Nicholas Rowe is Associate Professor in Dance Studies, University of Auckland. He graduated from the Australian Ballet School and subsequently worked as a choreographer, dancer and community artist in Europe, the Middle East and Asia. He has a PhD from the London Contemporary Dance School, University of Kent at Canterbury and his books include Raising Dust: A Cultural History of Dance in Palestine (I.B.Tauris, 2010).

Ralph Buck is Associate Professor and Head of Dance Studies, University of Auckland. He is Chair of the World Dance Alliance Education and Training Networks. He is co-author (with Nicholas Rowe and Rose Martin) of Talking Dance: Contemporary Histories from the Southern Mediterranean (I.B.Tauris, 2014).

Toni Shapiro-Phim is Director of Programs at the Philadelphia Folklore Project, USA. She has a PhD in cultural anthropology from Cornell University and has held teaching and research appointments at the University of California, Berkeley, Yale University and Bryn Mawr College. She has worked in refugee camps in Thailand and Indonesia and conducted ethnographic research in Cambodia and in various immigrant communities in the US. She is co-editor (with Naomi Jackson) of Dance, Human Rights and Social Justice: Dignity in Motion (Scarecrow Press, 2008).

Talking Dance_Prelims.indd 1 4/21/2016 6:35:52 PM Talking Dance_Prelims.indd 2 4/21/2016 6:35:52 PM Talking Dance: Contemporary Histories from the South China Sea

Nicholas Rowe and Ralph Buck with Toni Shapiro-Phim

Talking Dance_Prelims.indd 3 4/21/2016 6:35:52 PM Published in 2016 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd London • New York www.ibtauris.com

Copyright © 2016 Nicholas Rowe and Ralph Buck

The right of Nicholas Rowe and Ralph Buck to be identified as the editors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Every attempt has been made to gain permission for the use of the images in this book. Any omissions will be rectified in future editions.

References to websites were correct at the time of writing.

ISBN: 978 1 78076 487 0 eISBN: 978 0 85772 948 4 ePDF: 978 0 85772 745 9

A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available

Typeset by Riverside Publishing Solutions, Salisbury, SP4 6NQ Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

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Illustrations ix Acknowledgements xiii Series preface xv

Introduction 1 Toni Shapiro-Phim, Nicholas Rowe and Ralph Buck 1 Beginnings 21 2 Auditions 34 3 Learning 44 4 Creating 66 5 Performing 98 6 Travelling north, south, east and west 132 7 Teaching 146 8 Watching 180 9 Organising 192 10 Relationships 204

List of interviewees 223 List of references 228 Glossary 230 Index 233

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The South China Sea, by Sholto Buck xviii Theatre, Site 2 Refugee Camp, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 3 Dance class observers, Site 2 Refugee Camp, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 3 The South China Sea, by Sholto Buck 20 Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 25 Nguyen Chi Anh and Nguyen Nha Khanh, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 29 Jo Jo, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 32 Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 37 Moeun Bun Thy and Ampil dancers, Site 2 Refugee Camp, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 45 Eh To, Salai Jobson and Hsaw Reh, Mae Sot, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 48 Nguyen Anh Duc, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 49 Rhianna and Imogen Chan, Kuching, photo by Nicholas Rowe 51 Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur, photo by Normalrizwan Kamaruddin 52 Khamtong Sambath, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 57 Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur, photo by Martinus Miroto 73 Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Takhmao, photo by Nick Heavican, courtesy of Khmer Arts 74 Jo Jo, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 76 Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok, photo by Sojirat Singholka, courtesy of Pichet Klunchun Dance Company 77 Richelle, Kuching, photo by Nicholas Rowe 79 Members of Lao Bang Fai, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 80 Le Vu Long with Together Higher, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 82 Anouza Phoutisane, Siem Reap, photo courtesy of Lao Bang Fai with thanks to Luc Delneuville/Handicap International 85 Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 87 Julaluck Eakwattanapun and Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok, photo by Weerana Talodsuk, courtesy of Pichet Klunchun Dance Company 92 Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Takhmao, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 94 Sim Muntha, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 99

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Quang Thuyet, Dong Cao, courtesy of Quang Thuyet 101 Thiri, Mae Sot, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 111 Suhaimi Magi, Kota Kinabalu, photo by Nicholas Rowe 115 Belle, Phnom Penh, photo by Anders Jiras 120 Thongchanh Souksavath, Luang Prabang, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 122 Yim Sinath and Sek Sophea, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 129 Nguyen Chi Anh and Nguyen Nha Khanh, Hanoi, photo courtesy of Nguyen Chi Anh 130 Sam Sathya, Davis, California, photo courtesy of Khmer Arts 137 Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 137 Ramli Ali, Santubong, photo by Nicholas Rowe 139 Ladda Phomalath, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 142 Students of Moeun Bun Thy, Phnom Penh, photo by James Wasserman 147 Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur, photo by Nicholas Rowe 148 Quang Thuyet, Dong Cao, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 149 Noppon Jamreantong, Chonburi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 151 Luu Thi Thu Lan, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 153 Circus School students, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 155 Chatuporn Rattanawaraha, Bangkok, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 157 Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 159 Julaluck Eakwattanapun, Chonburi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 163 Martina Benedict Paul Jenis, Santubong, photo by Nicholas Rowe 164 Ramli Ali, Santubong, photo by Nicholas Rowe 168 Layna Chan, Kuching, photo by Nicholas Rowe 171 Suhaimi Magi, Kota Kinabalu, photo by Nicholas Rowe 172 Thiem Chuthidej Thongyu, Pathum Thani, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 178 Pheuy Kammaphadit, Luang Prabang, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 185 Ros Kong and fellow Royal Ballet dancers, Phnom Penh, archival photo courtesy of Ros Kong 186 Phan Y Ly, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 189 Kim Vorn, Koh Oknhatey, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 190 Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 200 Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 206 Bboy Royal, Guangzhou, photo by Katherine Walker 208 Anna Chan, Hong Kong, photo by Nicholas Rowe 209 Wayz Cheng, Guangzhou, photo by Katherine Walker 213 Ros Kong and family (Pring Sokhanarith, Soeur Thavarak, Chhoun Outdon, Chhoun Kong Sokhoun), Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim 215 Boy, Kuala Lumpur, photo by Nicholas Rowe 217 The South China Sea, by Sholto Buck 222

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Richelle, Kuching, photo by Nicholas Rowe Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur, photo by Normalrizwan Kamaruddin Layna Chan, Kuching, photo by Nicholas Rowe Anouza Phoutisane, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Belle and Nuon Chhaylot, Phnom Penh, photo by Anders Jiras Belle, Phnom Penh, photo by Anders Jiras Noppon Jamreantong, Assam, photo by Pornrat Damrhung Dance observers, squatters village, Phnom Penh, photo by James Wasserman Dance students, squatters village, Phnom Penh, photo by James Wasserman Nguyen Chi Anh and Nguyen Nha Khanh, Hanoi, photo courtesy of Nguyen Chi Anh Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Jo Jo and dancers, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Khamtong Sambath, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Keo Samean, Phum Tong Nong Liek, Rattanakiri Province, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Keo Samean, Phum Tong Nong Liek, Rattanakiri Province, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Khamtong Sambath, Vientiane, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Dao Anh Khanh and Nguyen Thi Lieu, Hanoi, photo by Phuong Vu Manh Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Phan Y Ly and Dinh Quang Anh, Hanoi, photo courtesy of Phan Y Ly Thiem Chuthidej Thongyu, Pathum Thani, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh, photo by James Wasserman, courtesy of Khmer Arts Yim Sinath and Meas Kim Hanh, Phnom Penh, photo courtesy of Yim Sinath Khmer Arts Ensemble, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, photo by Chan Sopheap, courtesy of Khmer Arts Kim Vorn, Koh Oknhatey, photo by Toni Shapiro-Phim

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We would first like to thank the people who agreed to be interviewed for this book, and honour their generosity. They have allowed their personal memories to form public histories that will enrich collective understandings of life and dance in this region. Along with the authors, interviews for this volume were conducted by University of Auckland postgraduate students Sarah Lee Pearson, Katherine Walker and David Zeitner. Their particular passions take this book to unimagined quarters. Many people and organisations, within the region and beyond, helped us locate these interviewees and gather their stories. A number of individuals embraced the idea of the book and energetically introduced us to people we would never have found on our own. Many also provided contextual information to help us bring forth great stories, and subsequently clarified minor details and enhanced our comprehension. In this regard we would like to thank Metta Angtrakoon, Anna Chan, Chum Samnang, Cecily Cook, Michael DiGregorio, Josef Gonzales, Catherine Filloux, Germaine Ingram, Roko Kawai, Fred Ligon, Laura McGrew, Selina Morales, Nalani Mehra Phim, Anis Nor, Nguyen Qui Duc and Sek Sophea. Many of the interviews would not have been possible, or revealed such colour, without the patient and meticulous translation of Pornrat Damrhung, Fop Malavia, Soeur Sophea and Truong Hanh Ly. The research was strongly supported by the University of Auckland. Seeded by a Faculty Research Development Fund within the Faculty of Creative Arts and Industries, it subsequently gained assistance through the Summer Scholarship scheme and an Early Career Research Excellence Award. Within I.B.Tauris, David Stonestreet’s vision and patience has helped guide this volume and this series ever onward. Finally we would like to express our gratitude to our colleagues, friends and, most of all, our families, whose patient support of this journey has allowed us to reach places we did not expect to go.

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Connected and disconnected Nicholas Rowe and Ralph Buck

It was an unusually warm winter’s evening as we crossed the curving Millennium Bridge over the Tyne to Gateshead, reaching a virtual game zone on the south bank. A 20-metre chunk of pavement had been casually transformed into an interactive digital playing field. Encircled by movement sensors, colourful video images projected on the ground and shifted in response to our pathways across the space. Internet technology allowed our moving bodies to spontaneously challenge an unknown team somewhere else in the world. We played. We lost. Panting from the unexpected exertion and pulling our jackets back on, we considered the wonders of technology that had allowed this brief, highly physical, international exchange. We moved on to the conference dinner, intrigued but bewildered as to who the other players might have been and how they had moved so well. Technology had very effectively connected and disconnected us, making it hard to celebrate the victory of our unknown playmates. It was December 2009, and we were in Newcastle, UK, for the World Alliance for Arts Education Global Summit. With 11 dance educators among 46 educators in music, fine arts and drama from around the world, we were collectively drafting a policy document that would ultimately inform UNESCO’s Policy on Arts Education, ratified in Paris in 2011. This policy document identified imperatives for researching, networking and advocating arts education, so that artistic ways-of-knowing might remain central to learning in the twenty-first century, across the globe.

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One of the challenges of the Summit was to gain global representation. Gathered in reflexive discussion around tables in Newcastle’s Dance City studios, the prevailing languages indicated how hard this would be to achieve. Financial restrictions meant that representation from the majority world – or non-OECD countries – was not in proportion to the populations of those regions. Arts educators who were participating in the Summit from Africa, Asia, the Pacific, Central and South America also identified that, due to limited local networks and documentation, their own ability to represent the diverse aspirations and needs of these vast regions was particularly restricted. One of the recommendations of the Newcastle Summit that was embraced in the UNESCO Seoul Agenda Policy was to ‘Stimulate exchange between research and practice in arts education’ (UNESCO, 2011). Key action items as stated in the Seoul Agenda include: zz 2.c (i) Support arts education theory and research globally and link theory, research and practice. zz 3.c (ii) Foster and exchange knowledge and understanding of diverse cultural and artistic expressions. The Talking Dance series that this book is part of is therefore one answer to that call. These pages capture a discussion on dance practices that might prompt further research and ultimately diversify contemporary global understandings of dance. Our focus is on regions of the world in which dance practices are currently under- documented, using research methods that might foster cultural autonomy and voice. The twenty-first century offers unprecedented opportunities to engage physically with people in remote parts of the world, as our spontaneous digital dance by the banks of the Tyne affirmed. Advanced technology does not, however, ultimately guarantee that we value, learn from, tolerate and ultimately celebrate others at a distance.

Deconstructing and co-constructing impressions of self and other Intercultural research and representation can be contentious. For several centuries, Western literary and artistic impressions of ‘the Orient’ have predominantly used a lens that sought to distinguish the Orient from the Occident. Emphasising the exotic and the intransigence of Africa and Asian cultures, such Orientalist representations

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can be seen as justifying the subjugation of non-European people within European colonial empires (Said, 1978). In adopting a post-Orientalist lens (Prakash, 1990), this series of books maintains an intercultural curiosity yet seeks to deconstruct many of the legacies of Orientalism. This starts with a challenge to contemporary cultural and political literature that would seek to identify differences between the West and the Rest (e.g. Huntington, 1992; Lewis, 2002). We have sought to evidence the hybrid nature of contemporary cultures around the world (Bhabha, 1994), and challenge attempts to generalise about cultural difference. Our post-nationalist view has similarly sought to consider how dance might deconstruct the imagined communities of nationalism and ethnicity (Anderson, 1991). Dance has played a central role in the construction of national and ethnic identities, particularly through the performance of folklore (Shay, 1999). This process has generally involved the invention of traditions (Hobsbawm and Ranger, 1983), the appropriation of cultural items and the construction of static, often polemic, cultural canons (Chatterjee, 1993). Such heritage manifestos have reflected the patriarchal political orders among the political leadership that instituted them, and inevitably the dance practices of divergent, disempowered and minority voices were written and danced out of history. We have therefore sought voices that do not always find a place within such national histories. Our postcolonial view (Asad, 1973; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999) has also sought to co-construct meanings of dance with local dance practitioners, to provoke and then feed back local reflections on dance. This has involved engaging in long- term partnerships – discussing and disseminating our findings through ongoing symposiums, conferences and dance education projects in each region with which we are connecting. The central aim of ‘Talking Dance’ is therefore to evidence the diversity and dynamism of dance in the southern Mediterranean, the South Pacific and the South China Sea. It seeks to illustrate that there are many different pathways into dance, ways of learning dance, of being accepted into dance professions, of creating dance, of performing dance, of watching dance and of organising dance events; that dance has diverse connections with families, societies, governments, the economy, the past and the future; that the actual experiences of dance practitioners are fascinating, are culturally relevant, and challenge any attempt to stereotype, define or otherwise distinguish what it means to dance around the world.

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17 minutes and 15 seconds Toni Shapiro-Phim

Early summer-time in Eugene, Oregon, in 1979, I turned the television on and, by chance, 60 Minutes, a weekly ‘news magazine’ that I hadn’t watched much before, if at all, was on. Something about the introductory narration caught my attention. I sat down, captivated, for the entire 17 minutes and 15 seconds of the story whose broadcast had begun just as I had pressed the ‘power’ button. A rickety boat, listing in rough seas towards the east coast of Malaysia, came into view. Squeezed together, the boat’s passengers, rolling into the water and trying to come ashore, appeared to be in shock, starving, sick, frightened. They had escaped from Vietnam ten days earlier and were about to join more than 20,000 other refugees from their homeland living in Pulau Bidong refugee camp. Ed Bradley, in his first-ever report for 60 Minutes, not only shared the news of their plight, but also shared in their rescue. There he was, wading out to help carry people to safety. I was riveted, and so very moved by the images and stories of men, women and children who had survived horrific voyages, risking their lives to flee re-education camps, other reprisals from the war years or the lack of certain freedoms. They had no idea what lay ahead. But they had taken that bold and dangerous move to look for a new place in which to forge a future. At the conclusion of Bradley’s piece, I couldn’t budge. I could only cry. I was aching for the people I had seen. I was aching to learn more. That was back in the days before many of us came to rely on the internet as a locus of initial information. Libraries, the United Nations (UN), teachers – these were places and people I contacted for research leads and also for background about the US’s involvement in the wars in Southeast Asia, and in the refugee crisis. So many people

1

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continued to find life unbearable enough to send themselves and their loved ones to unknown futures: piracy in the South China Sea resulted in rape, robbery and the murder of many fleeing their homelands; others were pushed back out to sea by inhabitants of the places where boats were landing; existence in refugee camps was, at times, untenable; not everyone was accorded ‘refugee’ status, with some ultimately being repatriated rather than permanently resettled in other countries. A programme in my town that was assisting refugees and immigrants in their transition to life in the US welcomed me as a volunteer. Vietnamese, Cambodian and Lao refugees were there – all bringing traumatic pasts along with hopes for a bright start in a new home. After a while, I felt it would be best to gain a first-hand sense of life in a refugee camp in Southeast Asia, so that when I returned I would better understand refugee adjustment issues, and I went in search of possibilities. In the heart of the Riau Archipelago, a short distance from where the waters of the South China Sea meander and flow into the Strait of Malacca, lies Pulau Galang, an island which, over the course of a decade, housed tens of thousands of people who had fled Vietnam by boat. When I went to work in that camp in the 1980s, established there by the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, 10,000 men, women and children were waiting for the next chapter of their lives to unfold. In the meantime, those selected for entrance to the US were busy learning English and taking other classes. They also engaged in great creativity: wood carving, poetry writing, and one course in ballroom dancing that I know of. At the other end of the island, a small contingent of refugees from Cambodia had been brought to Galang from camps elsewhere. There were perhaps 300 people on that part of the island while I was there. Survivors of a recent genocide, surrounded by an often-hostile Indonesian military, and uncertain of what would come next for themselves and their families, as they hadn’t yet been accepted for resettlement elsewhere, they were teaching their children to dance. This blew me away. It wasn’t everyone, of course, but there were many. None had been a professional performing artist before the genocide; most were from farming backgrounds. But there they were, having lost almost everything (including loved ones), making traditional – folk, ritual and social – dance a priority. As someone who had studied dance (modern/Western) since the age of four, perhaps I took note of this phenomenon and missed a million other things in that godforsaken place. But notice I did. To be as fully alive as possible, to be fully alive as a Khmer person in exile, as it was articulated to me, one had to engage with dance, as teacher, participant or observer.

Talking Dance.indd 2 4/21/2016 6:36:07 PM Theatre, Site 2 Refugee Camp We ran – there must have been thousands of people – across the border into Thailand. It was the only place far enough from the fighting to be somewhat safe. The United Nations gathered everyone into a camp they called Site 2. – Moeun Bun Thy

Dance class observers, Site 2 Refugee Camp These were refugees, too, who liked to watch our rehearsals. On their way to pick up rations they might stop and look, at first for a minute, and then lose track of time. – Moeun Bun Thy

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When I relocated to work in a Cambodian camp in Thailand, I witnessed the same thing, but on a grander scale. Thousands of camp residents would turn out in the equatorial heat and scorching sun (there was no shade) to see their fellow refugees perform. When artillery shells fell in this active war zone, people ran to find their children, jumped into trenches and waited out the danger. When the shelling stopped, they returned to see the end of the show. The performers resumed where they had paused. It was the quest for a better grasp of the relationship between dance and war, migration and exile that inspired my scholarly engagement with dance, and with Southeast Asia. In this book, we continue to trace movement – geographical and kinaesthetic – across and around this dynamic sea.

The Dangerous Ground Nicholas Rowe The body of water that is now commonly referred to in English as the South China Sea has had many different titles. The Southern Sea, the China Sea, the Champa Sea – its name continues to be varied, in tandem with political disputes over the ownership of its resources. So some ride the tides of the South China Sea, as others are buoyed along in the West Philippine Sea, the East Sea and the South Sea. Such titles can appear as a momentary white cap in the long history of these waves, which emerged during a period of global warming during the Eocene epoch, 45 million years ago. At that time, Borneo became isolated from mainland Asia as 3.5 million km2 of the continental shelf became inundated with water. Rivers, lakes and tributaries drained into the kidney-shaped basin from highlands as far apart as the Tibetan Plateau in Central Asia, the Sierra Madre ranges in Luzon, the Titiwangsa in the Malay Peninsula, the eastern foothills of the Himalayas and the Iran Mountains in Borneo. Perched on the equator like a high-tailed bird of paradise, this sea was separated from the Indian and Pacific Oceans by islands and archipelagos. As a marginal sea, it connected these oceans through innumerable straits and currents. A 5 per cent temperature drop in the Pleistocene period saw the sea waters recede and the basin dry up. The Sunda Shelf was revealed and monumental rivers cut through the prehistoric landscape, following the deeper trenches that had been formed by the sea. As the globe warmed again 10,000 years ago, ice caps melted and the region became a sea once more. Punctuated by hundreds of low-lying islands,

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atolls and reefs, the centre of the South China Sea remains unchartered thousands of years later. A complex ancient labyrinth that defies navigation, mariners have come to refer to this subaquatic topography as ‘The Dangerous Ground’. The periods of hydrological connection and isolation across this basin have left its shores teaming with biological variety. The relatively stable waters of the sea itself incubated one-third of the entire planet’s marine biodiversity. Swept by predictable monsoon weather patterns, this sea also provided a very supportive environment for human settlement, and for human movement. Before the advent of the steamship, seafaring traders could rely on these winds as they navigated through the islands and up major rivers in their quest for natural resources. Not only goods, but also ideas and knowledge traversed the land and water. Hindu/Brahman, then Buddhist philosophies and practices (as early as the first centuries of the Common Era) made a huge impact on the lives of the local populations. They adapted beliefs, stories and rituals to fit their own sense of history and spirituality, in some places developing a seamless syncretism between indigenous, Hindu and Buddhist customs and convictions. Islam, too, arrived with the influx of traders. In the late thirteenth century, Marco Polo noted the presence of a Muslim community on the shores of the South China Sea. The ruler of the important trading centre of Melaka on the western passageway into the South China Sea adopted Islam in the early fifteenth century. Rather than convert wholescale to a foreign system, inhabitants in the region made Islam their own, just as others had done with Hindu and Buddhist influences. Local heroes, for example, often became Islamic saints. This adaptive practice subsequently continued as Christianity was extended across the region during the era of European colonial expansion. The indigenous belief systems of numerous ethnic minority groups (who continue to live, generally, in the mountainous regions surrounding the sea and its tributaries) have at times thrived and at other times suffered near-permanent discontinuation as nation states, concentrated in the lowlands, imposed their will, and as wars and the search for land and natural resources reached the hills. Such violent conflict has left an indelible mark on the people and cultures surrounding these waters. The living memory of war remains on each shore – from World War II engulfing the entire region, to the more isolated anticolonial struggles, international wars and civil disturbances that inexorably spilt across borders. As a proxy battleground throughout the Cold War, populations surrounding the South China Sea have been directly bombarded and occupied by the world’s most distant, yet most well-resourced militaries. These political events formed the sea itself into a site of refuge, and of anarchy. During the past five decades, millions of asylum

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seekers have travelled east, west, north and south across its waters in search of safer shores. Within its swells they encountered greed, piracy, international apathy and, occasionally, salvation. The relative calm of the equatorial waters have even allowed refugees to build entire towns suspended in its shallows, above the gentle lapping waves and beyond civilian status and infrastructure, in permanent, offshore, de- territorialised communities. As a result of industrialisation in the region, the sea now hosts a third of the world’s commercial shipping. For the populations around the sea, this economic transformation has meant a sudden increase in capital for some and a sudden loss of access to land and resources for others. This gap has grown in parallel with a similar disparity in access to education and healthcare. These economic and political shifts have inevitably resulted in massive social mobility around the region: some are politically and financially empowered to travel and satiate their curiosity and ambitions, whereas others are forced to relocate in search of sustenance and security. All inevitably carry former cultural practices and expectations and adapt these within new landscapes around its shores. More recently, the sea has itself become the focus of intensifying political conflict. The abundant natural resources that lie beneath its shoals and trenches now ferment international disputes over the political ownership of its uninhabited, and previously unwanted, atolls. Population explosions and a massive increase in urbanisation along the sea coast and its tributaries have intensified the significance of this body of water to the daily lives of millions. Transformations in the natural environment are similarly shifting the relationship between the sea and those around its coasts. Intensive pollution and overfishing have reduced the sea’s capacity to sustain life, while the sea’s incremental growth as a result of global warming threatens the increasingly dense populations on its shores. As the stories in the following pages reveal, these political, economic and environmental shifts have had a massive impact on human physicality in the region. Kinaesthetic action has been forced to navigate: physical dismemberment as a result of landmines, chemical weaponry and disease; cultural dismemberment as a result of colonisation, migration and ideological tyranny; and environmental dismemberment as a result of consumption, pollution and population growth. This leads to questions about how people have used creative movement as a means of responding to, understanding and, ultimately, re-membering their worlds. ‘The Dangerous Ground’ therefore remains an apt metaphor for the politically, economically and environmentally dynamic region that encompasses the South China Sea and its tributaries. As the stories in this volume attest, dancing around the

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shores of the South China Sea can involve a cautious negotiation with the forces of historical gravity and the need for safe pathways. The very turbulent topography and distinctly independent geological shapes of the sea bed are masked by the placid surfaces of the equatorial waters. Similarly, very divergent embodied and creative experiences and viewpoints can lie just below the composed national, religious and ethnic summaries of culture in the region. Sometimes identifying those unchartered differences can involve a very risky refusal to remain on the surface, and to reach deeper into the chasms of embodied human experiences.

