Taiwan Today

Henry Yu, who has spent two years in Spain and 11 years in New York, is widely regarded as the best male dancer in the Republic of China. When this reporter requested an interview, he was able to offer a look at those years; he replied: “I have a bunch of videotapes at my home in Shulin (in the suburbs of Taipei). Come over and see them. I suggest you take the train; it is only four stops from Taipei. There is a special reason – the train run is nostalgic and romantic.”

I caught an early economy train and, contemplating the interview, suddenly realized that the man I was about to see, in spite of his 42 years, must still be keen to the tempo of life, and must have a great attachment to his homeland.

The blazing hot sun relentlessly embraced the semi-developed urban area. Two-to-three-story buildings rose into the stifling air. Green fields squeezed to the outskirts. When I finally arrived al Yu's residence, I was at once purged of the fatigue of my trip by his warm welcome and a four-wall vista of dance photos.

He led me to one of the photos, featuring himself in a lopsided position, wide-stretched arms parallel to his feet. The weight of his body was placed on the heel of his right foot. “This is a very difficult posture. You must, at least, have training in the martial arts to reach this horizon of control,” he said.

Before I could nod my head and take a nearby seat, he continued: "I think Martha Graham’s rheumatic hands have become the springhead of her strength. See, sometimes my hands form a cup - to instill life on stage." For demonstration, he led me to the table, tore off a piece of paper, put it on top of the table and patted it with cup-shaped hands, gently. The paper at once jumped up.

Yu's father was a doctor specializing in massage and treatment of dislocated joints. He died when Yu was five, leaving behind him 13 children. His mother also died, 8 years later, and Yu spent long hours sitting on river banks, watching the waters flowing by and the trees throbbing in the breeze. He fantasized that he could be that carefree, that much at ease. Perhaps, at that time, a tremor of dance became rooted in his heart.

Yu spent ten years learning dance from Tsai Jui-yueh, starting at the age of 15. Before he went abroad to pursue his career, he had already become a famous dancer. After undergoing classical ballet training and receiving his degree from the Madrid Conservatory of Music in the summer of 1970, Yu went 10 New York, seeking to immerse in Western dance his own Eastern sensibilities. Asked why he chose New York, he said: "Europe, in the field of ballet is strictly for Caucas­ians. An Oriental can find a role in New York’s modern dance."

Joining the Martha Graham School as a scholarship student, he simultaneously studied dance with Eleo Pomare, meeting there an African-derived tradition. Thus, dance elements of several cultures have filtered into his original orientation.

"In general, a dancer is discovered on stage," he commented, "because only the stage allows him to fully display his potentialities. During eight years a Graham's school, I was constantly reminded by the master that I am not a solo dancer, but a group dancer. I have never been intimidated. As Martha was too old to teach herself, I could only learn from her films. She organized her own dance school at the age of 38; her past experiences made her fear that her students might outdo her. When I told her that I intended to bring the essence of her art to the Chinese people, she panicked. I think she never really trusted me, though I am on a par with Americans in terms of adroit and clear-cut gestures.

"I do not deny that learning with Martha was the watershed of my career. She is a great dancer. Without her strict training and help, I would not be what I am. My deep admiration for her will stay with me all my life." He paused, seemingly caught in some unhappy memory. "But she also hurt my feelings greatly."

At that time, Martha's school only presented several performances a year, and she kept repeating creative works of the 1940s. Yu felt that he could learn little more from Martha's school, so he asked for her permission to dance in the Broadway production, "The King and I." Martha granted it with great reluctance. When Martha later presented a grand performance at the Metropolitan theater, Yu found that his name had purposely been left out. The teacher-student ties were tarnished.

Soon afterwards, when a Chinese Communist group paid a visit to Martha’s school, she notified Yu not to show up for classes, but indicated he would still receive his scholarship funds. Martha even tore down the schedules of classes, pasted on a bulletin board. Yu was grief-stricken over this insult, arising from Martha’s failure to separate art from politics. He decided to leave Martha’s school.

"But I can never forget how she appreciated me; after all, I was the only Chinese male dancer to join her school. Whenever she was vexed, nervous or afflicted by her rheumatism, I always massaged her. (Yu learned the technique from his father.) She would say in appreciation: 'Henry, you make me feel young. I feel new blood circulating in my body.' I respected her as a teacher, and a mother, and I believe she misses me dearly when she is ill," Yu said,

Yu rented a workshop in Brooklyn and began to recruit. Then "Henry Yu and Dancers," featuring six male and six female members, finally came into being, In 1976, Yu choreographed three productions -Hunchback, Black Angel and Yellow River.

Inspired by Thomas Mann's "Little Harry Feldman," Yu composed Hunchback to describe the abnormal psychology deriving from the pressure of a deformed stature.

Seven years ago, Yu sprained his left ankle in a duel. "I was spinning my co-dancer when I suddenly felt the muscle of my left foot torn, as if by needles and knives. I failed to pay proper attention to it in the beginning. During our performance tour to Vancouver, I had to be flown back to New York. In the following year, I was grounded. I couldn't move. I was deformed in a very real sense," said Yu, expanding on the rationale for Hunchback.

