I was thrilled when, for the first time ever, a book assigned to me was one I would pick up off the shelf myself.

I began reading The Bitter Sea with high expectations. I was eager to read about Charles N. Li’s coming of age and the experiences he had in China’s most tumultuous time period. I was ready for excitement, shocks, and drama. What I ended up reading was none of that, yet in a way it was one of the most touching novels I have read in a long time.

During the initial discussion of The Bitter Sea, many criticized the novel for having a detached, unemotional narration throughout. Although I agree that there was a lack of excitement in the novel that many American memoirs have, I felt that there was an incredible amount of emotion in the story. From Charles desperately, and almost subconsciously, looking for a place to belong in the slums of Nanjing, to his first real confrontation with his father and the consequences it has on their relationship, I could feel his struggle throughout. I have found that in many Asian cultures, emotions are typically suppressed for the sake of the family or community. Therefore, the subtle rebellions and emotional confessions by Charles have even more significance.

The Bitter Sea does not provide a great life lesson or spiritual awakening. It does, however, cause the reader to think about their family, their role in society, and the way anyone can, if they try hard enough, accomplish their dreams. And that, to me, is far more important than excitement and drama.

I entered the small, yet cozy room with bated breath, eager to hear about the views of photographer who began his journey when the industry truly hit it’s peak. As somewhat of a photography buff myself, and two best friends who would give their limbs right and left for new cameras, lenses, film, hot-shoes, etc, I have been to my fair share of contemporary photography exhibits.

The photographic movement in the 1970s was a phenomenal one, filled with fresh new ideas and originality. As Howard Greenberg said, photographers traded their images right and left, and gave a whole new standard to the conceptualization of a photograph. Photographs of the 1970s were about impact; movement; capturing a dazzling piece of history and preserving it forever.

I was quite shocked and somewhat disappointed then, that Howard Greenberg no longer looked for these elements in the photographs he decided to show. He chooses his pieces based on the photographer. He let us know that he was interested in older works that had a background because of who they were photographed by. When I questioned him about this further after the presentation, he told me straight out that, for him, he was not interested in a photograph if it not was not taken by someone historically significant.

I thanked him for the informative presentation, but I left feeling somewhat disillusioned. In my opinion, the most important thing about photography is the actual subject matter and technique of the picture, not who shot it. Although I learned a lot of fascinating information about some famous photographers, I would have liked to know more about the pieces themselves. Perhaps this is the difference between classical and contemporary photograph that Greenberg kept referring to; however, I feel that the photography movement today, as opposed to that of ten or twenty years ago, is closer to that of the 1970s; radical, experimental, and based on what you know, not who.

(http://softrice.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/6-beef-intestines.jpg)

“Wow, this is really good”, I exclaimed, intensely chewing the rubbery, white substance that had been placed in front of me at the dim sum restaurant. It was like a noodle, yet not, and somewhat resembled a soggy tree branch.  I continued moving it around in my mouth, trying to distinguish what exactly the strange, but still quite pleasant flavor and texture were. Both were completely foreign, and I finally asked, still mindlessly chewing, “what is this?”

Everyone at the table glanced towards their neighbor, shifting their eyes uncomfortably, trying to decide whether or not they should tell me exactly what I was eating.

“It’s a thing Chinese people eat.”

Not at all satisfied with that answer, I reiterated my question.

“No seriously, what is this? It’s really good!” Silence prevailed for a few more seconds until finally someone piped up.

“It’s cow intestines.”

My chewing slowed as I processed that bit of information, and suddenly I wanted to get what I had moments before found absolutely delectable out of my mouth as quickly as possible. Trying to remember how delicious I thought it was before I knew what it was, I swallowed down the cow intestine.

“Oh. I see” I gulped. The look on my face made everyone laugh.

“I just think of everything as squid”, my friend said, picking up her own piece of cow intestine and popping it into her mouth, “makes it easier”.

I laughed and nodded. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

Sitting in Bryant Park, I gingerly turned the page of my book and took another sip of tea. Completely absorbed in my novel, I was not even taking breaks to people watch, as I tend to do. I was suddenly jostled out of my concentration by the movement of all the chairs at the table next to me. I glanced to the side and found myself intrigued by the collection of individuals who had taken seats beside me. All six members of the party carefully began removing Tupperware from their bags, silently placing them on the table. They sat in awkward silence for a few moments, until one girl spoke up.

“This is called inarizushi”, she said slowly, in a thick Japanese accent. “It is very popular dish in Japan”.

“Oh! I have tried this before!” said another, before she happily introduced her own dish, Pierogi, a type of Polish dumpling.

My book lay on the table, abandoned, as I continued to listen to the names of the foods, all said in extremely dense accents hailing from the same country as the dish brought. Although conversation was no doubt greatly stunted, everyone managed to communicate his or her thoughts, and each person listened patiently as the others tried hard to find the English words to express themselves accurately. And when they, trying so hard to find those words, still came up empty-handed, they simply smiled and said the food was delicious. After all, “mmmm!” is the same in every language.

If you want your post to show up in this category, be sure to check this category before publishing.