A square of blue and white checked material Ralph Buck I love to run. One of my very first memories is of running along a dirt road on my parents’ farm. I was running with my arms out like an aeroplane and in one hand was a handkerchief. I ran watching the square of blue and white checked material twist and twirl in response to my movement. While I was entranced, my father was aggravated, yelling from the farm shed that housed the pigs, ‘Ralph, what are you doing? Hurry up!’ I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what I was doing, except running, looking, feeling, dreaming a bit. If I could have put words into my mouth back then, I think I might have wanted to say, ‘I’m dancing.’ But even then, as a five-year-old boy, I would not have had the insight to say such a thing. I don’t know. When my dad was dying, as I sat on the edge of his bed, massaging his swollen legs, he said with that same aggravated tone, ‘Talk, Ralph.’ I wanted to, but still I really didn’t feel that I would be heard. I wanted to say, ‘Dad, I was dancing. I love to move. I love the feeling of air under my every step.’ I didn’t. It will be a regret that I will hold forever. I love dance and I vigorously argue that dance holds more power in people’s being than we realise. I advocate for dance research that gives space and time to personal stories because I want people to have opportunities to say, ‘I dance …’. I want people, any and everywhere, to reflect on what dance does and might mean for them. I want people to value how they feel when they live – to value what makes them feel good, bad, different, exuberant. I am now an associate professor. I am a world-leading dance educator invited to speak and teach around the world. I wish I could tell my father what I do – to feel

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proud of my career choices and for him to see my pride. I wish that I could give him a book like this one that told him of what I believe in. I wish he could have read a book like this and closed his eyes and remembered the dance at Hurstville Town Hall, Sydney, where he met the love of his life, my mum, his lifelong partner and lover. I wish with all my heart that dance research like this had been done 20 years ago, so I would have been able to sit on the edge of my dad’s bed and to talk. To talk about how dance played a ‘silent’ but life-changing role in his life, my life, my family’s life. To share a moment of connection so that when we talked we could talk about dance, where we could both feel air under my every step, in our every heartbeat and that he, my dad and I could look into each other’s eyes and see each other better.

Post-identity public interest Nicholas Rowe and Ralph Buck Extending the aims of the Talking Dance series, this book reflects on how research into dance within a particular region can be ‘in the public interest’. This opens up discussions on the sociopolitical relevance of dance as an area of applied scholarship, and on meanings of the public interest. In reviewing the major currents of dance ethnology in the late twentieth century, Adrienne Kaeppler (2000, p.120) observed that ‘the social relations of the people dancing are often backgrounded while the dance itself and its changes over time are foregrounded’. In the last few decades, scholarly attention has been drawn to the symbolic meanings of particular movements and gestures (semiotics), the ways in which these actions are structured into cohesive patterns and forums (structural analysis), and the ways in which the phenomenological experience of participating in these movement patterns and forums can contribute to cultural expression and understanding (contextual analysis). This contrasted with earlier anthropological scholarship, which had tended to ignore dance altogether, or considered dance as an integral yet relatively trivial response to more meaningful cultural phenomena in the environment. The shift towards semiotic, structural and contextual analyses of particular dances has taken place in research across the world, in parallel with postmodern philosophies that have sought to challenge Cartesian mind–body dualism, and postcolonial movements that have sought to reinvigorate indigenous knowledge systems. The authors of this volume have similarly contributed to this wider academic movement, through scholarship on the political and cultural relevance of particular dance forms within different regional contexts (e.g. Shapiro-Phim and

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Thompson, 1999; Rowe, 2010; Buck and Rowe, 2013). Emerging from this semiotic, structural and contextual research, dance has been increasingly acknowledged as a source of (and not just a backdrop for) deep cultural knowledge. In some locations in the world, research has considered the cultural knowledge carried by dance from an essentialist viewpoint; that is, a dance is treated as though it carries inherent meanings that are beyond cultured origins. In other places, research has engaged a constructionist approach – an exploration of how particular dances emerged and were given meaning within the cultural contexts of precolonial or pre- industrial societies, and how and why they have changed since that time. The ‘public interest’ value of all of this research was affirmed internationally by the 2003 UNESCO Convention on Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH). The Convention on ICH contends that traditional cultural identities can be sustained through research focused on particular dance styles, structures and forms. Underpinning the ICH imperative was a concern for marginalised minority groups who were facing existential threats; dance-as-collective-knowledge could be used to validate and sustain their more abstract notions of collective identity (Zebec, 2004). The cultural knowledge emerging from dance research has thus been politicised and given a ‘public interest’ acknowledgement within the UN framework of national identity and ethnic and cultural diversity. This has further bolstered research focused on the dance, rather than on the individuals dancing; dancers are inevitably only valued by this imperative in relation to their capacity to carry the knowledge of a particular dance or dance form. This approach to the public interest of dance research has been labelled ‘applied ethnochoreology’ (Zebec, 2007), stemming from other forms of applied ethnography such as applied ethnomusicology (Titan, 1992). The ways in which applied ethnochoreology sustains collective identities has been explored within longstanding UNESCO forums (such as the ICTM Study Group on Ethnochoreology), emphasising practices in which dance scholars advise dance practitioners on the authenticity, evolution and cultural relevance of their dance form (Snyder, 2003). In consideration of the ‘public interest’, much of their dance research has come to emphasise ‘the importance of dance to political and national values […] and as a marker of ethnic and cultural identity throughout the world’ (Kaeppler, 2000, p.121). Such a politicisation of dance research has not been unproblematic. Political elites have appropriated certain dances (and their meanings) in order to establish the authenticity of their divergent political claims (Shay, 1999; Buckland, 2006; Rowe, 2011). Dance has been used to support collective identities that are exclusive, restrictive and oppressive, to those both inside and outside the identity (Grau, 2007).

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While the ways that particular dances contribute to collective identity remains a pertinent direction for critical research, for applied ethnochoreology to remain relevant it will increasingly have to explore a ‘public interest’ value for dance research beyond constructions of collective identities. Inevitably, applied ethnochoreology will need to respond to the complex issues of social cohesion within the polycultural and multi-identity social environments of the twenty-first century. It will also need to consider how new dance knowledge may be generated, rather than simply how old dance knowledge may be extended. The focus on generating new knowledge from dance practices has been considered within creative practice research in dance (Phillips, Stock and Vincs, 2009). Seeking to avoid ‘the colonising influence of Cultural Studies on the creative arts’ (Bolt, 2007, p.34), such practice-led research generally attends to the materialisation of new dance productions, and only considers the experience of dance practitioners in relation to these specific productions. While opening opportunities for the personal experiences of dancers to unfold, researchers engaged in creative practice research have predominantly focused on professional performance practices, particularly within the domain of Western theatrical dance. Much less has been revealed, therefore, about the complex experiences of diverse individuals encountering dance in its myriad ways, particularly around regions such as the South China Sea. Addressing this gap, the Talking Dance project seeks to explore public interest applications for ethnochoreology and research into the experiences of dancers, but from a post-identity viewpoint. Post-identity does not here suggest that cultural identities are extinct and that the dance forms that sustained them are irrelevant; it simply recognises that a sense of collective identity is transient and requires active processes of social construction in order to exist (Hobsbawm, 1983; Anderson, 1991; Bhabha, 1994). Understanding these processes of social construction can involve refuting any ‘inherent’ relevance of national, ethnic, religious, cultural or other categorisations of collective identity. As an illustration of what might be called ‘post-identity applied ethnochoreology’, this book explores the purposes and meanings of dance practices beyond constructions of collective identity. Guiding this exploration, Talking Dance proposes that the meanings that individuals actively attribute to their very particular, momentary and personal experiences in dance are significant sources of valuable knowledge. This extends upon a social constructivist mandate; our experience of the world is made meaningful through the process of sharing dynamic and situated reflections on those experiences (Vygotsky, 1978). We would suggest that this significance is not adequately addressed by semiotic, structural and contextual analyses of particular

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dances, genres or dance cultures, nor by practice-led research into a specific creative product. By taking the research focus off the dance and placing it onto the dancer, off the culture and onto the practitioner creating the culture, Talking Dance ultimately seeks to emphasise diversity and contribute towards more pluralistic, dynamic and inclusive applications of dance research to the public interest. So how might such differences and personal experiences of dance be revealed?

Making meaning from memories of motion Nicholas Rowe ‘So, what got you into dancing?’ During my public career as a dancer and choreographer, journalists usually started with this query. I soon became prepared for it, reconstructing different memories to try to not become predictable. ‘A friend once took me to this dance class. I was the only boy, but the physical demands made me realise …’. ‘I saw Mikhail Baryshnikov in the opening sequence of White Nights and felt a whole new …’. ‘There was this girl that I desperately wanted to impress. She was a dancer so …’. Aside from the ego trip, I liked doing these interviews because they prompted me to reflect on my choices and the reasons behind them. In retrospect, however, it seems that the interviewers were mostly interested in my entry into dance as a career, and so my responses obliged. While diverse, my answers to this ubiquitous query remained focused on a period in my mid-teens, when the decision to start vocational training in dance crystallised in my mind. Through telling my ‘professional’ dance stories to others, I had problematically started to construct my subconscious autobiography into stages of ‘pre-dance’ and ‘dance’. Moreover, my rationales for how and why I started dancing became increasingly focused on when I first felt that my moving body could be used to please an audience. This made my whole reason for dancing appear inextricably linked with a painfully vain need to impress others. During my twenties, as I became dissatisfied with performing in opera houses, I played with this question on my own, flipping it around. Maybe ‘What got you into dancing?’ did not have to mean, ‘How and when did you start to impress people with your groovy moves?’ Maybe it could mean the opposite. Maybe it could mean, ‘When did you realise that your moving body really irritated people, and why did you keep doing it?’

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This led to memories like this one:

In 1974, in my first year of primary school, I was finding it very difficult to sit still in Mrs Fermage’s class. We all sat on long wooden benches, stooped over long, angled wooden desks that had lids you could slam down percussively (as long as no one noticed). The architectural spaces under the benches were an amazing place for my prehensile limbs to explore, a far more interesting task than shaping out letters with pencil into a copy book. My body dragged me down there to writhe along the chipped wooden surfaces, playfully disturbing the legs, socks and shoes of the other boys in my row. These sojourns did not last long; I was soon called to the front of the room by Mrs Fermage to have my palm slapped hard by a ruler that she aligned neatly on her desk for just such occasions. This routine of moving excitedly to the floor, meandering among the cavernous spaces, trundling timidly to the front of the room and then shuffling humbly back to my desk became a regular performance/ritual, a choreographic pathway that gathered an audience and had a clear climactic moment.

This is perhaps not the most engaging anecdote of how I ‘got into dance’. As a newspaper article, this story would not sit neatly inside two and a half columns on the entertainment page, integrated with information drawn from the pre- performance press release. Nor would this story fit comfortably within a typical historical representation of ‘Australian Dance Culture’. Recollecting this memory has, however, been revelatory for me. While the story’s disturbing moment of public humiliation and corporal punishment provided me with a provocative pathway back into this memory, drawing the story out provided greater meanings. I took out of this anecdote a realisation that I enjoyed moving my body to explore and disturb my environment, long before I thought of using it to try and impress the world. This idea that the moving body could be so effectively used to disturb the environment was not emphasised in my classical ballet training, but this resurfacing memory subsequently helped my career in dance to transition into contemporary, site-specific choreography and community animation. Ultimately, this anecdote, and the meanings I made of it, helped me diversify my interest in dance. Like all long-term memories, this anecdote reflects a moment of (minor or major) epiphany – a signpost in my childlike mind that something significant had just happened, something worth retaining on the road to a more complex understanding of the world. This, and other such memories, allow me to construct ideas that give greater meaning to my body, dance, life and the world. And that is one of the key aims of this book.

Talking Dance.indd 12 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM Introduction 13 Mixing narrative methods: ethnography, psychotherapy and creative practice Nicholas Rowe and Ralph Buck This book is a collection of personal stories, from dancers across the South China Sea. The way we have gathered and collated these stories responds to calls within dance scholarship to be more reflexive about how dance knowledge is formed, moving from ‘simply asking what can be known about dance, to asking how do we know what we know?’ (Buckland, 1999). Our way-of-knowing within this book has been steered by an ethical query on how the values of diversity, inclusivity and equity may be advanced within a dance research project. We have sought to design a study of the region that does not further impose the cultural biases, hierarchies and categories that often exclude (or, at best, distinguish) diverse voices and perspectives. We recognise that there are no finite or universal conceptions of what might be considered dance, or who might be considered dancers (Sklar, 2001). Our storytellers thus include people who describe themselves as ballerinas, drag queens, b-boys, folklorists, professional artists, amateur enthusiasts, worshippers, entertainers, gurus and children. Their stories have been gathered from opera houses, temples, conservatoires, refugee camps, villages and ghettoes. The only requirement we have expected of our storytellers is an interest in discussing any embodied practice that they consider to be ‘dance’. Individually, each of their stories infers a marginal history of dance in the region. Collectively, they suggest the breadth-of-absence within dominant cultural histories around the South China Sea. Locating the storytellers, hearing their narratives, selecting their anecdotes and curating their plots within this volume required an evolving research process that stemmed from qualitative enquiry (Denzin and Lincoln, 1998). Our ways-of- finding-out became eclectic, as we threaded together investigative methods from ethnography, psychotherapy and creative practice. By briefly reflecting on the weave of these methods here, we hope to provide readers with a sense of the legitimacy of this approach to dance scholarship, and acknowledge its limitations. Our research began with a narrative enquiry approach, using an unstructured interview format. This positioned us as open, curious and unassuming conversationalists with those sharing their stories, willing to follow their trains of thought (Mishler, 1986; Kvale, 1988). We cultivated a free association of ideas within the discussions, and listened for the ‘talk that sings’ (Hollway and Jefferson, 2000). For us, this became apparent when a heightened sense of animation suggested that the storytellers were re-living their experiences.

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Within the mutual process of recollecting distant memories and reflecting on their significance, we encouraged, and experienced, a process of self-actualisation (Maslow, 1971). Our shared valuing of experiences and co-construction of meaning therefore allowed our role as social enquirers to have a therapeutic dimension (Hart and Crawford-Wright, 1999; Etherington, 2001). So often our interviewees commented on how the act of drawing out their old dance memories was very refreshing and gave them a new way to think about dance. At other times, they expressed a more urgent need to share stories that were in the forefront of their memory. In these moments we realised that we were not simply conducting interviews ‘in order to get data to analyse at some later juncture’ (Speedy, 2007, p.61). We sensed that our discussions, our sharing of our stories and our listening to the stories of others supported a collective process of valuing and feeling valued among a community of dance storytellers. This led to our movement away from the contextual analysis generally expected of ethnography, as (within the scope of this research project) that would have involved a subsequent practice of rationalisation and reduction that excluded those offering the stories. We ultimately realised that the only argument that these stories actually need to make is the distinctness of their existence. We therefore did not add any contextual data about the storytellers (other than their name and geographic location), as we did not wish to infer an argument or reinforce a stereotype relating to that person’s age, gender, nationality, ethnicity, dance genre, race, sexual orientation, politics, professional standing or social status. Some of this information emerges in their stories, but this inclusion is the choice of the storytellers, and it is only included in ways that bears relevance to their story. Ultimately, however, our investigative practice did not completely align with psychotherapeutic processes of revelation. Most distinctly, our conversations with storytellers did not continue to probe troublesome events in order to reach a moment of release; nor were the conversations dominated by the shadows of past trauma. The stories they shared included their successes, dreams and the peculiarities of their evolving daily practices. As researchers, we were more attracted to suspenseful tales than echoes of despair. Sustaining the excitement of their words within this document brought further challenges, as academic precision can stall the journey from oral-storyteller-to-book- reader in a textual doldrums. Within any process of transferring the vocal to the written a certain amount of animation is lost; this is particularly so with dancers, who tend to emphasise their stories with much gestural expression. In order to recreate oral stories as dynamic, textually mediated narratives, we therefore engaged

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in a process of creative collaboration that drew upon input from the storytellers, the interviewers and the editors. The creative research practice of imaginative writing is not limited to non- fiction genres (Perry, 2007), and the selecting, restructuring, minor editing and final formatting of interview material involved an artistic consideration of how the structure and flow of the story might evoke an aesthetic response from the reader. In exploring the boundaries of such reconfiguration, our research practice did not go so far as to ‘permit a collapse between fiction and reality’ (Barret, 2007, p.9). Our aim instead was to enhance the sensation of reality, so that each story’s vividness may transcend the process of interviewing, recording, translating, transcribing and reading. No words were added, no inferred content embellished. The stories, as presented in this volume, were the stories as we heard them. Material unrelated to each anecdote was removed, however, repetition was edited and grammar slips de- emphasised. The curatorial processes of selecting and arranging these stories within a provocative polylogue in these pages thus involved a process of envisaging. It did not, however, involve the generation of entirely new content, or even a significant repositioning of existing content. Within this research we might not, therefore, be able to claim to have engaged in the advanced creative process of ‘imagining’ or ‘being imaginative’ (Craft, 2005). Our disregard for syntax similarly draws these stories away from an accurate representation of verbal discourse, and our research processes did not seek to independently verify ‘the truth’ of any of the stories. In blending ethnographic, psychotherapeutic and creative practice research methods, we acknowledge that we have not fulfilled the usual expectations of any these approaches to revelation. From ethnography we have borrowed practices of autonarration, and yet we have deliberately not extended these narratives into a contextualised analysis. From psychotherapy, we have supported self-actualisation within the interview process, yet we have not sought to resolve or heal. From creative practices, we have considered how we might provoke an aesthetic experience for the reader, and yet we have not tried to imagine entirely new narratives. Our processes may be critiqued by methodological purists as a messy practice of culturally decontextualised, therapeutically unresolved and creatively unimaginative research. For us, though, the histories that emerged from this process present a new way of understanding people and dance, of valuing experiences, and of sharing knowledge around the South China Sea. These stories express what people recall and the meanings they made from these recollections, and they are presented in ways that we hope will make their reflective content engaging and evocative.

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The connections and contrasts between these experiences and understandings imply that dance around this remarkable body of water defies summation, just as the sea’s very title continues to defy consensus. Such complexity demands more and more dialogue and more and more sharing of experiences. For, as John Berger (1987, p.79) suggests, ‘If every event which occurred could be given a name, there would be no need for stories.’

The moment, the atmosphere and the conversation Toni Shapiro-Phim We were given excellent seats. The judges’ table was just to the right of us, and the ballroom floor directly ahead. It was raining, so we stuffed our soaking, rolled-up umbrellas under our chairs, trying to appear elegant in spite of wet feet, and looked around the crowded high-ceilinged hall. The lights skimming the floor’s edge made their way to a raised stage to our left. Soon, familiar music quieted the audience. My daughter, a friend and I were about to witness a filming of one of the episodes of Vietnam’s first-ever season of Dancing with the Stars. We were there as guests of the head judge, Nguyen Chi Anh, whom I had interviewed in Hanoi for this book a couple of months before. Dancing with the Stars – Vietnam was filmed in Ho Chi Minh City. I came by bus from Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where I was living at the time, for the event. It was a remarkable evening of gowns and glitter, pop music and commercial breaks, and lively discussion from and among the adjudicators. My own first-ever ballroom dance lesson had been taught by a Vietnamese man in the 1980s. This was in Galang refugee camp in Indonesia, mentioned in the opening essay of this book. He had explained to his handful of students (mainly aid workers and educators from Indonesia and the US, as well as some fellow Vietnamese) how popular ballroom dancing had been in his homeland. All those years later, when I took on the task of travelling to begin working on this book project, I knew I wanted to explore a ballroom or two. Indeed, on my first night in Hanoi, I sat in on (and participated in) a class of Chi Anh’s. It was someone I had met in Galang all those years before who led me to Chi Anh’s door. Nguyen Qui Duc, now a prominent force in Hanoi’s contemporary arts scene, was himself originally from Vietnam, although he came of age in the US. As an adult, he worked in Galang, and eventually settled in Hanoi. He put me in touch with Truong Hanh Ly whom I hired not only as a translator, but also as a person- who-finds-and-arranges-anything. She connected me with a filmmaker who pointed us in Chi Anh’s direction and to his ballroom dance class.

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There were numerous other ways through which I found dancers and their stories. In one instance, I had read a three-year-old New York Times article about hip-hop sessions at a gym in Vientiane. Its author failed, however, to identify the gym and the people whose technique he was complimenting. When I arrived in Vientiane, I asked at least ten people, all engaged in the arts in some way, where I might find this gym and these dancers. Their answer was: there is no hip-hop in Laos. It was perhaps the eleventh person whose network located hip-hop dancer and choreographer Anouza Phoutisane for me, and got me his telephone number. In another instance, in rural Rattanakiri Province after a 13-hour car ride, I showed up in a small town with someone whose brother knew someone who worked in the provincial government. This local government official was gracious enough to take us further still into the countryside, where I met a village chief who performs dances as a part of sacred rites. In still other places, I interviewed people I had known for years, or artists suggested by colleagues of mine, or I simply asked around, often with a specific goal in mind. Anouza Phoutisane was the only artist I met in Laos with access to the internet and with an email account. He could read some English, but still preferred holding the interview in Lao. So the day after observing his hip-hop troupe rehearse in that (at first) elusive Vientiane gym, I went to speak with him about his life as a dancer, accompanied by Soeur Sophea, a Khmer friend who is fluent in Lao. Sophea travelled with me to translate for all but one of the interviews I conducted in Laos. I would ask a question in Khmer, which he would translate. When I got home to Cambodia, I transcribed the interviews directly into English. Then, with Sophea by my side, we called each person we had interviewed to check on the accuracy of my transcription. I ‘read’ the text back to Sophea, translating it on the spot into Khmer, which he then translated through the phone to the dancers across the border. We worked out clarity issues, and corrected or expanded stories. What you see inside the covers of this volume are the resulting interpretations, filtered through the many strata of communication engaged. In Anouza’s instance, I was able to send the English draft to him via email for his approval. There was one other case in which three languages were at play: Keo Samean speaks Kreung, a minority language. A man in his village translated between Khmer and Kreung for us. Otherwise, interviews passed through only (!) two languages on the way to the page, or were conducted in English (a second or third or fourth language for the interviewees). Sophea who helped me in Laos, and Pornrat Damrong who did the same in Thailand are each accomplished performing artists and scholars in their own right. Their contributions to discussions, and their introductions to artists, were invaluable.

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Questioning, listening, translating and interpreting – communicating about life and art are layered undertakings. When I would interview someone I had known for decades, and with whom I had shared wedding parties and funeral processions, dance rehearsals and police raids, I was aware that, still, much can get lost in translation and interpretation. Yet, although slippage might be even more pronounced when interviewer and interviewee have just met and don’t share a language, or when the interviewer doesn’t have expertise in a particular local history and culture, an outside eye and questions that elicit stories can spark wonderfully rich dialogue. And they can even inspire the sharing of adventures and feelings held inside prior to this encounter – just because the moment, the atmosphere, and the conversation, were right.