In Thomas Mann's story, the hunchback falls in love with a country maid. Mistaking the girl's compassion for affection, he is rejected and commits suicide by jumping into a river. Considering that author Mann is a Gemini, Yu used male and female dancers to represent the two facets of the hunchback's aspirations. The dance is filled with structural con­trasts - a healthy and upright youth with the deformed man; the happy time of a group of young people in the country­ - with the hunchback, downcast and re­pressed. Of all Yu's creations, Hunchback is the only piece he dances himself. His unique interpretation is a full presentation of Martha's modern dance tech­niques: "I dedicated this number to Martha," he indicated.

It is Yu's habit to design a dance first - before setting it to appropriate music. "If I have the music first, I will be led astray and lose my orientation. In my mind, the routine always comes before the music. For this piece, I spent three years looking for suitable music. I was even forced to switch the leading female role, because she had become pregnant and gained too much weight," he said.

The "Dance" magazine of Novem­ber 1980 issue commented: "Set to Sibe­lius's Concerto in D Minor, Opus 47, Hunchback takes advantage of folk ele­ments in both the music and the move­ment; and roles are clearly defined. Guil­lermo Resto's dancing is sharp and crisp; he confidently strides forward with flexed feet, in the manner of a man who has both feet planted firmly on the ground. Jean Ference moves her arms in scythe-like curves and revolves as she walks in a crouched position, coy and unassuming. Two-by-two symmetrical patterns and cart-wheel sequences, light-hearted competition among the men, and a tortured solo by Yu (by far the most impressive dancer in the company) all add up to just the right combination of elements."

The second number composed in 1976 was Yellow River. "In my mind, the stage is a sheet of white paper and the dancers' limbs are ink brushes. I wanted to do a dance rooted in Chinese ambi­ence. Sometimes calm, sometimes tumultuous - the temper of the Yellow River is infinitely varied. In Chinese legend, this river is the mother of life, the womb of civilization. Presented on the stage are Earth Mother, the East, West, South and North Winds and a bridge running across the river. Stravinsky's music helps to fashion an Oriental profile," Yu said.

The third 1976 number, Black Angel, is a poetic rendering in four parts of the black experience - from Africa via trans­ Atlantic passage, through slavery to free­dom. Based on black sculpture and artis­tic designs, tile dance develops the resi­lient vitality and strength of the male dancers.

At high noon, this reporter watched the end of an-hour-long session of video­ tapes. Henry Yu, in a T-shirt imprinted with Martha Graham's name, and a pair of black athletic shorts, fastened a wallet to a belt and slipped it around his waist. "I'll treat you to lunch," he said, without pretension. I accepted gladly. The sun was scorching hot. The host seemed no more familiar with the small town than the guest. "I seldom walk about town in the middle of the day. I have classes at the Chinese Culture University in the early morning, and then teach until 7 p.m. at a private studio. I always return home at midnight. So, I don't know where the restaurants are.... "

The asphalt road was burning hot. After strolling around for 15 minutes, we finally chose a restaurant right next to Yu's residence. We ordered a dish featur­ing roast sinew of ox, with green cabbage. Yu asked, "Is it the ox's stomach?" The waitress could not help laughing. Shame­ facedly, Yu explained: "I only take nutri­tious food. During my stay in the U.S., I used to pay two dollars for some toast, two fried eggs, three sausages, a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. Then I stretched my body, warming up for two hours. After taking an hour's rest, I prac­ticed ballet for two to four hours and then taught dance at night. I led a leisure­ly but rich life there. I was lucky that­ besides working at an IBM company for three years as a part-time job - I didn't have to worry about livelihood."

After performing in the "King and I" in 1979, he created three more dances - the Fisherman, End of the Beginning and Anima. Set to music by Prokofiev, Fisherman presents a traditional Chinese theme: A young bride's husband disap­pears while fishing. She could remarry or become a nun; instead, she waits for him faithfully.

"After being gone from the island (Taiwan) for a dozen years, I was ex­tremely homesick at that time. I recalled that the coastal people on the China mainland occasionally drifted- far out to sea, leaving behind their wives and child­ren. The latter, however, always main­tained confidence that the fishermen would someday return. The first part of the dance is not set to music. I wanted to tell the audience that the scene is a recol­lection of some faded events of bygone days. It also has no sound. Sometimes I feel that I am myself the fisherman. After wandering abroad for a dozen years and maintaining a difficult life, I wanted to start a new life, returning to my motherland," Yu said.

Anima derives inspiration from American society. Yu uses this number to recount how life prolongs and recycles. He makes use of several animals. First on stage is a snail, patiently reaching his goals, step by step. "I think a successful artist must be down to earth to make a breakthrough or reach new horizons. It may take a long time, but I always walked from Brooklyn to Kennedy Hall. The snail is slow, but has its own perseverance and wisdom," Yu said.

