My backstory with Merce Cunningham
I was fortunate to meet the world-famous modern dance choreographer Merce Cunningham (b. 1919), in Kyoto in 1988, and to spend an entire day together among the beautiful shrines and temples of Higashiyama, the eastern hills of Kyoto. We remained friends and kept up an occasional correspondence with written letters, until his death in 2009. I saw and spoke with him several weeks before his death, and we reminisced about our happy time together in Kyoto.
It so happened in 1988 that I was living in Kyoto and working as artistic director of Parnassus Dancetheatre, a company I founded with expert dance artists from traditions East and West. We’d been preparing our debut show, Mid-Hell Smoke, an English Noh play by poet Michael Fournier, based on a scene from Dante’s Inferno. After a year’s work, we’d used all our available funds and secured an excellent theater, the Kyoto Geijitsu Bunka Kaikan, for the opening night of a three-night run, hoping to entice and invite the dance audience of the Kyoto and Osaka area. Three weeks before our debut, posters appeared all over Kyoto: “Merce Cunningham Dance Company in Kyoto, One Night Only!” Guess which night? Yes, the same date as our debut performance.
So, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek letter to Merce in New York City, asking, “How far does a choreographer have to be from New York City to get a chance to show their work without being overshadowed by one of the Greats?” To my astonishment, Merce wrote back with a beautiful and witty three-page letter, saying if he could, he’d change the date. He asked if we could please spend a day together in Kyoto, enjoying the sites related to Zen and Noh, in which he had a keen interest. I was delighted and agreed in the letter that I mailed back to him.
When the day came, I met Merce at his hotel. He was beaming and friendly, and obviously arthritic. He walked without a cane, but with some difficulty. He wanted to walk in places where you could only walk—no cars, no bikes. I asked him what he wanted to see? He answered, “Nothing. Isn’t that what Japan is famous for?” So, we went to a rock garden with no rocks and to a Shinto Shrine on the top of Yoshida Mountain, where stood an outdoor Noh stage, more than 500 years old. It was there I performed a Noh dance for Merce Cunningham.
Performing a Noh dance for Merce Cunningham
On that fateful day in Kyoto, 1988, when I met Merce Cunningham and spent the day with him, he made it clear he not only wanted to see a Noh dance but knowing that I was studying Noh with a great master, Udaka Michishige, he wanted to see me perform a Noh dance. So I packed a Noh folding fan, the only prop needed for a basic dance, and carried it with me as we went through our day.
When I noticed that he walked with some difficulty, I offered to modify the plans. My intention, after visiting Zen and Shinto gardens, was to ascend to the top of Mount Yoshida, a small mountain within Kyoto itself offering splendid views. At the top, after passing through 100 vermillion gates that adorned a cobbled path, was the hushed Munetada Shrine, an ancient Shinto shrine with a simple raked gravel garden and, remarkably, an archaic outdoor Noh stage on the pinnacle of the peak. The priests knew me well as my home was nearby, and they allowed me to practice on the stage. I was always impeccably respectful. In any case, I’d hoped to take Merce there and perform a Noh dance for him. He thought it was a great idea, and the ascent and performance were the core of our day together.
Walking with care, our slow hike uphill became a pilgrimage, as sunlight darted through the many orange-red gates. Ascending through all the gates was performance art in itself, a transformed walkway of shimmering light, in which we talked about Noh, moving from the belly (Jp: tanden), floating by sliding, and painting with energy.
Once we arrived, Merce took a seat on the stairs of the mountain shrine, as I explained that I would dance Kokaji, about a sword-smith and the Fox god Inari, who comes to assist him in making a sword of divine protection. I was a bit concerned—not that Merce would be unable to take in the dance, but concerned because Noh, in all its inner and outer techniques, is very slow form of movement, too slow for most people. I took out my Noh fan, did the preliminary chanting, and went on to perform a 10-minute dance atop the lovely old Noh stage among the pine trees for an audience of one. I knew he was observing it carefully, taking in everything.
My performance was slow and dignified. I did a fine Noh dance for Merce. When I finished, he said, “I thought it seemed fast?” I explained that I was not wearing an inhibiting mask or large costume, and that I was probably a bit nervous, and that this ancient stage is in fact a bit smaller than a standard Noh stage today. He understood.
Then he asked me, “Would you do it again for me? Three times slower?” And so, I did. The 10-minute dance dilated into a 30-minute shared dance experience with Merce Cunningham, as we together explored the form and energy in a most quiet, intense, open, intimate, artistic way. He was sage. He was friendly. Just as the audience at a Noh play is essential to its moments of meaning and insight, so Merce was completely a part of my performance, the object of his concentration. When the dance was over, half an hour later, neither of us said anything.
This article is an excerpt from Buddhist Dances, Movement & Mind, by Joseph Houseal, Motilal Banarsidass, 2025.
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