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Talking Dance.indd 20 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM 1 Beginnings

High-heeled John Travolta shoes Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur I don’t have many early memories of dance because I don’t come from that kind of background. My family was very poor. There are ten children and I am the tenth. I remember my father was the type of person who was very lively and sociable. He was one of the elders of the community of Malayalees that came from his village in Kerala to Malaysia. There were lots of people always gathering in our house, at the weekend, from the time I was very young, so he liked to entertain. In the household he would sort of burst into a little bit of a joget, and he’s a portly old man you know; he was 60 when I was born. In 1977 when Saturday Night Fever came out, and 1979 when Grease came out, we used to have parties where we’d play all the music. Those movies were huge! We used to do this line dancing and all these really funny things because the newspapers then used to have all these articles about how you do these dances. We had parties and cut them all out at people’s houses and did these dances. It was really quite stupid but it was fun. Everyone had to buy those high-heeled John Travolta shoes. It was always at a house party. It began at six o’clock. Everybody on the dance floor doing the Night fever, night fever moves. Everybody said, ‘Oh Josef! You’re very good at it!’ Anything for attention, right?

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Talking Dance.indd 21 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM 22 Talking Dance She took me and my mum Chatuporn Rattanawaraha, Bangkok I was born in wartime, so I wasn’t able to go to school regularly. We had to run from bombs and artillery. We had to leave and stay in the countryside until the war ended. I then had a chance to finish the 4th grade at a temple school in Bangkok. [After that] I tried to continue my education. I went to so many schools to take entrance exams, but I never passed. I asked my mother if I could become one of the kids that served the monks at Wat Bavornnivej; then I could study in the temple school. My luck was bad. I did serve the monks, but my name was not drawn for a place in the temple school. I had no school for a year. My mother knew of a teacher, Kru Linchee Jarujron, who lived near my house. I didn’t know what she taught or where, but my mother brought me to her. It turned out she worked at the School of Dramatic Arts. She took me and my mum to her school at audition time. I took the entrance exam for dance, and passed. I had no idea what was coming. My life had been so narrow. I had never even heard the word, khon. I didn’t really like this but I thought it was good to be in school, any school. Then I found out that peers in this school who were older performed and got paid. So I thought, ‘Oh, maybe if I get good, I’ll get paid for this, too, and can make a living. This can be a career.’ I focused on dancing and anything the teacher taught. I requested extra practise time from my teacher. I became the person my friends asked for help when they didn’t remember the movements.

‘Is that the one with water?’ Carissa Adea, Manila The first time I actually attended the dance school, I was only three. My mum asked me if I wanted to start ballet, and I asked, ‘Is that the one with the water?’, because I really loved swimming, and she said it was. I thought that it was going to be a swimming class. When I saw the girls in the studio in their ballet gear, that’s when I knew it was ballet. So when I first started I was like, ‘What’s this?’ But after a while it was just play with one teacher teaching us coordination and left and right. And now I’m a principal dancer of Ballet Philippines.

Talking Dance.indd 22 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM Beginnings 23 Refugee camps that supplied people with food Moeun Bun Thy, Siem Reap When I was really young, I used to love the folk opera performances I’d see in our village. I’d go home and try to dress up and dance around, imitating them. Once the Vietnamese defeated the Khmer Rouge, my father left our village to find work. My mother was alone with six children. The new government didn’t give us land to farm because we didn’t have a man in the household. Sometimes we ate only rice flavoured with fruit. We were all hungry. When my father came back from the Thai-Cambodian border where he’d been trading things, he told my mother that he’d heard about refugee camps that supplied people with food. So we made our way to the border at the end of 1980 or the beginning of 1981. I don’t remember exactly. We were moved to a few different camps. In 1982 we settled in Ampil Camp, and that’s where I started studying dance. Neak Ming Voan Savay, who had been a star classical dancer in the palace before the war, and her husband Lok Kru Meas Van Roeun, who was a folk dance teacher at the University of Fine Arts, started teaching dance in the camp. When I saw the dance practice, I asked my mother if I could join. She said she was happy to have her children dance because it’s part of the struggle to take our country back. I didn’t understand the politics until later. I was so young. And I just loved to dance.

The teacher actually yelled at me Anna Chan, Hong Kong My very first experience in dance was when I was six years old, and that was really awful. I remember it was my second ballet class – I was wearing all of this pink – and I was doing a polka step across the floor. I fell down and the teacher actually yelled at me. It wasn’t a very pleasant experience and I just stopped dancing. Maybe that’s why I wanted to become a teacher – you shouldn’t shout at your students like that! When I was about 12, I was involved in the school’s gymnastic team. I asked my coach, ‘Why can my friend extend her legs much more beautifully, much more elegantly?’ The coach said, ‘Because she does ballet.’ So that’s how I went back to taking ballet.

Talking Dance.indd 23 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM 24 Talking Dance In the jungle Suhaimi Magi, Kota Kinabalu I come from a poor family and was born in a small village called Tenom. It is very famous for coffee. We had no electricity; we had to carry water from the river. My late father was from Java. My extended family is actually Indonesian, so I learnt silat when I was ten. I learnt it in the jungle. We opened a new space, with the trees, and made a celebration. There I started learning the silat movements. Then in 1970 I moved from my small village to here in Kota Kinabalu. I was brought by my cousin who used to dance here. I started learning more traditional dances. I rehearsed with my friends, practising in Tanuwara Beach on an open-air stage. I learnt from anybody who wanted to teach me. I caught anybody who knew a dance. Knowing silat helped me to learn the traditional dances. A lot of the style of silat is very dance-like.

‘Where’s your daughter?’ Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok When I was little, whenever I heard music, I would dance. I lived close to a temple where they held an annual festival with lots of entertainment, including folk opera performances and open social dances. I was there every year without fail. My father would take me and I’d escape from his grasp and run off. People would see my father and ask, ‘Where’s your daughter?’ He would answer that I was ‘over at the ram wong section’, and that they shouldn’t worry. ‘She’ll be there all night.’

I was with my dad Layna Chan, Kuching When I was five I saw this dance performance by the Kuching Ballet. It was at a very small theatre. We don’t have a proper theatre here. I was with my dad. That was my first impression of dance and I have kept the programme ever since. They were doing The Skater’s Waltz and The Doll Dance. The doll was in a tutu and one of the girls was dressed as a clown. Since then, I just knew that I wanted to dance. The Doll Dance was very mechanical, and I remember The Skater’s Waltz because, when I joined that school a few years later, I performed that dance.

Talking Dance.indd 24 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok I try to give [my students] as much as possible, just as I received so much from my teachers. I want to copy what my teachers did for me.

Talking Dance.indd 25 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM 26 Talking Dance They sent me to learn ping-pong Cai Ying, Shamen When I was nine years old my parents thought I was too skinny. They hated me skinny, so they sent me to learn ping-pong. I took just two classes and then the teacher said, ‘Oh, maybe you should try dance? You have long legs and you’re quite coordinated, so go. I’ll take you to the dance teacher. Maybe they will like you.’ That’s how I started to dance. I was quite naturally flexible and coordinated, but at that time I didn’t think I would like to perform. I just thought, ‘Okay I can do this stretch. I can do that. It’s easy.’

We would have a big discussion in the car Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur My mother realised that I did have a knack for dance, so she and my father would bring me along to their lessons. Either the lessons would be taught in school or they would go to lessons taught by their colleagues. I remember times when I would go with them to the classes with their colleagues. I would be prancing behind, far away from the adults, following their footsteps, and the instructor would turn around and say, ‘Whose child is that?’ My mum would beam with pride and say, ‘Oh, that’s my son.’ ‘Oh my God, he can move.’ I remember those words, ‘He can move. He should be here with all of us.’ And my mum would say, ‘No, no, he’s such a child. He can always do it by himself down there.’ So I was never in the circle, always outside the circle, but I knew that every time I went the instructor would look at me, because the instructor knew that there was such potential in me, and I would be much better than the adults. I remember my parents would go to school sports days because they wanted to see what the kids at the other schools were doing in their renditions of social folk dancing. We would have a big discussion in the car. I was probably nine or ten. We would speak openly, and my parents would ask my opinion and we would laugh at the jokes we made. ‘Oh, mum! Oh my God, they never moved from that particular motif! How can they dance in that motif for the entire dance?!’

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‘Goodness, they had two motifs only in a circle. So, out circle, in circle only! It’s a campfire! It’s not a dance!’

Out for about 30 seconds Chin Vui Soon, Kuching I was very unfamiliar with hip-hop. At first we thought it was a very bad thing. They were smoking and walking around. After that I tried to get caught up in it; I wanted to challenge myself to do something new. I was in school then. I was trying to do stuff like back flips and I started to feel that it was quite fun. The first time I tried to do a back flip it went wrong and my forehead hit the ground. I was out for about 30 seconds! You don’t want to know about the pain!

Windows open between the two kitchens Christina Jensen, Hong Kong My earliest memories are from when we arrived in Hong Kong from Denmark and immediately moved to Discovery Bay on Lantau Island, which is primarily an expatriate area. We moved into an apartment on Seahorse Lane. In the apartment next to us was a Chinese family, with a little girl almost exactly the same age as me. In the mornings we used to have the windows open between the two kitchens. That was how we first met, while eating breakfast. She was eating something with rice and I was eating something with bread. We saw each other and quite quickly sussed out that we wanted to play together, but we couldn’t communicate. I guess that’s never a problem, and we started to spend a lot of time together. She was learning the violin. She was pretty awful and I would sort of hop around. We did lots of little small living room performances for our parents, dressing up and being butterflies. They pretended to be happy about it. My dad still reminds me of how he’s going to get me back for making him sit through hours of awful violin playing. After a while we both began to be able to speak English, and every day we’d spend an hour or so drawing our future together. We were going to be rock stars and dancers. We drew our electric guitars, our costumes and everything. It was a huge stack of at least 400 pieces of paper that we worked on over a few years every day.

Talking Dance.indd 27 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM 28 Talking Dance A knight in a castle Ramli Ali, Santubong I started doing theatre when I was 12 years old in the village, with a lot of my friends who have already passed away. It was children’s theatre – a legend of the native people. I played the role of a knight in a castle, a warrior. Most of how we rehearsed was spontaneous. There was no script provided, just guidelines for the storyline. From the play I learned how to dance, because some of the parts involved dance. It was very simple movements, mostly a traditional dance like zapin or iban. I enjoyed it; it made me happy. It made me want to learn more and perform in a high international kind of dance. Most of the children that did theatre with me are no longer performing. The audience was mostly our families and some from outside. They liked it, and after the show some of them gave us money, about 10–15 ringgit. I bought candies and sweets!

Morning exercise Maui Manalo, Manila I started dancing when I was six years old. I was forced to dance! Every morning at school we had this morning exercise, when all the kids gathered in the school grounds for our flag ceremony. One day the person who led the morning exercise was absent. I guess he was sick. So my teacher said, ‘Manalo! Come here! Go upstairs and do it.’ ‘What must I do?’ ‘You know the exercise, right?’ ‘Ah … yes?’ That was my first time dancing. I did it until grade four every Monday of the week for four years. After that I loved dance. It was just simple moves, like turning your head, then your shoulders, with a specific upbeat song. So I danced it, and that’s it. I started dancing that way, I didn’t have a choice.

Like Michael Jackson Nguyen Chi Anh, Hanoi I remember when I first saw dance that excited me. I was 16 years old. I was in high school. At that time there was no internet here. I didn’t have cable and there weren’t

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Nguyen Chi Anh and Nguyen Nha Khanh, Hanoi Not since the Michael Jackson copying days have I imitated someone else. – Nguyen Chi Anh

a lot of videotapes around. My father bought me a videotape of Michael Jackson. He changed my life. I tried to dance by copying what I saw on the videotape. After that I did some shows at my high school and became famous there. I formed a group and we danced like Michael Jackson. When I went to university, I didn’t find anything that made me feel as happy as I had felt when I danced like Michael Jackson. My parents had been attending social dance classes. They would come home and encourage me to join them. But, because I knew how to dance more like Michael Jackson, I refused. I danced very forcefully and fast, and thought that social dancing was slow, and for old people. They kept encouraging me, just to take a look. I went one Saturday night when the class was open to anyone. I saw many people I knew from high school who danced very well. They said, ‘See. We can dance this kind of dance as well as Michael Jackson style.’ I felt I’d better learn, too. That evening they showed me ten dances with ten different kinds of music: samba which felt like Brazil, rumba and cha cha like in Cuba, jive like in America, Viennese waltz like in Austria, tango like in Argentina,

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slow foxtrot like in England, quickstep – I don’t know, maybe like in America – and so on. I experienced ten different emotions. It was so nice. I went home that night and asked for money to study that kind of dance. And from that night in 1999 until now, I still do that kind of dance.

A mirror in the room Humphrey Robert Linggie, Kuching When I first started to learn there was a mirror in the room. I can’t remember much else about the room but I just remember the mirror. I loved to see myself. The dancing came naturally to me. I don’t know if I wanted to be a dancer or just to dance, but it just came out of me.

Sleeping alone Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok I’m a loner. I left my home when I was 12 years old. My parents were in Chachengsao Province, in a village. My father was a fisherman and carpenter. My house was near the water. One day, when I came home from swimming in the river, I met my aunt who had come to visit my mother. She said she wanted to take me to study in Bangkok. My parents were very poor and my aunt had money, so my mother agreed. I left that day. I stayed in my aunt’s house, sleeping alone in the living room. After three months I stayed in one small room they prepared for me, again, alone. I missed home very much. I missed my three sisters. I was from the provinces – and scared of everything around me in the city. I just went to school and came back; went to school and came back. I had to work at my aunt’s house, taking care of the garden and other things. By the time I was 16, I couldn’t take it anymore. I left without telling anyone and stayed with a friend. Again, there was this sense that I was very much alone. It was me, my body, my thoughts. That’s all I had. Every day after school I didn’t want to go back home, so I sat in the hallway and listened to music coming out of the music room. One day the music teacher asked me what I was doing there. I said, ‘I am listening to the music.’ She asked if I wanted to study. I said, ‘Okay.’

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There was a student from the College of Dramatic Arts who was doing some practise teaching at my school. All seniors had to have this kind of practise. The guy teaching at my school invited his teacher to that after-school music class, and I met him. The student from the dramatic arts school said to me, ‘Pichet, he’s my master. He’s a very good “demon” dancer and he’d be a good teacher for you because you are big.’ I had been studying science and physics. I knew nothing about dance. But I asked the master if I could study with him. He said, ‘No.’ I asked him again after a month. He said, ‘Okay, if you want to, you can come to my house on Saturday. Here’s a map.’ I was 16, and that’s how I started. I was starting late. He pinched me over and over. … I’m scarred to this day. I went to a doctor who suggested surgery to correct severe marks on my hand, but I didn’t have it done.

They saw my spirit Richelle, Kuching I didn’t think I would be a dancer. I just followed my brother’s lead. He was doing competitions in rap dancing and break-dancing. One day he suggested I change my lifestyle – not just studying at home, but also enjoying some extra- curricular activities. So I joined Feasible Dance Crew two years ago. My teachers were strict, but they taught me how to dance in the right way – to dance as an art, not just to show off. It was hard because I didn’t like exercise at all. When I first came here they asked me to do the groove, to wave my body from the bottom to the top. I couldn’t do it and I wanted to stop, but they were patient and taught me how to move each part. So each week I spent more time at the studio, so I could improve. My family at first strongly disapproved because each day I spent more time in the studio than at college, and no time at home. I seldom had lunch or dinner with my parents, so they strongly disagreed with my activities at the studio. But I didn’t care because I really liked dancing. I then performed in Kuching, and they saw my spirit in my dancing. Now they support me.

I started to dress as a girl Jo Jo, Phnom Penh Since I was ten I have been fascinated by ways of applying make-up and styling hair. I didn’t care what others thought of me. I had some friends who had the same interests as I did. We knew we were gay, but we didn’t dress as girls.

Talking Dance.indd 31 4/21/2016 6:36:08 PM Jo Jo, Phnom Penh I’m a performer, so it’s my responsibility to watch television and DVDs and other live shows to get ideas, and to practise and be ready with new dances.

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I started to dress as a girl in 2005 when I was about 18. Now I’m 23 years old. Classic opened as the first transvestite dance club in Cambodia about two years ago. We had a teacher there, and we also taught ourselves from music videos. I had never performed anything before. I used to hang out at the club, and I asked to work there. It took a few days before I stopped feeling totally awkward. I ended up dancing there for close to two years.

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The parents were trying to push them in again Xia Hai Ying, Singapore The audition for the Beijing Dance Academy was tough because there were over 5,000 people for just a few spots. They looked at me first to see if I would get inside. Then after I got in the first thing they did was to measure my proportions. If your legs are 10 cm shorter than your upper body then they won’t even give you a number. My teacher was nervous. I never thought about not making it because I had no idea that I wanted to pursue this for a career. I knew it was a big deal to go to Beijing because it’s a big city, the capital. That’s all I knew. Only two of us got numbers to go into the first round. Then they measured the flexibility of every joint, the arms, the muscles, the height of our jump – everything, muscular-wise. I think I was the only one to get into the second round. I had to do a small dance. They asked me questions, then they taught me some steps to see how fast I reacted and responded. Then, for the third round, they sent me to the hospital to check my heart, my lungs, my hearing, my family history, my height and the height of my parents. My parents are tall! Then they told me, ‘Okay, please wait for the letter.’ Before I entered the studio, that was the hardest, because a lot of the kids were rejected and they were crying and their parents were trying to push them in again. But the ones in the studio were quiet. The seven or eight teachers were very nice. There were five or six of us and they talked to us one by one. Then one month before I should have started primary school in grade three, I got a letter from the Beijing Dance Academy saying that I had been accepted, and then my life changed. 34

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For me, at the age of ten, I got to live with girls of the same age. Nobody told me, ‘You have to do your homework!’ It’s freedom. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. At home I was under pressure and expectations from my parents, with no brothers and sisters to play with. So I enjoyed my seven years in school because I was completely free. You may do something wrong, but it’s not like your parents are there to scold you. They were 36 hours away by train.

I drew a black ticket Chatuporn Rattanawaraha, Bangkok At that time there was a military draft, and I was big and tough. When I registered to be a soldier, I prayed to the hermit and giant master, ‘Please help me get a black ticket and not a red one. I’d like to be a dancer, not a soldier.’ The soldiers who saw me really hoped I would join them. But I prayed silently to the spirits: ‘If you want me to dance and earn a living as a dancer, please help me.’ I drew a black ticket, not a red one, so I didn’t have to go into the military.

Jumping in place to show our balance Yim Sinath, Phnom Penh When the Vietnamese army came into Cambodia in 1979 and the Khmer Rouge ran away, we moved from Kompong Thom Province to just outside Phnom Penh. Then the Ministry of Culture was formed, and they went looking for any artists who had survived. We listened to the radio and heard Lok Kru Sakhorn inviting all artists to return to the city. They sent a car to get my father (who was a well-known traditional woodwind player), me and my brother, once they heard where my father was. We found an abandoned house near Oressey Market, in the capital. I hung out with my father as he practised at the Red Cross, near the Ministry of Information and Culture Building. That’s when I started to study dance. In the mornings the Ministry gave us rice and bread; in the afternoons they gave us rice. When they were ready to open an official arts school, I went to audition. I passed the audition (which consisted of jumping in place to show our balance, clapping to music to show our sense of rhythm, and doing the roam vong, our traditional social dance, to show our grace) and was put in the ballet class. There were very few ballet dancers so I was moved to the folk dance section even before training started.

Talking Dance.indd 35 4/21/2016 6:36:09 PM 36 Talking Dance Why do I have to wear a leotard to go to the hall? Cai Ying, Shamen My dance teacher in Shamen told my mum, ‘You know it’s the first time the Beijing Dance Academy has come to Shamen to have an audition – you should bring your girl, to try it.’ At that time I was ten years old. I didn’t know what an audition was. My mother said, ‘I’m going to take you to the hall.’ ‘So why do I have to wear a leotard, to go to the hall?’ When I got there my teacher was there and said, ‘It’s an audition, just do a little bit of dance and they’ll just look at you.’ I had no idea! I didn’t know that the Beijing Dance Academy is the most famous school in China. I had no idea, because I didn’t have passion for dance at that time. So I was not nervous and just said, ‘Okay.’ I danced; they looked at me. They wanted to know how my parents looked, to see how tall I would become, but my dad was not there. My mum is very short, so she said, ‘Oh, her dad is very tall.’ So I got in and then my parents became very serious, asking, ‘Should we really send her there? It’s three hours by plane from Shamen to Beijing and that means maybe her life will be just dance.’

He said I wasn’t pretty enough Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane I started school when I was about five. A few years later I saw a dance performance and fell in love with dance. I’d dance and sing, imitating what I saw, all the time. At home, in my room at night or all over the house during the day, I’d pretend I had a microphone in my hand and sing at the top of my lungs, or dance the way I had seen the performers dance. I didn’t pay much attention to my studies; I just wanted to perform. I would go to a festival and after a performance the people would dance the ram wong. I joined them and danced and danced all night, sometimes until the early morning. The old people couldn’t believe how much energy I had for dancing. I knew about the National School of Music and Dance because my uncle was head of it. I asked to join but he wouldn’t let me because he said I wasn’t pretty enough. I went ahead against his wishes and auditioned, and got in, without his help. But he didn’t stop them from letting me in either.

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Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane At home, in my room at night or all over the house during the day, I’d pretend I had a microphone in my hand and sing at the top of my lungs, or dance the way I had seen the performers dance.

The Queen Mother Ros Kong, Phnom Penh I started practising in the palace when I was seven or eight years old. I had often gone to the palace to watch dance rehearsals with my aunt, Chea Khan, who was a member of the royal troupe. I wanted to practise, too. To be allowed to study in the palace, I had to be presented to the Queen Mother. We didn’t have to dance to audition. She just looked me over – my face, my body, and accepted me. I made a pair of beysey pacham and gave them to my teacher in order to be allowed to study. I started by training at my teacher’s house, and later joined the others at the rehearsal pavilion overseen by the Queen Mother.

Talking Dance.indd 37 4/21/2016 6:36:09 PM 38 Talking Dance My grandfather intervened Ladda Phomalath, Vientiane When I was young I’d go with my grandfather to the national arts school. He was a xylophone player there. The Lao king gave him a medal in recognition of his contribution to our culture. I saw people dancing beautifully. I wanted to be able to do what they were doing. When they performed, their costumes and make-up were stunning. I just danced around copying what I saw them doing. It was my grandfather’s idea that I should become an official student because I seemed to like it so much. My mother, a housewife, passed away in 1980. My father was a lawyer. I’m the oldest of their five children and the only one to go into the arts. In fact, they didn’t want me to dance. They said, ‘Why would you do that?’ They wanted me to become a doctor. They did not like it at all. It was my grandfather who eventually convinced them to let me audition. He said I would have a chance to travel abroad as a dancer and that if that’s what I really liked, I should enter the arts school. This was in September 1975. When I first auditioned, this is what they did: they looked at my build. They thought I was too short and too fat. They were afraid I would stay that way. My grandfather intervened. They looked at the flexibility of my hands, which was good. They asked whether my mother and father were short or tall. We also had to demonstrate a popular social dance and to sing and clap hands following the model of the teacher. For example, she clapped out a simple rhythm and then we clapped afterwards, trying to imitate exactly what she had done. They asked us if we liked dancing and if we would try hard.

Burmese with an Axe Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok I was born in Bangkok in 1940. When I was in elementary school my father took me to study dance with a likay master. That was my first time doing any kind of formal dancing. I became well known for performing a dance called Burmese with an Axe. Through my school I entered a district-wide dance competition and came in first with this dance. I was about 12 years old and loved dancing with my whole being. My parents were very supportive when I said I’d like to go to school to study dance. So I used that same dance that had made me famous locally and auditioned for the Wittayalai Nattasin.