Next on stage are a gallery of animals - insects, butterflies and birds, as well as monkey, rabbit, snake, deer and ele­phant. Yu said his inspiration was attri­butable to his experience teaching New York children to mimic the gestures of animals. But he gave each episode a more significant interpretation. For in­stance, in the episode, "The Snake and Monkey," Yu fashioned the snake as the weaker, to be stamped to death by the stronger monkey. "You should see how those female dancers strive for a role on the stage," he grinned.

Another episode of Anima is "The Deer and the Hunter," a duet by male dancers. Yu said he was inspired to cho­reograph this number while trying to find sponsors for his dance school.

Yu said that he had been humiliated while "hunting" for sponsors. It was not infrequent that some snobbish rich types would not even bother to raise their heads while Yu visited them. They would only ask. "How much do you want?" They had no interest in the pro­duction, but wanted only to demonstrate their superiority and mercy. But the hunter perseveres towards his goal - in the dance, the deer.

While working on the part of the "elephant," Yu ran into the U.S. bicen­tennial anniversary. U.S. society was filled with crazy merriment, but he felt that social life itself was much too heavy - as heavy as an elephant. In every party, the males and females hunt for the opposite sex, resorting to all sorts of means, he said.

The last episode, "Going to the War," depicts the rise, fall and rebirth of the world. When war breaks out, the family is separated. Their reunion marks the renaissance of civilization. The dance ends with the reappearance of the snail. The dozen-odd scenes of this dance, last­ing for more than 45 minutes, tell how life runs from generation to generation. This is one of Yu's most satisfactory works.

Yu loved End of the Beginning best, however. The Egyptian exhibition on King Tut in New York in 1979 inspired him to create a dance of an entirely dif­ferent temperament and style. Yu said that, because this number is varied and abstract, local audiences may find it more difficult to accept. They have grown accustomed to Lin Hwai-min's operatic themes, with dances relying on clear story lines and concrete images. The group dance by the cavalrymen and the solo by King Tut both require tech­niques from the martial arts.

Yu has also created such small pieces as Let me Pray Again and Last Call.

At the coming Taipei Arts Festival this October, Yu will present to local audiences for the first time a dance creat­ed in Taiwan - Meditation. Dividing it into three sections, he depicts the con­flicts arising in the mind of a nun as she studies some paintings. He gathered background material and conversed with nuns in preparation. Then Yu distributed inquiries among his students. He asked them to define "meditation," and to im­agine what kind of picture the nun is sur­veying. Unexpectedly, most of his stu­dents said the nun would be contemplat­ing worldly pleasures. Yu concluded that it is all too natural for human beings to combine downfall and elevation in their natures.

He has invited three artists- Wu Hsuen-san, Hsieh Hsiao-teh and Ku Ping-hsin-to create the paintings, which are to serve as stage backdrops for the dance. Wu will portray a nude; Hsieh, a man and a woman; and Ku, an intractable struggle of the mind, repre­sented by the contrast between a building of Arabian palace-style architecture and the dome of a chapel. "Spain has many such buildings. I think it will serve as a good backdrop for the finale of the dance," Yu said.

When asked about his criteria for selecting dance students, Yu said: "They must be willing to learn, and have quick responses. It is not important whether or not they have any basic training. But I do want them to keep in good shape, show their teachers inspiration and provide feedback. Also, they must not be too proud of themselves.

"I am also demanding of myself. During my stay in Martha's school, I had to grope for such basic techniques as con­trast, release, suspension and tilt, all by myself. When teaching, I want to start from the very beginning. For instance, to keep your belly in has become a cliché for some teachers. Merce Cunningham interpreted it as 'to arch your back.' I think the key is to be able to contain someone on your breast in your two arms.

"Have you ever seen a cat newly awaken from a long slumber? It will arch its back first, then stretch forward and arch backward. While doing this simple exercise, you must feel that your spine rises and falls, section by section. I always tell my students that a baby gets its strength first from the navel, so it must be the springhead of life. A man not only breathes through the nostrils, but the navel. In fact, everyone can dance. For instance, while taking a bus, passengers will physically recoil to keep balance when a sudden braking occurs.

"To prevent students repeating their errors, I always feed them like a mother with whatever things I can tell them. The students are as hungry as vampires. I keep telling them that they must dance with brain as well as body. They must be able to communicate with their own muscles. Thus, I put great emphasis on the fostering of the dancer's stamina. It's terrible to see a dancer trembling from lack of stamina while dancing on one foot. I change my course every day. They must be intelligent to catch up with me," he said.

To pursue his dancing career, Yu sold the estate inherited from his father. Over the past 27 years, his life has been dedicated to dancing. "You may not mentally buy it, but now my greatest material reward comes from knitting woolen garments," he said, in a pensive mood. "I need to find sponsors to donate NT$1.5 million to bring my dance group back from New York to present my works to local audiences. Some I have ap­proached are reluctant because they think my works are rooted in Western culture. They would better appreciate my achievements if they knew how diffi­cult it was for a Chinese to enter Mar­tha's school and teach there, and then organize his own dance group in the center of the cut-throat competition of New York. Now that I am here in this land, I will also create works within the Chinese tradition," he concluded.