Talking Dance.indd 38 4/21/2016 6:36:09 PM Auditions 39 The boss thought I was very good Adam Alhawiudi, Santubong I first saw a dance when I was perhaps 20. It was a dance of my tribe – Dusun. I’ve now been working in Sarawak Cultural Village for almost three and a half years. I started to dance when I came to work here. We have a choreographer who teaches us how to dance. The dances are from this tribe and other tribes; we mix. Someone asked me to join this village. There were some vacancies for playing music and dancing. I knew how to play a kind of traditional music called sompoton. I came here, met the boss and showed him how to play the instrument. The boss thought I was very good, and I got the job. My family won’t accept my salary. They say don’t go back, but I still stay here. I’m learning to play music, the gong, and I’m learning to dance. I’d never thought about being a dancer before I came here.

15 boys living together Nguyen Anh Duc, Hanoi Before I went to the dance school, I had never seen any kind of dance. In the 1980s in Vietnam it was difficult to find a television and I had never even been to a theatre. So I went to the dance school when I was 14 and didn’t know anything. My mother’s sister was a playwright and was studying at the university right next to the dance school. It was her idea to send me there. It was not my choice. I don’t know why my aunt had that idea. Maybe because when I was young I was a bit wild. Maybe she thought that being at the dance school would be good for me. The audition consisted of some body exercises, some with music. We had to sing, and even to act a little. I lived at the school and never lived with my family again, although I did visit them often. At the school there were 15 boys living together, divided into two rooms. It wasn’t difficult. We were all excited to be together. We were very young and nobody controlled us. I have great memories of that time. We had a big kitchen for the students, but after the first year (1986) the government changed the system. At first, they provided food and everything. Once the new economic policy came into effect, we went to eat at a little food stall or restaurant. My family gave me the money for food.

Talking Dance.indd 39 4/21/2016 6:36:09 PM 40 Talking Dance Just underpants Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh In 1965 I started studying classical dance in the palace once a week. Every Thursday they’d open up the dance pavilion to anyone who wanted to learn. On the other days I studied at a regular public school. After about a year, a dance teacher from the Soviet Union came to Cambodia to select students for the first ever class in ballet here. They selected me before anyone else. The selection process started with all the classical dance students standing in a line. We had to lift our skirts up so that they could see our knees. They had us take off our shirts. We wore just underpants. They looked at our posture and build. I had never seen ballet. I had no idea what they were talking about when they said they were selecting students for ballet. Because I was a student, I followed whatever the teachers told me to do. I was so young. So in 1966 I left my regular school and transferred to the Royal University of Fine Arts, which was where they based the ballet programme. I went there every day. In the mornings we practised technique. In the afternoons we studied regular academic subjects, from primary through to secondary school.

Russian and Chinese models Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi I was born across the river in a village in what is now part of Hanoi, in 1946. My parents were farmers. They grew rice where there are now high-rise buildings. When I was little, I had never heard of ballet. But in 1959, when they established the first national dance school, teachers went to different places to recruit students. Back then, the various villages or districts had arts groups, and it was in those groups that they looked for students to recruit. At that time it was just after the liberation of Hanoi and I had joined a local Vietnamese dance group. I was at my secondary school in 1959 when they came there to select students. I suppose they chose me because of my body – legs, body and arms – and because of the way I could follow the music. They asked me if I would like to enrol, and I said, ‘Yes.’ So maybe that’s why they chose me. Even then it might have been difficult to recruit boys. Now I know how hard it is to get boys enrolled because I select students for the school. I would never accept a student like me because, based on all the

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standards – straightness of arms, ability to stretch the arms and legs – I wouldn’t have held up. All the standards were set up based on Russian and Chinese models. The teachers who went out to recruit students were Vietnamese, but they had all been trained in Russia or China.

I can’t dance, I can’t sing and I can’t act Jeffrey Tan, Singapore I started dancing when I was in the army. When you are 18 in Singapore everyone has to go into the army. In the army there’s a company called the Singapore Armed Forces Music and Drama Company. We basically have to go through army training for three months, and after that we can go forward with any vocation. The music and drama company held auditions and my friend said, ‘Do you want to come with me to this audition?’ I said, ‘I can’t dance, I can’t sing and I can’t act.’ So my friend said, ‘Just accompany me; just come along.’ My mates wanted to join and they tried to persuade me just to try. I finally said yes. We had to dance in the audition. We had to do jazz dance, sing a song and do some drama. I just followed the dancers and when it came to singing I sang whatever song came into my head. I think I sang one of George Michael’s songs and I was totally off key. … After the audition I just went back home. After about six months they called me up and said, ‘We’re going to transfer you to another university. It’s the arts one.’ I thought they meant it was the drawing department. I said, ‘I can’t draw!’ They said ‘No, what you’re going to is unique.’ Then I realised it was the Singapore Armed Forces Music and Drama Company. It is based within the army and performs for the troops. So, when I was 20 I was doing jazz, tap and hip-hop. Then every Monday we would have a ballet teacher from outside. They were usually from the Singapore Ballet Academy, or else the Singapore Dance Theatre director would teach our class. When the SDT director saw me he said, ‘Oh, you have nice feet. They are good for ballet with a nice arch.’ He asked if I wanted to do ballet. I said, ‘I don’t know.’ Then he said, ‘Okay. We’ll give you a scholarship to the Singapore Ballet Academy. You must come to a class twice a week and at night after your army work, you will come here and learn ballet.’ I said, ‘Okay!’

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From that time on I took ballet classes. There were usually only girls in the class – maybe about 20 girls and I was the only boy. It didn’t bother me, though. After two years I was invited to audition for a scholarship to go London for further training. It was for the London Studio Centre. My teacher and mentor said that I should audition. I said, ‘Are you sure?’, because I was nearly 21. I went to the audition and the first thing I had to do was strip down to my underwear. They measured my body and spine and said that if I passed I could go in for the dance audition. I passed and went to the jazz, classical ballet and contemporary classes, and I finally got a scholarship to go to London.

In the newspaper Luu Thi Thu Lan, Hanoi Before stepping into the dance school I had never danced before and I didn’t have any idea what it would be like. My mother had read about the auditions in the newspaper and suggested that I go. I auditioned at age 11 and failed. But the second time, at age 12, they chose me and I was sent to Kiev to train. We had four rounds of auditions. During the first part, in a room filled with lots of small kids, ballet teachers judged the straightness of our legs, the proportions of our bodies and whether our feet had good arches or not. In the second round, they checked our sense of rhythm through clapping and singing to a piano accompaniment. In the next part, they asked us to demonstrate how we could move. We were asked to perform a dance we knew, or to create something on the spot. And finally, someone from the Soviet Union judged us as we jumped or followed a movement pattern demonstrated by one of the teachers.

Children of artists who had died Soeur Thavarak, Phnom Penh I auditioned for the dance programme at the School of Fine Arts in 1980. Lok Ta Chheng Phon, Lok Yeiy Chea Samy and Lok Yeiy Chan Bo were the judges at the auditions. They were pretty tough. We had to clap while maintaining a rhythm, dance some social dances and be examined from head to toe. A lot of kids who auditioned failed. Surviving artists and ministry officials tried to encourage the children of artists who had died under the Khmer Rouge to enrol, but even some of them were rejected.

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After I was selected, I started out by studying folk dance. That’s what I had studied in Pursat Province. Later, the teachers switched me to concentrating on the monkey role in classical dance and in lakhon khol. In the early 1980s we didn’t have uniforms or matching practise outfits. We wore anything we had at home. We would perform at the school for visiting officials from Vietnam and the Soviet Union. In the very beginning we would walk about a kilometre from our home to the school, which was just behind the National Museum and close to the Royal Palace, without any shoes. It wasn’t so bad early in the morning but, coming back later in the day … the ground was unbelievably hot!

I had to be like a nine year old Stellar, Hong Kong I wasn’t the oldest in my class, but nearly the oldest. I was 20 when I received my formal training. I dared not dream that I would become a dancer. At the academy, my second year was the turning point when I could see the possibility of having a career as a dancer. In my first year, when I auditioned, the principal told me, ‘In our programme we have two focuses. One is to be a dancer; the other is to become a teacher. With your physique, you have a workable facility, but because of your age you might consider that you want to become a teacher.’ I said, ‘Fine!’ I would just be very glad if I survived the first year, and I did survive. In the second year, the Hong Kong Ballet had a new director. He came to our school to audition us, and he liked me – I don’t know why – and chose me to be Clara, for his Nutcracker. It was fun. I was 20 at the time, but I had to be like a nine year old. This role gave me so much joy. Nutcracker is such a special ballet for me, because it is when I debuted with the company. Then later I was in the Snowflakes and the Waltz of the Flowers, and later still I was the Sugar Plum Fairy. So this work is very meaningful for me, showing my progression from corps de ballet to a principal dancer.

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Fellow artists, fellow refugees Moeun Bun Thy, Siem Reap When we got to Site 2 [refugee camp], Ming Savay and Lok Kru Van Roeun went round to find the dancers and musicians they had worked with in Ampil Camp. They’d had to leave all their costumes and instruments behind. We had to start from nothing. I got up every morning, swept out our small house and walked with my sisters to the ‘Fine Arts Service’ building. That building was bigger, but was also made of bamboo and thatch with a dirt floor. They built a raised area with some plastic sheeting on top that we used as a stage. Hundreds of us, boys and girls, practised for three or four hours every morning. We reviewed the basic gestures and movements, and then practised classical and folk dances. We even learned folk opera and other traditional theatrical forms that included dancing, singing and acting. We were given cotton cloth to wrap around our waists and through our legs as pantaloons, and the seamstresses made button-down short-sleeved shirts for the girls – the traditional dance practise outfit. One of my sisters became a seamstress; another one became a dancer, too. My youngest brother studied dance as well. It was always hot in that place. We tried to keep the heat of the sun out with some cloth, but we needed the openings in the bamboo walls to let the air flow. Every day there’d be lots of people straining to look in through those openings. These were refugees too, who liked to watch our rehearsals. On their way to pick up rations they might stop and look, at first for a minute, and then lose track of time.

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Moeun Bun Thy and Ampil dancers, Site 2 Refugee Camp I miss [my dance teacher] Voan Savay and those days in the refugee camp. She gave us a lot of knowledge and helped us develop ourselves for the future. We were lucky to have such a special teacher. She wanted all her students to be as accomplished as she is. – Moeun Bun Thy

In the afternoons we studied reading and writing, basic maths and art history, mostly about the ancient Khmer temples and our dance traditions. We sat at wooden tables and copied the lessons our teacher recited into notebooks that we got from aid agencies. We had a blackboard and chalk in each bamboo classroom. There were no textbooks or other teaching materials. The teachers were our fellow artists, fellow refugees.

Before my wig fell off Bilqis Hijjas, Kuala Lumpur The 14-year-old daughter of one of my mother’s best friends was mad about dance. To make a bit of extra cash she taught me ballet on Saturday mornings. I went up the road to her house and we had ballet classes in her living room. We pushed back all the furniture, and in an unorthodox way we did ballet to Paula Abdul, holding onto a bookcase, in a suburban living room, standing on a carpet which was turquoise blue.

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She walked around. She didn’t care about me very much, and she certainly didn’t like me very much. She was only 14 and she was supposed to be teaching me, but she didn’t really like the idea of teaching, although she liked the idea of a little bit of extra cash. Later on, that 14-year-old girl grew up to be sort of a force on the Malaysian dance scene. She became a judge on various Malaysian reality TV shows and a choreographer, and she famously screams at people on TV. She started a commercial dance group when I was a teenager, which I danced in for a little while. The most notorious occasion was when I had to wear a blue wig which I hadn’t secured properly. When I got on stage the wig began to fall off in front of several thousand people in some hotel ballroom. She started screaming at me at the top of her lungs, but the music was so loud that I couldn’t understand what she was saying. All she really wanted was for me to get off stage before my wig fell off. It was all terribly embarrassing.

Spanish, Hungarian, Ukrainian Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh At first we imitated whatever the teachers did. They divided us up by age even though we were all beginners. My parents did not say anything about my ballet studies. They agreed to whatever was asked of them. We wore white underpants, white sleeveless shirts and white ballet shoes. We had to buy these ourselves. Eventually the teachers from the Soviet Union brought us leotards and toe shoes. We studied and performed character dances: Spanish, Hungarian, Ukrainian and so on. When we performed, the Soviet teacher would have specific costumes made. The pair doing the Hungarian dance would dress as if they were from Hungary; the one doing the Spanish dance would wear traditional Spanish clothes. At first I was really shy and ashamed when I danced in ballet outfits, especially in public. We never wore anything like that here in Cambodia. When people came to watch classes I was so embarrassed. It was hard at first. We’d never lifted our legs like that before. I studied from 1966 to 1975 when I got my high school diploma. I was supposed to have my exam that year, right after Cambodian New Year in April, to get my diploma. But the Khmer Rouge entered the city at the New Year and everything came to an end.

Talking Dance.indd 46 4/21/2016 6:36:09 PM Learning 47 Whip the kids Chatuporn Rattanawaraha, Bangkok Kru Aram Antharanat is the man who taught me the Ravana role. My teacher would dance in front of me; I had to memorise his movements and perform them as close to the way he did them as possible. It took years to please my teacher and meet his standards before I could perform the role in public. I’m famous now among khon artists for portraying this character. I was very frightened of my teacher. He was extremely strict. If I couldn’t do it right, I would be whipped using a mai reaw. It was the whip that made our bodies remember. The teacher would check on me all the time and hit me and others in the class. This helped us remember – this kind of shock. Every posture has to be exact. Even the expression of feelings has to be exact: you look at your teacher and try to understand what he is communicating so that you can imitate it. It took years to please my teacher, to meet his standards. They don’t whip the kids nowadays. These days the kids write things down – they look, see and write the gestures and movement sequences down. In the old days we remembered the movements because of the body’s physical sensation of being hit, and hurt. My mother even asked what was wrong with me when she saw the marks on my body from my teacher’s whip. I told her the truth. My mother encouraged me to have patience, and said that it would reward me later. It’s true. I have a good life, because of my master, Kru Aram.

Part of the celebration Eh To, Mae Sot Growing up in my village, whenever there was a Buddhist festival it included Karen dance. Our village joined with others for the Karen New Year, and we danced as part of the celebration. When I was 13, the teachers asked who wanted to dance. I didn’t volunteer, but there weren’t enough dancers, so the teacher chose me. First we sang the song, then the teacher demonstrated the dance. Girls and boys danced in the same dance, but did different kinds of movements and steps. All the girls did the same thing. All the boys did the same thing. Sometimes the teacher moved our hands or legs if we didn’t do it right. We practised the dances for maybe three weeks before the performance.

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Eh To, Salai Jobson and Hsaw Reh, Mae Sot If we don’t have the dance, it wouldn’t really be Karen New Year. Our Karen New Year will disappear. Our grandfathers and grandmothers followed this tradition. – Eh To

The teacher was lazy, and I was, too Nguyen Anh Duc, Hanoi Each day we had three kinds of dance to learn. We’d study classical ballet and then have some academics in the morning. In the afternoon we studied Vietnamese traditional dance, including folk dance and opera, along with other academic subjects. When I was young I was a little lucky because the first year at the dance school the teacher who taught me was lazy, and I was, too. Artists need to have inspiration. And I was far away from my parents. I still wanted to mess around. After the first year I got a really good teacher. He was young and enthusiastic, and had never taught before. He had studied ballet in both Vietnam and Russia. And we were like friends.

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Nguyen Anh Duc, Hanoi It was my aunt’s idea to send me. Maybe because when I was young, I was a bit wild. Maybe she thought that being at the dance school would be good for me.

A guy named Wilson Boy, Kuala Lumpur One of my classmates taught me break-dancing. After I had learnt it I was able to beat him, so he didn’t like me anymore and he told all the boys to not be friends with me. Then none of the boys would be friends with me and I only had girls as friends. So dancing also screwed up my life like that. There was a guy named Wilson, a senior, who I wanted to become friends with because he was really good at break-dancing. One day I showed him my skills and he said, ‘Hey, come on, join my group.’ I felt like, ‘Yes!’ We became close friends.

Not that kind of learner Angelica Mar Chua (Lyka), Manila I learned about ribbon poi through a classmate in college in 2007. I was interested because it looked nice. I wasn’t sure what it was called but it looked like the gym

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exercise with the ribbons that I had always wanted to do as a kid. The classes were kind of expensive, so I just asked her to teach me. It was hard because she was not really a teacher. She just asked me to copy her but I couldn’t. I also watched videos on YouTube. In the same year, Bo – my friend then who is now my fiancé – gave me a set of ribbon poi as a gift, so that’s when I started to practise more by watching YouTube. It was hard because I’m just not that kind of learner. I really need someone to guide me step by step. I found classes would be expensive so I had to be satisfied with what my friend could teach me and the videos I watched – just the basic moves. Then early this year I had a talk with Bo. We were talking about surfing and how much he wants to surf. He’s the type of person who, when he wants something, will do just about anything to get it. I told him that I envy him because there are a lot of things like gymnastics and ballet that I wanted to do but I got no support from my parents. I told him about my desire to learn poi but I said it wouldn’t be practical because right now I am the breadwinner in the family. Then in May this year I celebrated my twenty-sixth birthday and Bo surprised me by enrolling me in a poi class. I was so grateful that I almost cried.

I miss you, Mother Zhao Na, Hong Kong I started dancing when I was four or five years old, because my mother was the dance teacher in my hometown in Shaanxi Province in the west of China. When I was 11 years old I went to the professional dance secondary school in Guangzhou, a long way from home. In China there are three famous secondary schools for dance – Beijing Dance Academy, Shanghai Theatre Dance and Guangzhou Dance School. I was so proud that I got into Guangzhou and my family were very happy about it. I spent six years in Guangzhou, majoring in Chinese classical dance. I missed my family very much and called them every night, crying, ‘I miss you, Mother. I miss you, Mother.’

When my arm wasn’t straight enough Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh I am afraid I know so little compared to what my teachers knew, and my students know even less, being one generation removed. I see that they often have a hard time remembering specific dance sequences or exactly how to do a certain gesture.

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When I was young, some teachers hit and actually hurt their students in order to try to get them to do the movements correctly and to remember them. I don’t agree with that approach, but I have to admit that once, when I was really young, Lok Yeiy Soth Sam-on whacked me when my arm was not straight enough nor raised enough. Oh – it stung! From that day on, even if she was across the dance hall from me and looking the other way, whenever I got to that movement, I remembered exactly how to do it!

When my friend dropped out Rhianna Chan, Kuching My friend was better at dancing than me. I was six and I followed her to ballet class. We used to play tag to warm up, but then when the teacher started teaching it became really quiet. We started with floor exercises. I felt silly, because we had to do things like making flowers with our hands. I think the teacher wanted us to

Rhianna and Imogen Chan, Kuching We used to play tag to warm up, but then when the teacher started teaching it became really quiet. – Rhianna Chan

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do them because she thought it would help make our arms more gentle. I don’t think it did. Then we did a lot of running around. When my friend dropped out, I felt it was a pain having to go. My mum had to force me. Before that, it was more of a choice.

In tights surrounded by ten year olds Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur I remember him, Si Pana, perfectly – he was impatient but he demonstrated the movements very, very well. He explained the movements clearly, and he always found a simple way to teach every movement. If we did not understand a certain aspect of the zapin or joget, he was able to break it down into a very basic form, so that if you picked up that then you were able to follow on. I thought that that was the genius of his teaching. He was very clever. He made the classes very much fun, but he was strict. He used to scold people who couldn’t get it, but he responded to all the people who responded to him. There weren’t many non-Malays doing this type of dance at that time, so he liked me a lot. I was always at the centre of the dance and that really fed my ego very well!

Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur I never thought about it. I never thought about whether it was a special talent. I just kind of assumed that maybe everyone could do it.

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Towards the end of my university days I actually worked as an assistant to him. I didn’t get paid or anything, but he often asked me to help and to recreate the steps. Very early on in the relationship, he called me aside and said to me, ‘You know, you really are good. You really have talent for dance.’ I said, ‘Really? Thank you! I didn’t realise that.’ I’d never thought about it. I’d never thought about whether it was a special talent. I just kind of assumed that maybe everyone could do it. Then he said, ‘You should go to ballet class’ – from this 60-something-year-old man who taught Malay dance! I said, ‘Really? But I am too old.’ I was 22, but I said, ‘If you think so, I will try.’ Some of my church friends had a cousin who was teaching ballet at a local school. I found out that the classes were for ten year olds and I was the only man in the class. I started learning ballet and she was like, ‘Oh my God, you are so good!’ I thought, ‘Really?’ I thought that the young girls were far better than I was. It was very embarrassing and humiliating to be in tights surrounded by ten year olds. I looked around and found this other school that my friends had gone to. They had a class just for boys. I joined that class and the fees were only 10 ringgit a month. That’s very cheap. That really started the ball rolling, so from traditional dance, I then did ballet; then I did jazz, I did tap, I did everything. I think when I was 24 I did my first RAD exam or ISTD Grade 4. I got an Honours mark, and I thought, ‘How wonderful!’ That really started me on this big thing. I remember in one year, 1986, I did Elementary RAD, ISTD, Elementary modern, Elementary tap. I did five exams and did well in all of them.

I could not go far from my shadow Belle, Phnom Penh I had a chance to work with Indonesian choreographer Miroto Martinus when he did a residency in Cambodia in 2005. He told us that when we dance we have to think of both beauty and depth. I remind myself of this every time I choreograph. Beyond entertaining an audience, I want to communicate meaning to them. The other thing that Miroto told me was that he thought I had put myself in a box. He thought that I was too attached to my training as a classical dancer, stuck using the same kind of energy and positions I had trained in for so many years. He

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wanted me to have ‘freedom’, but I didn’t understand what he was talking about. He said, ‘Relax and get out of the box.’ I said, ‘I’m not in a box!’ I didn’t really understand why he wanted me to do this. It’s kind of automatic for me to be in these positions, with an arched back, flexed toes, and so on. I could do new things, but I could not go far from my shadow: it travels with me wherever I am. I think it’s good to be able to be flexible or stiff, do wide-open or contained movements. This is my choice, not to do it his way. Don’t get me wrong: I love learning new ways of moving. I studied with Germaine Acogny of Senegal when she was in Cambodia in early 2009. From her I learned how to hear different rhythmic patterns and to isolate parts of my body. I just always come back to wanting to be connected with something Khmer. I also like working with Emanuelle Phoun because she incorporates what we have that is Khmer, but uses Western techniques to help us make something new. In Khmer technique we keep our core centred and low to maintain balance, even when we’ve raised one leg up and to the back. But we don’t have quick turns, or turns in the air, nor floor work techniques. So our balance goes off when we first try to do those things. Ours is a slow aesthetic. She taught us how to do turns without getting dizzy, and work on the floor without hurting our bodies. What we have created is contemporary Khmer dance, not another kind of contemporary dance.

‘I will do one prayer’ Puspavathy Naniapen, Kuching The first time I joined my teacher, she said, ‘You are joining my class, so I will do one prayer.’ In the first prayers she adopted us as her daughters. After the prayer, she asked us to stand in a row and she showed us the posture, how we should stand. Then she did the steps and we had to follow her. There were around 40 students; I did not know them very well. From that class we became very good friends. Normally if you want to learn Indian classical Bharatanatyam the teachers will be very strict with you. Sometimes they can beat you but you have to take it. When we dance, of course there is pain. I was a bit lazy sometimes, and so she would scold me. I had to memorise the steps and practise at home. Sometimes I forgot the steps and she scolded me, but I kept going because I love dance so much.

Talking Dance.indd 54 4/21/2016 6:36:10 PM Learning 55 Piggyback riding on my bike Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur I went to the University of Malaya. During the first three weeks of the semester there was a call for people who were interested to join the University of Malaya culture group, and I said, ‘Why not?’ So there we were in the big hall. The seniors were all strutting around with their peacock feathers, dancing like mad to show us how they do it. I noticed that they weren’t very good. I said, ‘Oh my God, that is so odd!’ I kept it to myself because I was a freshman. Freshmen aren’t supposed to say anything. One of them came over to us. His name was Rahman and he was the president of the group. ‘Okay guys. Now you follow me! Do this movement; this is called so- and-so.’ Everybody was struggling to do that movement. It wasn’t good, so he said, like, ‘Oh just move around. Move as you wish. Just move around!’ Finally, after an hour of that technique class, he said, ‘Alright. For those of you who’ve learnt enough for today, we’ll now have some freestyle. So we’ll play the music and you can choose to dance anyway you wish. Just do freestyle based on what we’ve learnt.’ When the green light came on for me, I danced. And I really danced. I forgot about being there. I forgot about the people watching me. I needed to dance. I needed it so badly. It was my caffeine. When I sat down, a guy from Kelantan came over to me and said, ‘Have you danced much before this?’ I said, ‘Yes, a bit.’ ‘What kind of dance?’ ‘Oh, this and that.’ ‘Have you danced anything from Kelantan?’ ‘No.’ ‘Have you done Menora?’ ‘No’, I said. ‘I wish I could.’ ‘Why don’t you do it next week? Why don’t you turn up half an hour early? I’ll teach you a few steps.’ So I was there the next week. I came in half an hour early. He showed me many steps because I was able to do everything that he showed me. Then he said, ‘I’ve been looking for a dance partner. I’ve got one now. Can you join me today, to do

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this, to show everyone how the dance actually works? People keep telling me they don’t see it because I’m doing a solo piece, but I need to do it as a pair.’ I said, ‘I don’t mind. Alright.’ It was different music, a completely different counting system, with the reed instrument and the gong. We gave our salutation and the moment I raised my hand and extended my fingers up, there was a hushed silence in that place. This man was enjoying it so much that he didn’t worry about me. He assumed that I was going to be okay, and I was okay. He was so confident about it; there were moments where you have to lock your hands together and turn around. He never assumed I would fail in doing it. I felt a bit of stress because I thought he was leaving it to me a bit too much, but I survived that day. That day was also observed by another instructor who was brought in from the Ministry of Culture. That afternoon he said to me, ‘Hey Anis, um, can you join me? I’m not going to put you in the freshman group. You’re joining the seniors.’ The next week I came and he showed me this beautiful step, and he paired with me. He was trying to find a girl to do it, but he couldn’t find a girl. His wife was an instructor too, so he paired me with his wife. His wife was so happy: ‘Oh my God, you are like Ali!’ (her husband). I felt so good! The girls were watching me, especially the girls from the residential colleges. Beautiful girls, gorgeous girls, and in the following weeks we got to know each other. I had a bike on campus. My father gave me a bike. Every time when I came home from my practise back to my dorm, one of the beautiful girls would be behind me, piggyback riding on my bike. My room-mate was a law student. Now he’s a judge. He kept cursing me, saying, ‘What makes all these girls want to come with you? What’s wrong with us?’ ‘What’s wrong with you guys is you have no romance in the air. You do not know how to waltz!’

The teachers will prepare a lottery Khamtong Sambath, Vientiane Phra Lak Phra Lam is important. That’s why they wait until we are at a certain level to teach it to us. It’s only then that we learn how to express emotions, like sadness or surprise or joy. In the individual dances we have studied all along, we just smile. I have never read the Phra Lak Phra Lam story. The teacher told it to us, and I felt so intrigued. I really wanted to try to dance my character as part of that story.

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Khamtong Sambath, Vientiane The teacher told it to us, and I felt so intrigued. I really wanted to try to dance my character as part of that story.

They have not told us yet about this year. They usually give the final exam at the end of June or early in July. I’m sure we will be tested on Phra Lak Phra Lam. As for folk dance, we have to remember all the dances we have ever studied. Then the teachers prepare a lottery. We won’t know ahead of time which dance we will pick and have to perform. We either dance alone, or we can ask one or two other students to dance with us depending on whether that is needed for the particular piece.

Do the dishes first Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh After the Pol Pot years the teachers told us to try really hard because after they themselves passed away – and there were only a few teachers left – there would not be any teachers to carry on the traditions if we did not take over. Parents were happy to have their kids in the arts school because we were on scholarships and were given food. I walked a kilometre or two in order to study extra with Lok Yeiy Chan Bo in her home. Yeiy Bo was not too tough; she only once hit me the whole time I was learning the basic gestures and movements. She hit me to mark the rhythm. It didn’t

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really hurt, but because I didn’t understand why she did it, I cried the whole time. The snot was running from my nose. I had only ever been hit by my mother when I had misbehaved. Later I understood that she didn’t hate me; she wanted me to learn quickly. Lok Yeiy Chea Samy also asked me to go to her house. I helped boil water, cook rice or do the dishes first. Then she taught me.

It sounds so hypocritical Cindy Chan, Hong Kong My husband says, ‘Let’s go to a club and dance.’ That is not what I like to do. I like to go to a dance class and dance with other people. In a dance class, I like to do something that I can’t do; I like to pick up something that other people do. At first I can’t do it, but afterwards I can do it and I feel good about that. You might say that I’m kind of a hypocrite, right? That I myself don’t see any problem in following other people’s steps, not thinking about it. But at the same time, I want to encourage little kids to not just to follow, but to create. It sounds so hypocritical when I say it!

I asked the samlor driver to stop Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok At the dance school I was just one of many students. Nobody paid much attention to me. As I rode to school each day in a samlor that my father hired for me, I often passed one of the head teachers walking along the road. I asked the samlor driver to stop so I could invite the teacher to ride with me. That is how I got noticed. We started our classical dance training by studying the fundamental movements and gestures of the dance. The teachers demonstrated, and we imitated and practised. The teachers explained the names of the gestures and how to do them. Once we had mastered the fundamentals we could deal with the expression of emotions. We concentrated exclusively on fundamentals during the first year. There was a name for each posture that was related to some aspect of nature. In the second year we did animal dances and folk dances, including northern Thai dances, and worked on perfecting different styles. When an opportunity arose for someone to play Benyakai, the ‘giant’ who transforms herself into the likeness of the human Nang Sida in the Ramakien, the

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head teacher who had ridden in my samlor came looking for me. She said to the director, Khru Amporn Chatchakul, ‘This student is not so beautiful, but she has a good, generous heart. Please give her this role.’ Originally, the teachers had selected me to study the ‘male’ role in classical dance because I have a long face. I did that for two years. But when they saw me dance Benyakai’s role well, they praised my beauty in costume and make-up and switched me to female roles. It was later, after I performed Manora, that I danced female roles exclusively.

What his money had got Thiem Chuthidej Thongyu, Pathum Thani I was born in the north east, in rural Buriram Province. My father was a civil servant, a provincial education administrator. He wanted my older sister to study Thai classical dance, so he found a local teacher and sent her there. I went with her. After two weeks she was supposed to show my parents what she had learnt. She had learnt nothing; I had learnt everything. I had to dance for my father to show what his money had got. I was about ten years old, in fifth grade then. I finished elementary school, but I wasn’t able to finish middle school because of poverty. My mother encouraged me to go to Bangkok to find work so that I could send money home. In the beginning, I worked as a labourer, carrying and delivering things. But I wanted to dance. I approached a luk thung company whose sign I had seen in passing, and asked to be taken into the chorus. They accepted me. I was 17 years old. In those days, people considered this kind of dance not to be respectable. People in the city thought luk thung was low class. I didn’t go back home or tell my mother what I was doing for five years. I was afraid she would disapprove. I had my pride. But I loved to dance. I watched the other dancers carefully and was good at imitating them. I also danced in nightclubs in Bangkok, which exposed me to lots of kinds of dance, including Western forms. I was waiting for an opportunity to show people what I was capable of, how I could stand out. Little by little I worked my way up from a chorus dancer to a featured dancer, and then a choreographer. I am 50 years old now, and still dancing. I had never known about luk thung before moving to Bangkok. Now the whole province of Buriram is proud of me as their famous native son. Even the mayor and district officials go to visit my mother, to ask how she is. All the famous luk thung singers go to Buriram to see my house, and to give gifts to my mother. My mother is so proud of me.

Talking Dance.indd 59 4/21/2016 6:36:10 PM 60 Talking Dance Ugliest of the students Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane During years one and two of my dance studies, the teachers said I was the ugliest of the students, but I was number one in technique. It wasn’t that I used my hands and legs so well, but that I was so expressive from within. They said I was a great performer. When I first entered the school, I studied classical and folk dance as well as ballet. I had the most flexible body in the class. I could bend all the way backwards and do the splits, so I thought maybe I was most suited to folk dance. I was good at all the turns you have to do in ballet, too. Ballet wasn’t considered a major subject; it was more like an introduction. They didn’t expect us to study it to a high level. My teachers were Lao, but had studied ballet in Vietnam.

Fingers pinching Belle, Phnom Penh My first teachers at the dance school of the Royal University of Fine Arts were all pretty tough on us. One teacher yelled a lot; she hit us with a stick when we did something wrong. She wanted us to pay attention, so she hit our backs, our hands, wherever. … Another one used sweet, soft words, but she hit us, too, when she wasn’t satisfied with the placement or quality of our movements. Back then I was sometimes angry with my teachers for being so demanding and harsh. But now I understand why they did it. I did not dare to cry. There were some students who did, because they were hurt too much. They couldn’t, for example, arch their backs enough, and the teachers would try to push them into the right position. I saw that when they cried they were hit even more. So I didn’t dare. I had scars – marks from fingernails, or from fingers pinching or sticks hitting me. My mother was sympathetic and put tiger balm on me, but said, ‘That is the way of the school.’

80s Dance Studio Wayz Cheng, Guangzhou When I was in high school, I saw breaking on the Lollipop TV show, from Taiwan. I thought I could do it, too. I thought I’d like to go somewhere to learn it after I’d graduated from high school. So when I went to college I went to another crew to learn it. The crew’s name was GRO, the Guangzhou crew.

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After three months, I discovered the 80s Dance Studio. I came here because it’s near my home – so convenient! The teachers are awesome; they teach me better moves. Royal was my teacher. I took the one-on-one class so I could focus. They teach with a lot of passion.

Directly from the Russian teachers Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi When my parents found that I’d been selected to study ballet they were very happy because they’d had a hard life. It was a government school and their son would be taken care of there, a kind of escape from the gruelling work on the farm. I had to leave my village to stay in the school’s dormitory. The government paid for accommodation, food, clothing, everything. For my generation, the government treated us very well. I was very happy that I got to leave the village. I missed my family, but there was happiness in learning new things, testing out new things and starting a new life. The government gave me better food than I got at home, and I made friends from all over the country. The students all loved each other. We were united in the same goal: to become artists and to develop the dancing arts in Vietnam. We felt that it was an honour. The teachers explained this to us, but the students really felt the honour because the school sent Russian experts to teach them. It was an honour to be able to learn classical Russian ballet directly from Russian teachers. Even though we had to face many difficulties – with the kinds of exercises and stretches and opening of the legs and shoulders – maybe because we had experienced a hard life before, we didn’t feel that it was too demanding. We didn’t pay attention to those difficulties at all. We just kept trying to get better.

Our teeth would turn black Yim Sinath, Phnom Penh Once I got to the dance school I received blue pants and a blue top as a practise outfit. It was a couple of years before we had pantaloons, the traditional practise outfit, in the early 1980s. There wasn’t any money for that much fabric. We left home at six every morning to walk to the Palace for practise. When the school was moved to another building, we were all given scholarships to live and eat on campus.

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At Sala Meas, the place we went to first on scholarship, we slept in three-level bunk beds. The girls were in one room; the boys in the other. When the school moved close to the Old Stadium, we lived there too, for a while. Cambodia was so poor, and we lacked everything. Nothing was of good quality. Our teeth would turn black every time we ate the soup provided for us at school, but it didn’t matter. We were so happy, studying dance and being together with our friends. On Saturdays we walked home. There were hardly any cars then, only some bicycle taxis. It took me about an hour to walk home. It was pretty far.

Almost unbearable Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok My teacher first showed me how to lift my leg up and put it down and make a certain sound as my foot hit the floor. He told me to keep doing this, and then he was gone to another part of the house. I was doing this exercise on cement. It was so painful. When I slowed down he would call out to me to keep up the tempo. He could hear the pounding of my feet. When I walked back home I was bent over. It was almost unbearable. I didn’t stop, though. I kept going back. Because I had grown up in the countryside, I believed that the master, the teacher, is very important.

A list of names Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh In the 1990s, most of my friends really respected the rules of the school. Lok Kru Malis, the director, was really tough. If you did anything wrong the teacher would send you to the office. Once in 1995, Lok Kru Malis gave a list of names to my teacher who announced: ‘These students have to go to the office right now.’ I heard many people’s names and I was praying, ‘Not me. Not me.’ Then I heard my name. It was the first time my teacher had called out my name in class like that. I couldn’t imagine what I had done wrong. I was sweating. I was so scared. I told my friend, ‘I can’t remember doing anything wrong.’ She said, ‘Just go. You have to go!’ In the office we were asked to dance. Did they think we were lazy? No. In fact, they were selecting students to go on a performance tour to France!

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I was nine years old. I had never been out of the country. I couldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t tell my parents. I thought I would wait until the day I left for France and surprise them. I had no idea what it meant – that you need a passport and certain clothes and other things. One of the dance teachers told my mother. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you need anything?’ my mum asked me. I just smiled.

Relax into the movement Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh From Chea Samy I learnt not to ask my students to do too many things at once. For example, if she was helping us with diev, we would just work on that. She kept doing the same focused thing over and over. She explained in detail how to make it right. She said that tua aek had to move somewhat differently from the other dancers. This is something I did not get from the younger teachers. She showed me how to find my way in a relaxed and beautiful mode, to relax into the movement. She invited me to study with her in her home, too. I always went to her house at five or five-thirty and stayed until seven-thirty, because my house was close to hers. I might bring her fruit or some other food that my mother had made. At the weekend, when my mother went to the market, she might buy her some fabric, which I took to her as well. The first time I went to practise at her house I offered her a pair of five-level beysey. I gave some money to a dance student who knew how to make the beysey to make the pair for me. My mother bought the other things – a cooked chicken, a coconut and some other fruit. Lok Yeiy asked me to do all this. It’s part of the tradition. I knew nothing back then, but I saw that others did this when they were learning a new dance piece. I think it’s a good way to show your respect to others. You go to her house where she’s going to teach you. You give and you get. When I presented the pair to her, she placed them on the ground. I offered her incense, flowers and candles. She said, ‘I wish that you’ll be a good dancer and that Lok Ta Moha Eysey will help you remember the steps and be a beautiful dancer and pass it on to the next generation.’ I studied the Apsara dance, and Sovann Machha and Moni Mekhala in her home. At that time, I didn’t know about her personal history, that she was such an important person in the history of Cambodian dance. I saw that she was respected by everyone.

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My mother felt it more than I did. When I told her that Chea Samy had asked me to come to her house she said, ‘Go!’ She knew better than I did.

Every Thursday Chatuporn Rattanawaraha, Bangkok The kru is the second most important person in my life, after my mother. My mother gave me life; my teacher gave me knowledge so that I can make a living. Whenever I got money from performing khon, I divided it into three parts. Some was for my mother, some for my teacher and some for me. My teacher wasn’t poor. He had a government salary as an artist. But this was a way to show my gratitude and to honour how important he’d been in my life. Although my teacher has now passed away I still, every Thursday, have to pay my respects to him. I have to ‘make merit’ to thank him for the life I’ve been able to live. Without my kru, I wouldn’t have the knowledge that has allowed me to do what I have in the arts.

The tapes had melted Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh In 1975, just before the Khmer Rouge took over, it was close to the time of my exam, so I wrote about all the ballet stories, costumes and history in a notebook. I put the book and some music cassettes in a bag that I grabbed when we were evacuated from the city by the Khmer Rouge. I’d copied the music from the recordings the teacher had left for us. I loved them so much. I kept that bag with me the whole time we were under the Khmer Rouge, from province to province and village to village. After three years I had to throw everything away. The tapes had melted and even the book pages were stuck together; the writing had faded to nothing.

The funeral procession Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh Lok Yeiy Chea Samy passed away in 1994. I had visited her in the hospital, but they didn’t allow us to go into her room because we were so young. I saw many people with candles and incense going in, though. I was afraid she was going to die.

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You know when you love someone you worry about losing them. I couldn’t stop crying when they told me she had died. The last time I went to study at her house she was lying down. She said to me, ‘Dance.’ She tried to sing for me. I sang for myself, though, because she was kind of weak. Her daughter said, ‘Lok Yeiy is tired. You should go home.’ I wanted to hug her, but I dared not. I just lifted my hands in prayer to her. On the day of the funeral I was crying and crying and crying. Everyone was so sad. I walked as part of the funeral procession from the dance school to Wat Lanka.

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My mother’s life story Belle, Phnom Penh I happened to attend a presentation at Chaktomuk Hall about human rights, and saw someone signing sign language for people who were deaf. This made me think of my older sister, who could not hear and could not speak. She died when she was very young. I thought of my mother’s life story, having to watch my sister get weaker and weaker. I approached my mother, Nou Sondab, and asked, ‘If I took some parts of your life story and made a dance out of it, what would you think?’ She didn’t answer. She just cried. I went to her again and explained my ideas for the piece: it would portray her as a woman of incredible strength and bravery. She has lived through the deaths of all her children but one, and has raised me on her own. Khmer women are often not valued. They often have no formal education and are looked down on. I already knew some of her personal story and wanted to learn more. Finally, she said ‘Okay’ because, she explained, she had thought of her story as worthy of being on video, and here was a chance for part of it to be on the stage. It would not be big like a Hollywood movie, but it would be what I could create for her. Sometimes we got up really early and I grabbed a notebook and asked her some questions. For example, ‘Why, Mum, during the Pol Pot years, did you live apart from your children?’

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‘Because the Khmer Rouge separated parents from their children. I lived with your father.’ My father was really sick during those years; my mother helped him a lot. My father was an actor, well known for playing the role of King Norodom on stage. During the Khmer Rouge regime he hid his identity, telling people he was a vegetable seller, because they were killing traditional artists. I had not been born yet, but some of my older siblings were taken to be soldiers in mobile youth brigades. They were only 11 or 12 years old. All 12 of my parents’ children were dead by the end of the Pol Pot time. The regime lasted less than four years, but overwork, starvation and disease killed most of them. My mother told me that some were taken away and she never saw them again. They just disappeared. One sister was born after the Khmer Rouge years. It was my father who caused her deafness, we think. While my mother was pregnant, my father married a second wife. His bride sent a wedding invitation to my mother. When she saw my father’s name, Chumvan Sorn, listed as the groom, she fainted. My mother got so weak and sick. She gave birth to a baby with a weak heart. My sister was never able to hear or to speak. Cambodia didn’t have advanced medical care. So she just got weaker and weaker, until she passed away a few years later. My mother has met with so many obstacles, and has had so little support. Her parents had died; she had no one to turn to, so she took care of herself. She was still legally married. My father would come back to her every once in a while. But my father rejected me, too. When I was young my mother asked him for help to buy milk and other essentials for me. He had a salary from the National Department of Arts. He said that she and I were separate from him. There was no relationship between us. The only thing you can do, he said to my mother, is to become a prostitute so that you can take care of the child, and then she will learn to be a prostitute, too. He did not care at all, even though I was his child. My mother was determined to do the best she could to raise a daughter who would be respectful and strong, and who would not need to go by that route. She wanted to prove my father wrong. I thought of the biographical piece in theatrical terms, at first. I sat in a quiet place and imagined what I might do with the scenes, and what music might go with them. I decided to begin with a representation of a wedding. In real life red threads are tied around the wrists of both the bride and groom in the wedding ceremony. But the strings in the ceremony are tiny. Nobody in the audience

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would be able to see them. So I thought maybe I would use a large red cloth to represent that part of the wedding ritual, and have them wrap the cloth around their wrists. Because this is a contemporary story that relates to actual lived experience, not something mythological or magical, I knew I couldn’t choreograph it as a classical dance. I had to do something else. I was searching for the right gestures and movements to convey an underlying struggle from the beginning. As dancers, if we do not produce an expressive quality from within, only outer movements, the audience will not feel anything. We will be like puppets. My mother helped me find the right balance. She isn’t a dancer but she is an actress, so she had good suggestions for how to express the range of feelings. Seven dancers and three musicians took part in this piece. The performers wore wraparound loose pants like the ones farmers wear in the Cambodian countryside. I wanted a contemporary element to the music, too. They played traditional Khmer music on drums, a bamboo flute, a xylophone and fiddles. But we also used other kinds of music on a CD. When my mother saw us rehearse on stage, with the lights, costumes and video projections, she cried. She was especially emotional when she saw me perform the character who represented her. She didn’t let me see, but she was crying. A friend of mine whispered to me that during the rehearsal, when the man took the woman’s hand in marriage, my mum started to cry. She said that the production showed only about 50–60 per cent of the difficulties she has been through. ‘My full life story is a lot more horrific than what you present here’, she said. I understood that. On the stage we are just copying or taking from real life. We could not possibly reproduce all the details and all the struggles. Also, we don’t have the technology that they have in film to add effects. This is live dance. If we were able to scream, it might be easier to express anger, for example. But we cannot. Whatever has to come across has to be communicated through gestures and music. But, no matter what, I’m really proud. I’m proud of whatever I was able to do with this small piece that premiered in April 2009. I called it Hope of Tomorrow. I know that sometimes it’s difficult – it makes her suffer to be reminded of these terrible experiences in her past. But there’s also something cathartic about getting your story out, instead of keeping it churning inside for so long. Plus, I know there are many women all over the world who have suffered abuse, or poverty or the death of their children, and could relate to this story.

Talking Dance.indd 68 4/21/2016 6:36:11 PM Creating 69 Even if you are not a believer, just pray Marion D’Cruz, Kuala Lumpur In 2007 there was a lot of crap going on in the country. The corruption, censorship. Also 2007 was the fiftieth anniversary of independence, so the whole nation was kind of going ‘rah rah rah’ about independence. I decided I was going to go ‘rah rah rah’ about independence as well in this show. I invited about 40 people. I have a reputation for working with dancers, non- dancers, performers, non-performers, all kinds of strange people, and 22 people said yes, ranging from highly trained dancers to people who had never performed before. I asked them, ‘If you had time and space, what would you like to say about your relationship to Malaysia at this point in time?’ I told them to bring something tangible to the rehearsal space. People brought wonderful things like primary school exercise books with the Malaysian ideology in the front, a good morning towel, Panadol. People shared stories about why they’d brought these things, and then I created performances out of these stories, vignettes of all kinds of things. There was one choreographer/dancer in the group. She was talking about Malaysia as a kaleidoscope, and because she was a choreographer and dancer in her own right I said, ‘Okay, what do you want to do?’ She had this idea that the dancers and non-dancers would do all these movements, and shooting it from the top and editing it, and then showing it in the show, so the dancers would not dance it in the show; it would be a film projection. So it was a real kaleidoscope. There was another highly trained dancer and she wanted to do something based on traffic jams, so for her, again, I let her go ahead and do it. For the others I crafted by a lot of improv, by giving them a set of instructions. There was one section that was about censorship and policing, so I juxtaposed that with prayers so the whole group is moving forward and they are doing deep constructed movements from all the various prevalent religions – Christian, Hindu, Muslim … and as they did these movements I said, ‘I really want you to pray for the nation, even if you are not a believer, just pray.’ In improv I give very specific instructions and then pick from these and structure it. So it’s democratic in that everybody’s inputs are in there. Everyone is the author but the emotional journey is carved out by me. As it progresses I have very clear eyes. Because I am so old now, I’m very not-precious about my work. I am happy to chuck things out if they don’t work, even things we’ve been working

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on and rehearsing for ages. The dancers go, ‘Huuuuh! Oh my God, after all that, we’re going to throw it out!?’ Yeah, I just throw it out.

Those that mentioned the king Ladda Phomalath, Vientiane Since 1971 there had been problems in Vientiane related to the war. There wasn’t any fighting but there were protests in the streets. My grandfather knew ahead of time when there would be trouble, for instance at our school, and he would warn me not to go in that day. I never heard the sound of gunshots. There was no shooting that I knew of. I was so young. I only understood that there was anger at government corruption. In 1975 and 1976 a lot of people ran away to Thailand. My parents and my grandfather wanted to stay in the country. Once the regime changed in December 1975, things shifted at the arts school as well. The head and other administrators were changed. We all had to audition once again. They altered the lyrics of some songs, for example those that mentioned the king, to follow the political situation at the time. But the choreography and the costumes remained the same.

I honour what is behind me Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok As a classical dancer I need a master. The first time I studied with him it was for three years. Then I went to take the entrance exams for an institute that has a dance major and also for Chulalongkorn University. When I went to the institute, the old woman giving the exam asked if my teacher was Kru Aram. I said, ‘No, but Kru Aram was the teacher of my master.’ She saw him in me. I remember this. ‘I’m a student of Chaiyut Khummanee’, I told her. She said, ‘Ah.’ She and my master were of the same generation. Today, people say that if you want to see what Chaiyut Khummanee’s dance looks like, watch Pichet. I honour what is behind me. And that’s why I kept a shadow that represents him behind me in my first piece, I am a Demon. He is not only with me on stage. I’ve had strong dreams about him too. In one, we are together on a bridge over a lake. He says to me, ‘I need to leave you. This is my time.’

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I say, ‘Okay, I’m ready. I’m fine.’ He says he is going and he jumps into the river. I start to walk away. I feel that something is wrong, and turn back. I see him under the surface of the water struggling as if he cannot breathe. I try to pull him from the water and start crying, asking him why he wants to leave me. When I woke up from that dream, I was crying, crying, crying. …

Make it 30 minutes longer Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi My collaboration with Stephan Koplowitz was very important to me. He and I are very different, which helped me grow as an artist. His work is very structured, sometimes a bit too much. I want people to create themselves. I’m interested in how different people come together in a certain space, since I’m a visual artist. I like putting them together and giving them some guidance to get started – and then letting them create for themselves. I’m looking for inner emotion to come out of each person. Stephen also acknowledges the individuality of each dancer, but he puts more of his own character into them. He doesn’t use much improvisation, which is very different from me. We had problems working together sometimes, with counting, for example. I wasn’t educated to move to set beats. For me if it is 15 seconds or 20 or 30, it doesn’t matter, whereas for him if it is 15 seconds, that’s how it stands. We choreographed together, and in Vietnam in 2005 we had two nights of performance. We selected dancers from the Vietnam Opera Ballet Theatre. After the first night, Stephen asked me how I felt about the show. I said, ‘I felt okay.’ He seemed to sense that something inside me was not quite content. He asked again. I said, ‘If you agree, I’d like to do something different. I want to make it 30 minutes longer.’ He asked how we could possibly do that without any practise. I told him, ‘In two hours I will answer your question.’ I went to talk with the five avant-garde Vietnamese musicians. They said, ‘Sure, we can help you have 30 more minutes of music.’ Then I checked with the dancers. I asked them if they could dance for an additional half hour without rehearsal if I told them what I was envisioning. They were all classically trained and usually dependent on set choreography. They said, ‘Sure.’ I told Stephan the most important thing for me was to have the audience see something special from inside the dancers. The first night’s performance had been

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praised by the audience. So if we failed on the second night, it would be totally my fault. Five minutes before the show I called all 20 dancers together and gave them an idea for how to move during those extra 30 minutes. ‘We’ll connect it to the part we’ve rehearsed and performed, without stopping’, I explained. The dancers and musicians seemed so happy. These classically trained dancers had a chance to put their own character into something. I can’t say that the performance was better than the first night, but the dancers, musicians and audience members all seemed much happier.

With all my Saturday Night Fever experience Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur There was an audition for a play put on by the Literary and Dramatic Society at the University of Malaya, and since I’ve always enjoyed plays, I went to the audition. The play was written by three young men (they were young at the time) – Gerald Martinez, Gilbert Almeda and Leslie Lyon. It was a musical. I auditioned and I got a part. The characters in the play didn’t have names but they had roles. ‘You are a Student.’ There were other people who were ‘The Wife’, ‘The Husband’, ‘The Boss’ or whatever. Every one of us had a song and a dance, and it was very interesting and I enjoyed it so much. They called in these two girls to be the choreographers, and I thought that they weren’t very good. They didn’t do justice to the song. I was very arrogant, I suppose, and I said to the director, ‘I’m gonna make my own dance’, with all my Saturday Night Fever experience! I said, ‘You know she just doesn’t feel the song and she doesn’t understand what the song is trying to portray.’ I felt I did, because of my ten years of theatre experience. The guys said, ‘Okay then, you try and then we’ll see what it looks like.’ I tried, and he said, ‘Oh my God, this is amazing! Okay good, we’ll use it.’ So they used ‘my choreography’ in this play. It was very funny. I’m quite sure it was bad.

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Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur I was very arrogant I suppose and I said to the director, ‘I’m gonna make my own dance’, with all my Saturday Night Fever experience!

Ways in which women solve problems Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Takhmao The first step in turning the tale of Akeang Khameaso into a dance was to memorise the story and then look at the words that each character says. Unfortunately, in the original story there is not a lot of dialogue. There are lots of descriptive passages instead.

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Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Takhmao Cambodia has grown and changed a lot for the better over the years in so many ways, but what remains the same – the abuse of the powerless – gives us an opportunity to keep looking for more answers to the same questions.

Once I’d memorised the story I looked for some element that related to the questions I am trying to answer: these are the questions about ongoing corruption and the role of leadership. If I can come up with some answers through my interpretation of the story, I can share this with the audience as well. Through my work I do not intend to be an activist. This is not an activist’s kind of work. This is about sharing what I have found that could be useful – something that we could all learn from. I started to rewrite the storyline and edit it to create a climax and dramatic tension. In the original story Uma did not play much of a role; she was just Shiva’s consort. She didn’t give any input into how to solve the problems. In my version I have her play an important role. After Shiva left, she had to carry this responsibility on her shoulders.

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In real life so many women – the world is much bigger than meeting rooms run by men – carry responsibility, running families as well as contributing to society. I wanted to have Uma play a role that is a natural one for a woman to play. Her actions are a reflection of the ways in which women solve problems. After I rewrote the story, I did the musical arrangement, from this song to this song to this song … which character would go with what song, and so on. What kind of sadness is he expressing? Really deep sadness, or disappointment or anger? What songs go with that? At what moment should the chorus represent a particular character saying something? I had to write the sung text as poetry.

Our feet are big Jo Jo, Phnom Penh I do a kind of dance we call ‘show’ dance. We use the English word because we do not have a Khmer word for club dancing. Our style is sort of mixed, so it is hard to label. I do my own choreography. I sneak a look at Western music videos and take inspiration for moves from them. When I choreograph, I create movements that are easy for the others to pick up right before the show. We practise at home. We do five to six dances during a set. The dancers choose the songs ahead of time. We tell the DJ what we want and bring our own CDs. We try to find interesting, unusual songs, things we can dance to. In order to dance as an ensemble of three dancers at the club on a given night, we have to be sure that we are all familiar with the songs. It’s really difficult to dance in high heels. We could twist our ankles, but if we dance without those shoes, the guests wouldn’t think it was beautiful. Sometimes we have really had enough of it, and want to dance without those shoes! But we can’t. Even some patrons, some women, say they can’t dance in heels like ours. Our feet are big – I wear a size 42 – and we have to find shoes that are big enough and beautiful enough. European shoes are large, but really expensive. I’m 175 cm tall – the tallest in my family.

Dance on top of the puppets Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok My latest piece is called Nijinsky Siam. Philippe de Lustrac, a French researcher, came to Thailand years ago and showed me images of Nijinsky. He asked me how Nijinsky’s poses related to Thai classical

Talking Dance.indd 75 4/21/2016 6:36:12 PM Jo Jo, Phnom Penh When I’m not in a rush, I like to choreograph something unexpected, but it’s difficult because I have to have time to teach the others.

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Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok I decided to do my own study of how Nijinsky looked at costume and music and movement.

dance. He asked me to translate the positions in the images into actual Thai classical dance movements. I did that. Three years later a director from the German company, Theater der Welt, wanted me to create a piece for a festival. I decided to do my own study of how Nijinsky looked at costume and music and movement. I called Philippe back and asked for all the Nijinsky research materials. He sent the materials to me. The next step was to create another ‘form’ of Nijinsky. I had shadow puppets made, with Nijinsky in one of his ‘Thai’ dance positions in the centre of each carved puppet. The outer part of each shadow puppet, surrounding the Nijinsky image, was like a Thai painting. The puppets became part of the dance. We rehearsed with the puppets both behind and in front of the screen, just as they do with traditional shadow puppets. Then I had my dancers drop all the Nijinsky shadow puppets and step on them. One of my dancers, who had studied at the College of Dramatic Arts, stopped and said we could not do this. I told her, ‘This is an image of a human, Nijinsky. You shouldn’t be afraid. We aren’t dancing on a god or sacred character.’

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The idea is that when we dance on top of the puppets, we are the shadow of Nijinsky. It is as if he is standing up from the shadow puppet. But in fact we didn’t use this in performance. We worked on something else that was interesting. We had images of 12 Thai dance positions used by Nijinsky. But in order to connect the positions, what should we do? The dancers started to intuitively move from one position to another. In this piece we are looking for meaning. Why did Nijinsky pick these particular things up from Thai dance? In fact, I support him. He wasn’t using them as decoration for his own dance. He presented very correct positions. He must have had sincere intent. I took his positions, which were fine for him, and changed them, because this work is mine. There is a book in which someone wrote that it was during this time period when Nijinsky started working on Thai-inspired movements that he became crazy. So I wanted to warn the Thais that maybe they too will go crazy from doing this.

Guarding the country Moeun Bun Thy, Siem Reap In late 1989 I took an exam for a diploma in the arts. The exam covered academic subjects and dance technique. We had to perform the full series of basic gestures and movements, which lasts about an hour, perform a dance we picked in a lottery, and perform a work we’d choreographed ourselves. I created a classical piece called Guarding the Country. Every country has to guard itself from enemies. This dance depicts a general who will not let anyone come to destroy the country. This was all my idea. I wrote the lyrics myself and chose the melodies, too. It was difficult to put it all together and to teach some of my friends to perform it with me. My teachers liked it so much that they included it in performances in the refugee camp after that. They said my dance was the only one good enough for that honour.

Talking Dance.indd 78 4/21/2016 6:36:12 PM Creating 79 Practised for half a year Richelle, Kuching My most unforgettable performance was on 24 July of this year. It was a charity performance in aid of autism, in a hotel. We practised for half a year for that one performance. Every day, seven days a week we practised until midnight, because we wanted to give a good performance. It only lasted for ten minutes! We choreographed a story about the autistic people who need our love. One of the dancers acts the person with autism, some of the gangsters bully him, then some of the dancers try to help the autistic person. We ask him to bring his spirit to life. Sometimes we quarrel about how to make the dance better. It’s always about the steps. The idea is not a problem, only the steps.

Richelle, Kuching Sometimes we quarrel about how to make the dance better. It’s always about the steps. The idea is not a problem, only the steps.

Talking Dance.indd 79 4/21/2016 6:36:12 PM 80 Talking Dance The Lao way of life Anouza Phoutisane, Vientiane At the end of 2004 I asked the Ministry of Culture to recognise hip-hop as a form of dance. I explained to them that if we developed this form here it wouldn’t be 100 per cent foreign: we would incorporate maybe 30 per cent of classical dance and we would use Lao music. The authorities were afraid that the youth would lose its appreciation of the culture of its motherland if they did something completely foreign. In other places, we could dance to any kind of music. But in Vientiane we tended to use Lao music, and to incorporate classical dance hand movements so that the audience recognised what we were doing as Lao, as dance. In 2005 I started to choreograph contemporary dance. My first encounter with this form was with a Lao guy who had been born overseas and who had studied contemporary dance. I worked with him a little. But I thought that to do this well in Laos we’d have to make sure to engage the audience. So I decided to

Members of Lao Bang Fai, Vientiane Two of the women are combining classical Lao dance and hip-hop popping moves. – Anouza Phoutisane

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choreograph a contemporary piece reflecting on the Lao way of life – farming, eating, etc.

DVDs of Mikhail Baryshnikov Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh I have now had a chance to travel and do some exchanges with dancers all over the world. But I’m still not certain as to how to take inspiration from some of what I’ve seen and combine it with my own tradition into something unique and new that is still Khmer. In the evenings during the rehearsals in the US, Emmanuelle Phuon, would show me DVDs of Mikael Baryshnikov and others, so I could see the leaps. She would ask me to dance in ways that I knew and was familiar with, and then to add, little by little, some new things. So we’d put in a pointed foot, for example. This transition has been difficult for me. At first Manou had me move my arms as I do when I am walking as a princess in a dance drama. My arms extend and contract; my face is placid. Then she had me experiment with ways of shifting from being a princess into someone less defined. In contemporary dance we do not necessarily have to project a specific identity to the audience. We don’t have to do any exaggerated gestures, just think subtly about the nuances of feelings. I’m afraid that the younger dancers think this is easy. It is very hard.

A dance within the prison Le Vu Long, Hanoi The piece we recently toured in the US is about HIV/AIDS. This is a really big problem in Vietnam. There are drug users with HIV/AIDS. Many families have one or two people with a related problem and I wanted to know more about this – not about the reasons they have HIV/AIDs or use drugs, but I wanted to know about their feelings. How does it feel to lose oneself in the use of heroin or cocaine, to be taken to another place internally? For dancers it is important to understand feelings. What you feel is often more important than what you think in contemporary dance. Of course we can’t try the drugs ourselves because it is dangerous. I got permission from the police to go into three or four prisons to talk with people. I had the idea that we could develop the concept of a dance within the prison. The dancers, singers and musicians lived in

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Le Vu Long with Together Higher, Hanoi For dancers it is important to understand feelings. – Le Vu Long

the prison for a few days at a time. When there was some connection with people in the prison, we built a story. The title of the eventual piece became Stories of Us. The idea centres around a small garden or courtyard between apartments. If the windows and doors are open, we can see parts of life everywhere. Some parts stop or pause but other parts continue. That is life. I didn’t take stories from the prisoners’ lives. I wanted this to be something more open, more free. We focused on feelings. While working in the prison, we organised some workshops so that we could discuss ideas and build the piece together. During the process, I changed the structure of the class or the workshop every day. I was learning, too, as we went along. I had no experience of doing anything like this. For Stories of Us, in the beginning, I had a concept for the space for the show. I wanted to see the different parts of life placed next to each other, with no stopping – life in constant motion. But the feeling, the main thing to communicate, comes from the feelings of the dancers when they get together with the pupils in the prison. When they expressed these feelings powerfully enough, we incorporated that as a way to build the movement patterns within the piece.

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Before working on this project, the dancers knew nothing about how to protect themselves from the AIDS virus, nothing about condoms. Before we went to the prison I had to invite a specialist to give the dancers a presentation about condom use. Of course before starting the project I wrote to people everywhere looking for support, for money so we could have the chance to do this work. The Dance Theater Workshop and the New England Foundation for the Arts supported the project’s development. After that we got money from the Ford Foundation in Vietnam to take it to five cities around the country. And then we won a prize to tour it in the US from the Ford Foundation as well. We also performed this piece in Italy and Cambodia later on. In preparation for the five-city tour of Vietnam I worked with the leaders of each city. We started by not asking for monetary support. We wanted to take the money from ticket sales to help build something for HIV/AIDs sufferers or disabled people in each city in which we performed. We just wanted everyone to know about the work. Many people appreciated the fact that this was a way to do something for their city.

Farm during the day and rehearse at night Po Ei, Mae Sot I remember seeing women and men dancing at a religious festival in Shan State, Burma, when I was young. They would hold dance competitions near our village. I went to watch and was looking forward to joining one when I was old enough. After passing an exam in our native language, we could take part in traditional dance competitions. When I was 19 or 20 I participated, but I couldn’t dance very well. Most people were farmers so we had to help on the farm during the day and rehearse at night, maybe from seven to 12 o’clock. We practised for just about a week before the competition. I did it, even though my father objected. He thought it wasn’t good for a girl to be out at night.

Taken away for re-education Kim Vorn, Koh Oknhatey Under the Khmer Rouge, we were evacuated from our village. I never saw any dance, nor did I dare dance with the Khmer Rouge in power.

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Once, when I was very hungry while working in the fields, I started to sing. It was just to give myself some energy to keep working. A Khmer Rouge cadre heard me and scolded me. I was so scared. I was afraid I’d be taken away for ‘re-education’, which really meant you would never come back. You could be killed for singing an ‘old’ – non-revolutionary – song, which is what I had done. When we returned to our village almost four years later, we had to start from nothing. We tried to find instruments and masks – to see what we could put back together from the past so that we could start up our ritual traditions again. The government held a national arts competition and I think people in Phnom Penh were surprised at the quality of dance that came from this small village. After they took an interest in us, we got some assistance from palace-trained dancers and musicians who had survived the Pol Pot years. They helped us re-create the old dance dramas, and all the ritual melodies.

The Yellow Shirts Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok I develop new work by starting with two questions: ‘What is affecting me now?’ (or, what do I want to say?) and ‘What materials do I have?’ The latter refers to what is special about my dancers – their bodies, their abilities. This year we performed a piece called Chui Chai. I have two ‘demons’, two ‘monkeys’ and one dancer of female classical dance roles in my company. I took an episode from the Ramayana epic. It needs a demon, a monkey and the female. We stopped the story before we got to the part requiring Rama, because we did not have anyone who could play that role. I actually haven’t seen any dancer who can really perform this character. I think someone must be born to become Rama. It is something about your face, your soul, your mind. Rama represents a king who is also a god. I envision the perfect Rama as one who can make the whole audience gasp in awe when he appears on stage. I had chosen the story. But then there were the questions. Should we perform it as a traditional classical dance drama? No, that would be too easy for us. What about presenting the classical ideas through the lens of contemporary Thai society? How would we do this? What is the meaning of Ravana, or of Rama in Thai society today? People call our ex-prime minister ‘Ravana’ because he doesn’t get along with the king.

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We have another group – the Yellow Shirts – opposed to Thaksin, who support the king. People think of them as the white monkeys in the Ramayana story – the loyal followers. I wove these references into Chui Chai.

Boat races Anouza Phoutisane, Vientiane When I start to choreograph a new piece we all brainstorm together. We think of a theme, such as boat races or rice harvesting, and each dancer presents a possibility. We choose which we prefer and put them all together. In our evening practises, we often get into a circle and, one at a time, demonstrate new or old movements we have been trying to develop or perfect. Then we share our opinions. People take these critiques to heart and try to improve their technique. Locking and popping are technical words that refer to things that people here do not understand. Some of the guys in my troupe want to make this understood

Anouza Phoutisane, Siem Reap Before a performance I explain to the audience that contemporary dance isn’t a spoken play. It’s an exchange between movement and music; it’s expression that comes from within the performer.

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in Laos and are working on these techniques in innovative ways. Two of the women are combining classical Lao dance and hip-hop popping moves. I want the audience to be able to understand some of what they are seeing immediately, and this is one way to help them do that.

The legacy of Agent Orange Le Vu Long, Hanoi The idea for our piece, Sight Memory, started when we were touring the US with Stories of Us. We did a lot of performances, audience question-and-answer sessions and teaching workshops. After one workshop, an audience member asked a dancer, ‘How did you become deaf?’ It was a very simple question. The dancer answered, ‘My father was a soldier and he suffered from Agent Orange. That’s why I’m deaf.’ Immediately I thought I had to do something with this. The legacy of Agent Orange is pervasive in Vietnam, but we never talk about it because it relates to politics.

These two fathers are enemies Soeur Thavarak, Phnom Penh Pichet Klunchun, a choreographer from Thailand, collaborated with a bunch of us on the development of a whole new style of lakhon khol. In Khmer we call the form khol thmey. First of all, the costumes were different. Secondly, some of the movements and the way of performing were new. The traditional style of lakhon khol uses heavy, fancy costumes similar to royal dance costumes. Our contemporary version uses T-shirts and khoa chao, and no masks. Every character wears a mask in old-style lakhon khol. Another innovation was that our new version had no obvious storyline. It was mainly about evoking emotions. The central dilemma in the dance comes from the fact that Machhanop has two fathers and these two fathers are enemies. So who should Machhanop help when the two fathers confront each other? The last line of the song says that he must walk away from both of them. So he leaves. He doesn’t want to be involved in the defeat or killing of either one. We wanted to express the emotions, the feelings of this predicament through facial expressions and gestures and movements.

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We respected the fundamentals of the monkey and giant movements of khol, and only changed some things. We can still call it khol. This is an important point. There is nothing more difficult than being dressed in those heavy costumes and masks and performing. With T-shirts, loose pants and no masks, our performance can be even more physically powerful than it is in the traditional costumes.

The confinement of the tube Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi I own some land about 50 km from Hanoi. It’s in an area populated by ethnic minorities. They’re all farmers, and completely unfamiliar with modern art; many have never been to Hanoi. I have made sculptures on that land, and have grown close to people around there. For one project, I selected people from that community as dancers. We did this after the harvest, so they had time to spare.

Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi As I’m painting I can sing the rhythm of the brushstrokes. ‘Chuk chuk chuk chuk ju…..waah….’ That is music to me. When I’m singing and dancing and making music, I feel sculptural. I feel that music has a space and shape, too.

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Many of them leave school early and are devoted to their land. The way they move naturally has great strength. I consider them artists in their own right. Sometimes professional dancers move like machines – with great technique, but with nothing to attract an audience, to trigger any feelings. I was certain that those participating in this project would make professional artists ponder how these performers could create such beauty without training. When I first went to the village near my land to select performers for my show, I asked people to do something very simple. Go up and down and turn around and move normally. I had them imitate me. There was one young woman who would always do the opposite of what I said or demonstrated. When I said or showed sitting, she stood. I had to say, ‘Sorry’, and not take her, because it was difficult for her to follow any suggestions. Her parents asked me to include her. They said she would love to perform in the city, just once in her life. So, in the end, I said, ‘Okay’. When we practised here at my home, she continued as she had in the village. Then I had a thought. I made a 5-metre-long bamboo tube so she could move inside the tube. Now I instructed her, ‘Don’t just dance: move in any way you want – up and down. There is no wrong and right.’ With lighting, it looked great. The tube wasn’t high enough for her to stand up completely, so she had to keep moving, or to rest in an interesting position. It was special, beautiful. She had seemed confused without the confinement of the tube. Within the tube, she did wonderfully.

An angel and a devil Bo, Hong Kong I don’t know what my style is, but I like freestyle hip-hop. Because of my job I need to choreograph, so I need to focus on not just moves. I need to focus on patterns, on the idea, how to create a story in dance. During the few years I’ve spent learning how to be a choreographer, I’ve had two partners: one is Yieu and the other was Alex. Alex is now in LA, and Yieu is working with me. They are both older than me, so they just told me what to do. They would say, ‘The story has an angel and a devil.’ They would give me a picture that was in their mind and we’d think about whether we needed props, or just dancing to keep it simple. They taught me how to match the moves to the music. I learnt everything from them.

Talking Dance.indd 88 4/21/2016 6:36:13 PM Creating 89 Lava is curved Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Takhmao Actually I learned a very helpful thing from a choreography class with Angela Cheng at UCLA in maybe 1994 or 1995. She brought some pictures to class of tree bark, volcanic lava, different seasons and things like that. I got a picture of lava and one of tree bark. She told us to try to make movements from what we got from those pictures. Lava is curved and that was a good dance-making tool, very inspiring. I use that idea now but I apply it to music. I listened to a particular pin peat melody called Phumea. Certain sections of it made me think about trees and their loops and curves, so I created an image of a melody I heard. Then I worked on figuring out how to create foot movements according to this beat and flow. Another new approach to choreography that I have come up with – and I’m not sure if it will work – is to take a traditional Khmer kbach and choreograph according to the shape of the line of that pattern. For example, if you pick only one part of the drawing, it goes down and curves and then it goes out again and I want to use it as the inspiration for movement flow. From particular traditional designs, you can get a sense of twisting, of leading you one way and then turning back in another direction. Those are the elements that attracted me to these particular kbach. It was when I started working on The Lives of Giants that I thought of this technique. With the concept of ‘twisting’ as a base, I tested out a movement that starts with the dancers facing away from the audience. The celestial beings have become trees in a garden. They begin by facing the back of the stage and hint at moving in one direction, but it is, instead, a tease. They end up twisting in the other direction, with their hands in positions that have never been used before in Cambodian classical dance.

If you jump out of yourself Le Vu Long, Hanoi I have to find ways to get to know the dancers I work with, without talking to them. I know sign language now, but it is through dancing that we communicate best. I learn from them. I even find that words are limited as a means of expressing feelings. Sometimes I have one person dancing with closed eyes. I give them some rules about the movement ahead of time; for example, if you jump out of yourself and look back, how would you see your body dancing?

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Or I ask two people to stand at a distance from one another while one gives the energy through his or her eyes to the other one. Once that energy has been received, the second dancer builds that into movement of different qualities and sizes, depending on the quality of the energy received from the first. It is quite clear. It’s not difficult to understand. Every day we have many experimental exercises like that. If I try something that doesn’t work, I try something else.

Overhearing family arguments Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh In 2009 I created Teav for the French Cultural Centre in Phnom Penh after studying at the American Dance Festival in the state of North Carolina in the US for a couple of months. Teav explores the inner world of Cambodian women’s emotions when confronted with violence and limited choice. Inspired by a well-known story that is kind of like Cambodia’s Romeo and Juliet, I took out all references to the olden days, making it speak to our contemporary reality. I included a lot of throwing my weight back and forth in the piece. At UCLA, a dance teacher told me to push myself forward and if I fell down, I fell down. I asked myself, ‘Why can’t I push my weight forward?’ I had been keeping it in the middle for 15 years of classical dance training and performance. I tried to throw myself without thinking about anything. It hurt the first time and it was really scary, but by the time I did Teav, it felt so good. A lot of things inspired me to do this piece. In my neighbourhood I often overhear family arguments, and some of them are violent. Relatives of mine have problems because of arranged marriages, too. Violence and marriage choice are issues Cambodian women have faced for a long time. I wanted to do something to address this. I was inspired by Sophiline because she used a lot of traditional stories in her new work. I looked at the tale of Tum Teav and thought this would be the most perfect storyline through which to describe these problems. In the story, Teav is pressured by her mother on the one hand and by her sweetheart, Tum, on the other. I have never seen a dance about violence against women, although there must be something somewhere. I saw Bong Sophiline’s work about obstacles to women’s freedom in Cambodia. I also saw a short play and some movies that deal with this issue. As young people in Cambodia, and especially as women, we have not had the freedom to

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express our feelings openly. The feelings are confusing, unresolved and complex; they are never easily translated into movement. But doing that is a challenge I welcome. Two senior dance teachers were sent by the Ministry of Culture to observe my work in rehearsal. The Ministry doesn’t usually pay any attention to contemporary dance, but they checked on this piece because the title is the name of a character from a traditional Cambodian story! They were afraid I would do something inappropriate with a story that is Khmer. They said they liked how I combined classical and new movements, and appreciated my choice of story, although they said I need to work on the technique.

Please listen to me, I’m the choreographer Belle, Phnom Penh Being in charge of a production is really difficult. Sometimes I have had to use psychology. I would go home and stay up all night and think about how I was going to talk to the dancers about issues that came up during rehearsal that day. Sometimes I cried because they didn’t pay attention. Some arrived an hour or more late, and then complained about working too hard and said they couldn’t remember the steps from the day before. When we are in school, we do not necessarily learn what the responsibilities of good leaders are. Then when we are in a position of leadership, the others do not acknowledge what we are responsible for, and what they need to be responsible for. I am not so very young, but I felt too young and inexperienced to be in charge of all this. Some of the musicians were critical of my choices. It’s totally wrong in my culture to say to a teacher, for example, ‘Please listen to me. I’m the choreographer.’ But I had to. I told myself to hang in there, that I would get through this. I am not a musician, but if I hear something that is not beautiful to me, I will not take it. If I don’t like it, the audience probably will not like it either. For one of the scenes, I wanted something upbeat and happy. I played a CD for the head musician – the one who is a teacher at the School of Fine Arts – of Indian music mixed with Western music. It featured an electric bass, keyboard, and so on. I really liked it and wanted the musicians to aim for something like that. We don’t have fancy mixing machines, just the instruments and microphones. They played around with different possibilities until they came up with something they said was new, but had a ‘Khmer’ style to it.

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I had to record each day because the next day the musicians would forget what they had done through improvisation the day before. I do recognise the music teacher’s knowledge and skills, but he had never even thought about doing anything new or different. So at rehearsals he would start out by playing the older, standard melodies and, when I asked for something else, he would ask, ‘Why?’ He said, ‘These melodies have been around for a long time; there’s nothing wrong with them.’ It was, though, really good in the end. It’s hard because at school we don’t learn how to be innovative with our traditions. But if we try, and experiment, we can come up with something great.

With a number pinned on her top Julaluck Eakwattanapun, Chonburi As I was on the flight home from a workshop in Singapore earlier this month, I started thinking about a specific project I would like to work on. In my mind I saw

Julaluck Eakwattanapun and Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok As I was on the flight home from a workshop in Singapore earlier this month, I started thinking about a specific project I would like to work on. – Julaluck Eakwattanapun

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an image of a Thai woman dressed in traditional clothing, sitting behind a glass wall with a number pinned to her top, as prostitutes do to sell themselves. I believe that Thai traditional dance is being sold, or prostituted, to others as well. And that women in Thai society, in general, are being sold. This image came to me strongly, but I do not know what to do with it, yet.

A door Nguyen Anh Duc, Hanoi The very last piece we worked on involved three dancers and three musicians. We wanted to represent a small world that started opening onto a bigger one, and the feelings one has as one steps from a contained world into a wide-open one. In that situation, we might be excited about new possibilities in terms of relationships and connections, but we might be scared of the unknown, too. On stage we use a door as the sole object. We dance behind the door at first, the three of us getting in touch with each other. Then each person steps outside the door and does his own movement. Each person expresses something he might feel as he considers the transition to something new. I thought about my own experience of being from Vietnam and having been exposed to the broader world when I was grown up. We did not rehearse with exact movements, as most of our performances are improvised, although we did agree on the structure of the piece. In the performance, all the movements behind the door are set, but all the movements once we step through that door into the new are improvised. I had to be aware of what the other dancers would do – which represents a kind of danger of the unknown in the bigger, unpredictable world. We performed this right before Vietnam became a member of the World Trade Organisation. The dance is called Vung Euy: ‘Open Sesame’, from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.

4:25 in the morning Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Takhmao When I was working on a re-staging of Moni Mekhala last year, I drew choreographic gestures and movements in my notebook. I tried to figure out the different positions of the fans that I would use to represent clouds. I drew them and when I did some improvisation I recorded on paper what I had discovered anew through movement.

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Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Takhmao Then I looked at the drawings and decided how to sequence that segment of the dance.

Then I looked at the drawings and decided how to sequence that segment of the dance: position number one, number two, number three – and kept rearranging it until I was satisfied. For floor patterns, I drew them as well, and later on decided which pattern went first, and which next and which next and then tried them out with the dancers. I usually draw figures of dancers in specific poses and movements. I find I like one if you can feel the energy from the drawing. And the posture, if the body is a little bit odd but still has the centre, I like that a lot. It is also nice if you can see the hand is quite lovely, and the toes are up and the back arched. I also play around with lines. It could be a guide for floor patterns or the flow of the movement. Sometimes I draw something first and then see how it works on the body. Other times when I am warming up or stretching and discover a pose I will stop and come over and draw it. I also draw ideas for set designs. For a future production of Pamina Devi, a dance drama about ideology adapted from The Magic Flute, which I premiered in 2006, I might propose a new set design based on some drawings I have been making. My statement in this dance is that we need ideology in life but the

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ideology has to be workable and has to support and improve the living conditions of the people. One should not sacrifice the people for ideology. I was thinking of using a cloth hanging from the ceiling to represent the ruined world of the Queen of the Night. Then in the end I would have the fabric fall on the floor and Pamina Devi and Pamino would walk on it. If I remember, I write the time and where I was when I was working on my choreographic drawings. So, in my notebook, for example, you can see that I’ve been working on The Lives of Giants since April 2009. I got started at 4:25 in the morning! I listened to a recording that I made of the musicians in my ensemble playing a song I had found in my research. I memorised the melody and drew out choreographic ideas. I just tried to create an image of the sound. I tried to translate that image into movement.

The tree of life Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi My next big undertaking is an event on 15 October of this year. The installation of 36 sculptures – formed with huge young bamboo up to 35 m high and up to 6 m wide – will stretch for 1 km along the road, and include 1,000 dancers with the opportunity to create movement based on their inner characters. Each sculpture will be a stage for performance. The name of the show is The Tree of Life. A tree may be a few months, or 30 or 100 years old. I would like each person who moves to represent a tree. They can take the essence of their experience and bring their tree to life. The performance will only be 30 minutes long. Within those 30 minutes I hope the music can help them think about their life and inspire them to rise up from the ground until they are strong enough and standing in front of the wind, with solid roots. It will be very slow at the beginning. If you watch a real tree, you can’t see the growth at any given moment, but inside it is growing. With the dancer, inside you are growing; you can create something dynamic from within to project to the outside. I cannot dictate what is going on within each person’s body. I want people to reflect on their own lives and individual natures, and to take something from the music, too. In the end, it is my hope that they will be able to express emotions that reflect the stages of their lives, whatever they feel most strongly – happiness, unhappiness, strength, etc. As a way to prepare and rehearse, I give them relaxation exercises. None of the 1,000 performers is a professional dancer. They are local people – volunteers, university

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students. I hope I am helping them to believe in themselves as artists. We listen to music together. I give them one or two hours, through a kind of guided meditation, to make them feel that their bodies are one with nature. Perhaps one body is like a stream of water or another is like wind. I want them to be released from thinking. After that, music helps them to imagine the movement. I instruct first-time dancers that the body belongs to nature: ‘Close your eyes and move, beginning from the top of the finger and then through the arms to the body and on down the legs.’ I always begin that way, from the tiniest part of the body. Then the dancers can make the movement as big or as small as they like, knowing the sensation of each body part. Of course, many dancers get so deep into the feeling during this exercise (or even during performance) that I have to work at taking them out of that state. Otherwise, they may think of something that will make them crazy. Some tell me they feel like they are dreaming. Ultimately, at the end of this spectacle, if each of the performers has felt for the first time in his or her life, ‘I am an artist’, I will feel I’ve met my goal.

How do they know? Le Vu Long, Hanoi To develop the music for each piece, I work with the tempo inside each dancer. Because the dancers cannot hear, for Stories of Us, I kept the musicians from seeing the dancers for three months. I worked with both sides. One day I got them together. Ultimately, the quality of the music and of the dancing were so different, it was interesting. It went really well together. We had two musicians who played a number of instruments – some traditional, plus electric guitar and drum, and some they built themselves. Sometimes, after a show or rehearsal, the dancers would tell the musicians that today they were good. We wondered, ‘How do they know?’ I don’t know how, but they did. We didn’t use a bass or any other resonating instrument. But they shared with the musicians that today they were okay. It’s funny.

Sort of like coming full circle Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok I’ve just completed a choreographers’ exchange that included Thai, Indonesian and Khmer choreographers.

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When I was first invited to participate, I said no, because I am very busy. Then the workshop dates shifted a bit, so I said yes. I did not say yes just because the timing was okay. It was also because I hadn’t worked with Asian dancers in this kind of forum for a long time. Mainly I had been working with Western dancers. For ten years I had done most of my work in Europe or North America. Now we have a new theatre in Bangkok and I hope to focus on Thailand this coming year. I saw this exchange as a good opportunity to reconnect with my old friend Eko Supriyanto, whom I first met in 2000. It was sort of like coming full circle after ten years. All three of us involved with the exchange (me, Eko and Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, from Cambodia) had started from a base of classical training. The way each of us approaches new work is completely different. Eko uses Western music, but his choreography is close to Javanese classical dance. I use traditional Thai music, but my movement veers away from classical a lot. Sophiline steps just a bit out of the classical line. I am really interested in these differences, and in how the next generation of dancers – those working with these three choreographers – interprets these different approaches. I brought two of my students to the exchange, Eko brought two dancers and Sophiline had her students there. I realised through my preparations for that choreographers’ exchange that I have moved, in my choreography, from (1) focusing on myself, my personal questions, my body, to (2) questions about Thai traditions and values, to issues concerning society and politics, and to (3) a dialogue with the dance community throughout the world.

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The only way I could stay sane Sim Muntha, Phnom Penh In April 1975, when the Khmer Rouge entered Phnom Penh, I was at home with my husband and mother. We all left the city together, with my children, too. We walked the whole time. They sent us to Kompong Speu Province. My mother-in-law had relatives there. After four months there we were sent to Battambang Province. We all went together – I was still with my husband and children. We lived together in Battambang but our children were sent to youth work camps. I had some relatives who were on the revolutionary side. They warned us not to let anyone know that I was associated with royalty or dance, and not to change my story. I told anyone who asked that I sold things at the market. During the Khmer Rouge years I planted and harvested rice. My children died because they were starving, got sick and had no medicine. They died in my arms, six of them, one by one, until I was almost crazy. My husband got skinny, then bloated, and he died, too. It was the same thing – malnourishment and lack of medicine. There were no funerals allowed. Sometimes these days I think about how I used to have so many children, even though I try not to think about it. When I first came out of the Khmer Rouge times, I would think about the loss constantly. I have a daughter. She was my fifth child, the only one who survived, and I have two grandchildren. In 1979, just after the Khmer Rouge were ousted, we went from

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Sim Muntha, Phnom Penh When we first saw each other [after the Khmer Rouge years] we hugged and cried.

Battambang Province to Siem Reap. Without my husband and children I didn’t want to return to my old life in Phnom Penh. A relative in Phnom Penh heard that I was alive. He asked me to come back to the city. Later that year I agreed to go back. I had nothing left, not even a house. The Ministry of Culture and Information gave us a small apartment in a building with lots of other artists. It was there that I met friends from before. Maybe more than half of them had died. When we first saw each other we hugged and cried. We loved each other; each

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one of us had been through so much. We were happy to help with whatever any of us was lacking – rice, other food. We took some of the rice the government gave us as rations and traded it for other sorts of food. We went to pick fruit around the city, too. At first I taught dance and performed. I danced the role of Prince Rama. Back in costume for a filming by the Vietnamese authorities, I was overwhelmed with emotion and I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened, especially to my family. I saw others who still had some children or their spouses. Nothing could bring back what I had lost. I didn’t want anything more, just to dance. That was the only way I could stay sane.

The steps trace characters Quang Thuyet, Dong Cao The ritual is done in 11 sections. The first is the purification of the altar before the Buddha is invited to join, done to live music, including chanting in Han Viet, with the sponsoring family sitting in chairs. I walk in proscribed patterns in front of the altar with my hands and fingers flowing up and down, imitating the Buddha’s specific hand gestures in his various teaching postures. While I am doing this, I recite passages from a sacred text silently to myself. After the cleansing of the altar, a line of monks in special costumes forms a processional for the entrance of a high-ranking monk who will welcome the Buddha. Through their chant, they explain to the Buddha why they have called him there that day. The senior monk sits high above the altar, representing the Buddha who is bringing his teachings to the people. Once this is done, the ceremony can continue. The area of the temple where the ceremony takes place is set up with an altar at one end and a table of offerings at the other. In a series of six segments, the monks move the offerings to the altar, dancing in specified patterns. For example, at one point two monks offer lit incense to the Buddha while tracing the Chinese characters representing the sun and the land through dance. We are an agricultural people, and through this we ask to nourish the fields. In this particular danced ritual, everything has to be exact. Since the steps trace characters, they have to be precise. At another point in the ceremony, using specific movement patterns, two monks represent walking through different doors to reach the Buddha. The monks’ dance can differ from one another, but they must end up at the same place at the same time. We have to move in different directions, yet

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Quang Thuyet, Dong Cao While I am doing this, I recite passages from a sacred text silently to myself.

never touch one another. The first time monks are assigned to dance together, they have an instructor – a very experienced monk – to guide them. I have seen others go into a trance a number of times at different stages in this ceremony. There was a time when I was writing out an account of the family conflict that had brought people to the ceremony. It has to be carefully written because it is made as an offering to the spirits and it will be chanted during the ritual. Well, while preparing the documents I left out some of the details of the family conflict. A spirit possessed the person sponsoring the ritual, and through him spoke about how unhappy he (the spirit) was because the conflict has not been described fully. The document we prepare needs to be about 20 pages long. It takes at least a week to get ready for the ceremony because of all the different things we need to gather, arrange, and so on. We need to find an auspicious day, write out the documents, organise ritual accoutrements, and so on. There are months when we perform this kind of ceremony five or six times; there are other months when nobody requests this at all. This month, for example, we are doing three or four.

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One needs to understand Buddhism and its teachings in order to really understand the ceremony. Every aspect of it has spiritual symbolism, including the order of the rites. If this were not the case, it might be just a normal dance, not a ritual.

We danced and he preached Ria Lianto, Manila We had one production after another, and then the pastor was invited to the school to preach. He asked us to prepare three dances and then we danced and he preached. Sometimes we did it in malls, sometimes in gymnasiums; sometimes we did it in schools, wherever the pastor was invited. We practised and we chose hip-hop songs that had a message, so that it is almost like preaching already.

Guantanamera Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi In 1979 the students at the police academy held a singing competition. I will never forget this story. When it was my turn, I belted out a Cuban song, Guantanamera – ‘Tara di ta di ta da da’. Everyone else sang a Vietnamese song. It was okay that I had chosen this song because Cuba, a fellow communist country, was a friend of Vietnam. My performance was really emotionally charged. I kind of lost myself in the emotion and heat of the moment. For a split second, I forgot that the government forbade anyone to dance. As soon as I started singing I began to dance: ‘bom bom bom bom bom.’ I jumped; I moved with incredible energy. When I’d finished, the thousands of students sat there immobile, in silence. Nobody said a thing. I stopped, posed like a sculpture, and was certain that the next day I would be kicked out of the academy. It must have been at least half a minute when nobody dared breathe. Then, everyone in the crowd leapt to their feet, shouting, whistling and clapping. They’d loved it! I’d disobeyed the rules of the government. Although the students were worried about that, what I did spoke to something in their hearts and minds. I glanced over at the director of the academy, who looked like he was in shock. I was ecstatic. At least my fellow students were sharing a love of art with me – they didn’t reject beauty. From that moment on I thought that even among police officers the state cannot control people’s feelings as they relate to art.

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The next day one of the teachers told me that I’d been lucky that those thousands of students had showed support for me. He said that if they hadn’t, I would surely have been kicked out. What I did was, ultimately, very simple. Yet it made a strong statement.

Invite the hermit Noppon Jamreantong, Chonburi If we were doing khon, we had to invite the hermit, kru, prior to the performance. Backstage, we offered flowers, incense, candles and some money. We learned the proper ritual for this from the dance teachers who prepared all the offerings.

We grabbed each other Ros Kong, Phnom Penh My four sons survived, but one daughter did not. I lost four grandchildren and my husband, too. One of my daughters had followed her mother-in-law during the Pol Pot years and ended up in Battambang Province. I didn’t know it at the time, but my surviving daughter was searching for me. She knew I’d been living in Pursat Province, so she went to the provincial capital with a friend to look for me. Her friend heard that there was some kind of performance at the old movie theatre, and wanted to go and watch. My daughter said, ‘No, let’s keep looking for my mother. I don’t want to waste time.’ The friend left her and went to see the show. It was so good that she ran out to call my daughter in. ‘Just stay for a while. Just to have some fun. Then I’ll help you look for your mother.’ So my daughter reluctantly agreed. Inside the theatre my daughter focused on one performer’s hands. She thought, ‘Those hands are supple and graceful like a royal dancer’s hands.’ The troupe was performing a yiké. The story was about a mother and child searching for one another. Just at the moment in the play when the mother finds her daughter and they rush towards each other, my daughter noticed that the performer with the beautiful hands – whose back had been to the audience – was me! I was playing the mother in the drama. My daughter cried out – ‘Mum! It’s me!’ and ran onto the stage.

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We grabbed each other and hugged so tightly. The girl playing my daughter on stage didn’t know what had happened. She was supposed to be the one I was holding! The whole audience, and soon all the performers, understood that this was a real-life reunion. My daughter and I sobbed. Everyone in the theatre cried, too. They said that the story had come to life, right on the stage. That is how my daughter and I found each other. The reason I wanted all my children to become artists after the Khmer Rouge regime was that I was afraid we would be separated again like we were under Pol Pot. If there was, forgive me, another national catastrophe, we would all be together, maybe at a performance or a rehearsal. Nobody would have to leave the others behind. If my husband were alive he wouldn’t want the kids all to be artists. I know he was hoping some of them would do something else, gain other kinds of knowledge. But what I can do? My grandson wants to be a dancer, too.

My grand aunt Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur I knew that my parents loved dancing and I was always applauded whenever I did short gigs in front of my family. Due to their encouragement, I felt that dancing was okay. There was no TV so the radio was always on. I knew that at exactly five o’clock – from five to six-thirty – there was a nice section on the radio. That is when people just gossiped, and they said, ‘Anis, come up and do this.’ I didn’t know what to do. I worked with whatever songs came up. I just started moving and then they clapped afterwards. That clapping brought a lot of energy. They wanted me to do something virtuosic, no languidness, very exciting – they wanted me to have a lot of foot movements. Perhaps it’s cute to see a boy doing that stuff. My grand aunt said to me, ‘You’re so good, you know! You’re so good, you can grow up to be a film star, or something like that in the entertainment industry. You could, you know!’ I was the first-born and all my cousins would look at me in amazement because they had no idea how I got like this. None of my cousins could do it. I was doing a solo performance, by myself. I was around six or seven years old.

Talking Dance.indd 104 4/21/2016 6:36:14 PM Performing 105 I kept crying Zhao Na, Hong Kong When I was 15 years old I had to finish a solo Chinese classical dance, around five minutes long. It was a difficult work, but a solo work meant I had a chance to perform by myself so it was a good opportunity for me. The teacher always looked at me very seriously. One day in rehearsal I couldn’t grasp the teacher’s instructions very well because I was tired and stressed. I stood there and the teacher said, ‘One more time.’ I still couldn’t do it very well, and the teacher said, ‘If you can’t finish this to a good standard, I think you’d better not perform!’ I was standing in the studio and I was crying. The teacher was very angry and said, ‘If you won’t concentrate on why you’re not doing it properly, if you just cry, you won’t be able to solve the problem!’ The teacher went out and left me alone in the studio. I just kept crying, crying, crying. That was a very bad day for me! After that, I improved, after all that crying. I went back and thought about it, and I called my teacher. We had a long conversation about how I should deal with my problems with dance. After that I improved a lot, so in the end I did a good performance. All the audience comments and feedback were very good. They hadn’t imagined that I could complete such a difficult solo. Without this difficult process, maybe I would not have done a fantastic performance at the end.

Blisters Rhianna Chan, Kuching The teacher didn’t actually tell me I was going to be Snow White. She just said, ‘You are learning a new dance.’ Then, when we were doing it, she said, ‘Yes, this is the dance for Snow White.’ Two weeks before the performance I got blisters, and one got ridiculously infected, on the back of my heel. It was only painful for pointe work. The pointe shoes were kind of tight. I did not feel it when I was on pointe, but when I came down after jumping it would rub. That is when it hurt. In rehearsal I did it without shoes, hoping it would dry off, but it didn’t. When you get onstage you do not really feel it. It is when you are offstage, after you have finished. That is when you feel it.

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A quick change Bilqis Hijjas, Kuala Lumpur There was a quick change backstage and for some reason we always wore unitards. One of the dancers had to go to the toilet and she was so sweaty that she couldn’t get her unitard back on. She ran through the hallway stark naked, holding her unitard in front of her, bawling with tears, desperately looking for someone to help her get back onstage and to get back into this unitard.

The stage was a kind of battlefield Yim Sinath, Phnom Penh During the 1980s I travelled into the countryside to perform with traditional theatre troupes. They performed a kind of folk opera, and needed dancers for part of the show. While I was with one of these troupes travelling around the Tonle Sap Lake in Kompong Thom Province, the Khmer Rouge attacked and we all jumped into the trenches. We were in the middle of performing. We were so scared, so scared of the

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Khmer Rouge. Lok Ta Chheng Phon, the Minister of Culture and Information, was our leader then. At that time Lok Ta told us that the peasants hadn’t had any chance to experience the arts. We did not yet have peace, but we had to go to bring the arts to them. My father was afraid for me, but even he had to travel to perform. Some of the artists, including my father, had to hold guns and sit on the top of the bus or truck, to be on alert. Often we would arrive in a village without having told anyone ahead of time. We performed outside, opening up the back of our truck to make a stage. The audience sat in the fields. We brought our own generator and lights. If we did stay in one place, we slept in the villagers’ houses – bringing our own mosquito nets – but for the most part we slept in the trucks because we performed until the early morning and then went on our way again. We were so scared of the Khmer Rouge, we couldn’t even stop along the way to go to the bathroom. For the girls, we had a plastic bag that we put under our skirts so we could go on the truck. The boys had to go over the edge of the truck. Chheng Phon used to tell us that we were soldiers just like the soldiers in military uniforms – that the stage was a kind of battlefield. The boys in our arts troupe had to be given training in the use of real guns before going on one of these performance tours of the countryside. Soldiers taught them how to load, aim and fire guns. They didn’t practise with bullets, but they had real bullets when we went on tour. The boys were about 16 or 17 years old.

I felt the spirit Ismadian Ismail, Kuala Lumpur The first time I was going to perform the role I was really shaking, I was so nervous, but my teacher talked to me and said, ‘You don’t have to be nervous. I am with you all the time.’ Then she gave me a bottle of water, and prayed, and then asked me to drink it. When I drank it I became calm. When I first started to hear the sound that was the cue for me to go onstage I had goosebumps. Then I felt the spirit. I felt hot. In Malay we call it angin – this spirit. After I left the stage, my teacher told me, ‘I saw you on stage, but it was not you. You performed like you were somebody else.’ When I was performing, I felt that I was not me, that I was someone else. Maybe the spirits?

Talking Dance.indd 107 4/21/2016 6:36:14 PM 108 Talking Dance We carried each other Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi We had many opportunities to perform: from the Capitol building for Ho Chi Minh when he hosted international guests, to villages to introduce this kind of dance to ordinary people. At the beginning, when villagers saw the ballet costumes or how we carried each other in our arms, they started laughing. But they were genuinely curious and respectful of something new.

Wigs can be expensive Jo Jo, Phnom Penh We had a salary at Classic – $60 a month. I was always exhausted. They made us work so much. They made us sign a contract prohibiting us from performing anywhere else. If we did, we would be fired. I really loved performing and dressing up, and putting on make-up and doing my hair. But I was working very hard in poor conditions. Pontoon is much better. I dance one night a week at Pontoon and make as much there in a month as I did at Classic when I danced every night. It still isn’t sufficient to survive here. I also work at a beauty salon and get about $200 per month. Sometimes I’m hired to do the make-up for Cambodian film stars or even to act in the movies, which I also love. There are so many songs that I like, but I can’t remember the titles! Tick Tock, by Kesha, and lots of other new releases and popular songs. At Classic I changed my type of performance all the time. I did slow, sentimental pieces and funny ones, and even danced as a ‘giant’ like in the traditional dance. At Pontoon, they don’t let us do that. They like faster pop tunes. Maybe they’re afraid the patrons will fall asleep if we dance to a slow song! Nowadays I’m not nervous at all before I perform. I have danced everywhere – from formal stages to places where there is no dance floor at all. At the club, we have to do everything ourselves. In addition to developing the choreography and choosing the music, we have to design and put together our costumes and do our own make-up. There is no big overall organisation that helps with this. We get clothes for costumes from the market, or have something made, or make it ourselves. It depends how expensive it is. Wigs can be expensive, too. If we buy a good wig, we can use it in different styles.

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I perform non-stop at Pontoon, often with no time to change between numbers. Sometimes patrons come and see what seems like the same thing. I want to impress the guests with different costumes and hairstyles, but there isn’t always time.

Before the cremation Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok During my second year, my father went to see Kru Yat Chanthong, a master of the ‘giant’ role, and asked him to accept me as a student. I studied privately with him once a week. Even though he was a specialist in the ‘giant’ character, he was a great teacher of the male and female roles as well. He taught me the female role of Mani Mekhala, who battled the giant, Ramasoon. He knew the role of Mekhala well because he had danced opposite that character for decades. It was customary to have students perform in honour of a dance master at that teacher’s funeral, before the cremation, on the funeral grounds at Prasrimahathat Temple. I danced as part of the seven-day ceremony for Kru Yat Chanthong when he passed away. We shared the responsibility among the students. Certain students would perform on certain days. I performed as Benyakai in the Floating Maiden episode of the Ramakien. I also danced at my mother’s funeral. I was a dancer, so it was fine for me to offer this in her honour. I performed Phra Lak Truaj Pon, which I had studied privately from Kru Yat.

Making my body very strong Bo, Hong Kong After graduation my first job was as a part-time reporter. It was cool. I am very talkative, so I said, ‘What can I help with?’ My friend said, ‘Everything – something funny, entertaining, stars, singers. … You could also take pictures.’ I said ‘Good! This is a very good job.’ After a month my dance teacher suddenly called and said, ‘In ten days, we’re starting a new concert and you need to work with us for 60 days.’ I thought, ‘Oh that’s good! But what about payment?’ He said, ‘I’ll tell you later. But give me your schedule first.’

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I said ‘Awww … I’ll need to quit my work, to leave my job.’ He said, ‘Okay, you think about it. But I don’t want to force you to quit.’ So I said okay and the next day I was like, ‘Quit, quit, quit!’ Then I started dancing in concerts and I’ve continued ever since. The concert made me feel like I had found myself. I like being on stage, I like dance, and I like making my body very strong. So since then I’ve just been dancing, dancing, dancing.

A Burmese general Thiri, Mae Sot When I was in Standard Two I saw the older students perform. I loved it; it made me want to dance. When I was ten years old, in Standard Five, I started to dance. My history and geography teacher was also really good at dancing. She taught us Mon dances. At that time a Burmese general was set to visit our school. I practised for a month after school before performing this dance for him along with 40 other girls.

Steroid injections Stellar, Hong Kong When I did Balanchine’s Who Cares, I had an ankle injury. Actually I couldn’t feel anything in my ankle, whether it was on pointe or off pointe. I was one of the soloists. It was sharp footwork. I had to have steroid injections to get me through the performance. I didn’t enjoy that, but I knew it was my job, my duty as a professional dancer. The important thing is that you do your duty onstage.

I don’t want my teacher to be angry Khamtong Sumbath, Vientiane Beginning in my fourth year of study I started to have a lot of opportunities to perform. It is the duty of students and teachers at the school to perform for national and international guests. We performed in a theatre or hotel or hall, wherever the gathering or meeting with important guests was. Before a performance I have to concentrate on the dance I am about to do, to think of the gestures and movements on my own. I don’t want my teacher to be angry or to yell at me. So I have to focus my attention and review all that I’ll need

Talking Dance.indd 110 4/21/2016 6:36:14 PM Thiri, Mae Sot All Mon people are Buddhist. We also believe in the spirits. Once a year in our town we danced to the spirits. We celebrated the moon through dance. I saw my mother dance. She had her photo in the newspaper.

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to do on stage. I don’t want to be afraid. I need to make myself confident that I’ll be able to dance well. I have to get to the performance place two hours ahead of time in order to get dressed, to do my make-up and my hair. If I am performing individual dances – dances and not the Phra Lak Phra Lam dance drama – then I will dress myself. I don’t have anyone to help me. We all dress ourselves and even do our own hair. That is true for all the roles except that of Princess Sita in the Phra Lak Phra Lam. That costume is different and complicated and teachers help the dancer performing that role.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur Just a couple of months back, we had a concert at the university. I brought three groups from Indonesia who had taken part in the festival in Johor the week before and we performed on stage. At the end I invited all the VIPs – the Deputy Vice- Chancellor, the Dean and all of them – up on stage with the Director General of Culture. She was a guest of honour. I said, ‘In the Johor tradition, the zapin ends with a wainab. The zapin is the cooperative joyous occasion of sharing something, and all you need to do is to learn a very basic motif. Improvise if you wish or stick to the basic motif. Okay, are you ready?’ My three students came up behind me with the rest of the ensemble on stage; there were 300 people on stage already. The music played, the musicians started and we moved. When we moved there were ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ because the professor was dancing. It is very rare that students see a professor dancing. You see a lecturer dancing, yes. I turned around and said, ‘Are you comfortable now? Right, whatever happens, let’s join in. It’s a game. We’re not dancing. Just don’t stop. Learn which leg carries the other leg.’ So we started. Of course, for the first few minutes there were a lot of problems with just keeping count for them – the Deputy Vice-Chancellor and the Director General Administrator of Culture, all of them. The Director General Administrator of Culture is my very dear friend from the dance company, and she said, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ I said, ‘Because you have lost touch with dancing! You are a great dancer, you see. Relax, you’re not the Director General here. You are Anis’s friend.’

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Three or four minutes later it was all smooth. Everybody was moving so beautifully. There was applause and they clapped. To me that is how it should be, because you dance for joy. You dance because you want to dance. It is a shift from the days when you dance because you want to show off.

The CD is at home! Puspavathy Naniapen, Kuching At one time we were all on the stage. The audience was sitting there and we were waiting for the technician to put on the song. I was standing behind my friend. We waited, waited, waited … no song. We waited, waited, waited … no song. And then my friend told me, ‘Aka! Get off the stage! The CD is at home!’ She’d forgotten to bring it.

Ties her hands with vines Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok My favourite role to perform is Manora. I was the first Manora ever, and that has made me famous. Everybody wanted to see me dance that role. My teacher, Mom Achan Thanpuying Paew Snitvongeni, a National Artist, choreographed the role, and Kru Chamrieng Buddhpradap, another National Artist, trained me every day for three months in preparation for a performance at the Silapakorn Theatre. I was 14 years old. Mom Achan initially said that I should be the dancer who flies high above, held up by ropes. ‘She doesn’t look beautiful,’ she told the others. But the director, Acharn Amphorn, brought me to train as the main Manora instead. There’s a part of the story in which a hunter catches Manora and ties her hands with vines. At that moment in the dance, I was supposed to appear to cry. But on stage that night, I really cried because I missed my mother. I looked into the audience, wishing she were there to see me perform this beautiful dance. She was not. She had recently passed away. I sobbed. She would have loved to see me in that role. To calm me down, Kru Tuan gave me sweets backstage.

Talking Dance.indd 113 4/21/2016 6:36:14 PM 114 Talking Dance Private parties Jo Jo, Phnom Penh There used to be a lot of foreigners that came to Pontoon. Nowadays there are more Khmer patrons. A lot of them ask to meet me afterwards. They want to take pictures with me. Some foreigners take my phone number and invite me to perform at their private parties. Last month two of us went to Kompong Cham, Poipet, Siem Reap, Battambang, Kompong Som and Kompong Chhnang provinces over the course of 11 days, with M-Style. M Style’s goal was to help everyone to be open about people who are attracted to people of the same sex. They want people to be comfortable – they organised games and performances to set the mood. They had fashion shows, too. It was great. There were boys, girls, and boys dressed as girls! During the day I dress like a guy. At night, it depends. Sometimes I dress as a woman just because I want to feel good. Most days, I do my eyes. When I make up my eyes, people compliment me. If I go to the small, local markets I don’t worry about how I look. But if I go with my friends to the Western-style supermarkets I get dressed up a bit.

A bus station Boy, Kuala Lumpur My earliest performances were on the street, when I was 15, at a bus station. It was on my island, Labuan Island, a very small island. At that time there were two break-dance crews. One was a Malay team; the other was a Filipino team. We had our own stations, me with my friends at the car wash, and the Filipino team at the bus station. We met every day at 5p.m. to battle. It was improvised. We learnt it on the internet and made up our own style. I was very shy at that time, and I was always looking down.

Cigarettes/night clubs Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur I graduated from university and I didn’t have a job and Malaysia was in recession. This cigarette company was looking for dancers to promote their cigarettes and so I auditioned for that and got it.

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It was a great job: we had a choreographer, costume designer and a lighting designer. There were ten of us in the company. We went to class, we went to rehearsals, and eight times a month we had to do the show for the cigarette company. All these shows were performed in nightclubs. They were Broadway shows so we did Singin’ in the Rain and excerpts from West Side Story and Grease. It was my dream come true! It was amazing and the choreographer had just come back from London, and so she sat and talked to us about London. I was like, ‘Wow, this sounds so amazing. I want to go!’

I stop being me Suhaimi Magi, Kota Kinabalu I start to become someone else after dinner. I take my dinner at about six and then I stop being me, stop talking. I concentrate on something different I want to be … something I think I should be, concentrating and focusing on that.

Suhaimi Magi, Kota Kinabalu I start to become someone else after dinner.

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Mostly what I am doing is dancing without movement, just dreaming. I record the music. Even though I am using live music, I record it. I start playing the music and want to feel it, hear, watch and feel. Watch with your eyes, watch with your heart, feel it and move, feel what you are supposed to move, feel it with your mind. When I am performing, I am really, really deeply in it. I really feel it.

It is a very ‘red’ area Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok We presented Chui Chai three or four months ago in the Patravadi Theatre. It was a very sensitive time, politically. We wore jeans with T-shirts – yellow shirts, red shirts, blue shirts. Everyone in the audience who is Thai or who had lived in Thailand long enough knew the symbolism. At performances outside Thailand, fewer people understood. We had a Thai flag, too. Red, white, blue and red. In the course of the show, one red band disappears because the ex-prime minister belongs to the Red Shirts. He is not in Thailand anymore. The other red strip disappears, too. On the Thai flag, blue represents the king, white represents religion and red represents the unity of the nation. During the past few years, each ‘colour’ group has been battling the others. I felt that the unity of the nation was gone. Now we do not recognise Thai society any more. When people ask me why the red is gone, I answer with a question, ‘Yes, it is gone. Tell me, where has the unity of the Thai gone?’ Through this Chui Chai production, it appears that I’m on the side of the ‘yellow shirts’. We’ve had some audience members walk out because they are supporters of the red shirts. The Alliance Française wanted to bring the piece to be performed in Chiang Mai. I said, no, I don’t want to die there. It is a very ‘red’ area.

To have long hair Nguyen Anh Duc, Hanoi In the army troupe we were never asked what kind of dance we wanted to do. It was always the same: propaganda dance. It wasn’t traditional; it wasn’t ballet. I took the job at first because after I’d finished school I was still very young. A lot of people told me that if I joined the military my life would be secure. I would have a house in the future, etc.

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The dances we did had no obvious story to them. Each performance was only five or six minutes long. The performers wore soldiers’ uniforms and showed them helping people or returning home to a warm welcome. This could be interpreted to mean that the government helps the people. After six months I could not take it any longer. Basically, I wanted to have long hair and in the army that wasn’t allowed. So I switched to the popular dance and music organisation that was also government controlled.

The edge of the window Stellar, Hong Kong In high school, my friend asked me to be her partner at the folk dance club. So I started my dance experience again then, at the school as an after- school activity. My first mentor in dance was a teacher. She taught Economics and English, and she was also the teacher in charge of the folk dance club. She gave the folk dance club structured training. Later I learnt it was kind of like ballet; we had to do some barre work. We did not have any dance barres, so we had to hold onto the edge of chairs and the edge of the window. So we did a little bit of barre for stabilisation, and then we did some centre work, and then she choreographed some things for us. We prepared these dances for school shows. That is when I realised that I really like to dance. I remember in my first performance, it was a sort of morning assembly. We dressed up – it was five girls doing kind of like a Chinese dance. When we danced I could see the expressions very clearly on the faces of my teachers, of my schoolmates. They really enjoyed it. I felt rewarded through dancing. You can feel people – they have so much joy, just to see you dance.

One of the dwarfs Imogen Chan, Kuching I was in Snow White. I was one of the dwarfs. I had to be cheerful. I was Doc. He had to be a good leader and he had to make good choices. My favourite scene was the scene where we go back home. We go home and see Snow White, and some people are angry and some people are cheerful about it, and some people are just hungry.

Talking Dance.indd 117 4/21/2016 6:36:15 PM 118 Talking Dance I am very short-sighted Layna Chan, Kuching I fell off the stage once, at the Civic Centre. I am very short-sighted. I was 14 and we were dancing a sort of jazz piece. I was at the side. They usually have some plants at the edge of the stage, but they didn’t that night. I was dancing – step change and step kick and then step ball change and then the next thing ... BOOM! I fell about a metre. I got up again and got back on the stage and continued. Nobody in the audience laughed, but I heard a big ‘Oooooh!’

The most perfect moment of death Marion D’Cruz, Kuala Lumpur When I am performing, I do not know what is happening to me, I only know afterwards, five days later. Before a performance I go into this meditative state, I am nervous and I pray and I panic and all those kinds of things. Somebody asked me recently, ‘What does trust mean to you when you are doing art?’ I thought about it and I said, ‘When I make a work, I do a lot of research and I think about it. I worry, I cry, I have sleepless nights. I dream, I panic, I pray. I worry some more and then at some point I just trust. I trust the work, I trust the process, I trust God, whatever.’ So before the show every time I am going, ‘Oh God, why am I doing this?’ There was this one particular performance of backwards/forwards in ’09; there is one bit where I talk about the piece, and the dancer who originally performed it is planted in the audience. I invite her up and we do about three or four minutes of the piece. The piece had a girl who sang, making a soundscape. It is a very long piece, like 30 minutes. On opening night my director said Jane was in the audience, so I talked about how I made this piece, and then I said, ‘Jane, I know you’re in the audience, so please sing.’ This was in ’09. She had sung in 1988 and I had seen her periodically over the years. She is royalty now; she married royalty. ‘So please sing. Otherwise I will have to sing and dance at the same time, which I can’t do.’

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I started to sing, and then her voice came from the audience, and every time I think of it my hair stands on end. I just wanted to die. I was thinking in my head, ‘Okay, God, take me. This would be the most perfect moment of death.’ For the three minutes we did it she just sang from the audience. She remembered the soundscape, the text, 21 years later – it is so embedded and embodied in her, and it just came out. The other nights I had to sing and dance it. Quite sad. I felt a big gap. Interestingly, every time we start I think of Jane in the audience and channel her. I think of that moment when she took over, not consciously, but I bring her over.

To show the real demon Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok I performed my first choreographic work, I am a Demon (2005), without a traditional costume. I was the first to do this in Thailand. What is the importance of the demon character? It rests in the heart and soul of the body, not the mask, not the costume. All the traditional masters said that I am not a real demon because I did not study at the official arts school. I wanted to show them, to have them take a look at my positions, my body. I stripped down to show the real demon.

‘Your underpants are white!’ Chin Vui Soon, Kuching It was with the Feasible Crew, during a competition performance during 2008. In break-dancing you always have large movements. You have to open up your legs wide, to do a move called a powermove. It is kind of like ground spinning. I was doing the powermove and realised my pants were too tight. I tore my pants; the audience was cracking up and at first I didn’t know what happened. I went downstairs, and, ‘Hey, your underpants are white!’ ‘Oh, how do you know?!’ But we won the competition. Luckily we won. It was the first time the group won a competition.

Talking Dance.indd 119 4/21/2016 6:36:15 PM 120 Talking Dance It isn’t only foreigners Belle, Phnom Penh After the Feelings of Love performance at the Chenla Theater, there was a university student who assumed that the show was choreographed by a foreigner. He told other people that it was great, and that, ‘Cambodians don’t know how to develop something like this.’ One of the students with him said, ‘Hey. Look at the programme. The choreographer and director is Khmer. Here’s her name – Chumvan Sodhachivy. And the dancers are all Khmer. The French Cultural Centre produced the show, but it was a Cambodian who created it.’ Then he asked one of the people from the French Cultural Centre, and was told that I am not only Khmer, but a trained classical dancer. He was so impressed. This is one of the reasons why I continue. It is not only foreigners who can do innovative things. We Khmer can do them, too.

Belle, Phnom Penh It is not only foreigners who can do innovative things. We Khmer can do them, too.

Talking Dance.indd 120 4/21/2016 6:36:15 PM Performing 121 ‘Today you danced like Phra Lak’ Khamtong Sumbath, Vientiane Phra Lak is the younger brother of Phra Lam. In the story, Phra Lam, his wife Nang Sida and Phra Lak are in a garden. The younger sister of Thotsakan sees them and thinks that Nang Sida doesn’t deserve to be the wife of Phra Lak. Thotsakan’s sister attacks. Phra Lak jumps to help the princess. I have to find his character within myself. I have to study alone in front of a mirror in order to see if I am convincing as a man defending his older brother’s wife. Phra Lak is an honest person. And more than that, he has spiritual/magical potency and follows religious precepts. It is very difficult for me to try to express these characteristics, especially in a man. I have to persevere, looking in the mirror, on my own, to develop the right expression and movement quality. I have never had a chance to see this role performed. The story is considered very special and important, and the performance of it is reserved for international tours and special national gatherings or guests. A female teacher has been demonstrating for me, and I’ve learned by following her and then trying to improve on my own. We have monthly exams to see how far we have got. There have been times when I was concentrating so hard during an exam in which I had to dance this role that I went completely into the role: I didn’t even realise I was performing. My teacher told me that ‘today you danced like Phra Lak’.

Confronted by an animal Thongchanh Souksavath, Luang Prabang At the time of the New Year we danced one night at the request of the King, with lots of important people in attendance at the palace complex. Regular people could not attend. On the second night, when people did the ceremony with water at the temple, we performed there on a mat. People sat around to watch. The performance lasted about an hour and a half. We chose certain episodes of the Phra Lak Phra Lam story, not the whole story. My favourite episode to perform is the abduction of Nang Sida. Thotsakan captures her and as he is taking her away he’s confronted by an animal. They fight. People in the audience don’t want Thotsakan to kidnap the princess. They love watching this scene – they like the struggle; they root for the princess.

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Thongchanh Souksavath, Luang Prabang I was taken with all the characters, from Thotsakan to Phra Lam to all the others. But eventually I settled on studying the role of the giant. I liked this role best and the teacher also assigned me to dance it. I was kind of obsessed with it – I danced, trying to remember the movements, when I went to bathe in the river. I was afraid I would forget.

If by a given New Year’s time we had a new episode ready, we performed that. If we had not perfected it enough, we danced an episode that we’d danced the previous year. It was a problem because we didn’t have that much time to practise. We were in regular school all day.

The origins of thunder and lightning Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok Each of the roles I have performed has unique qualities – Nang Mani Mekhala, Nang Sida and Nang Manora. Mekhala is a goddess who owns a precious gem. She is brave and playful. She has no fear of Yak Ramasoon who wants her gem, and even plays tricks on him. There is a lot of back-and-forth between the characters, with Mekhala averting the aggression of the giant.

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The story of these two is a folk tale describing the origins of thunder and lightning. As Ramasoon throws his axe towards Mekhala, the thunder rumbles. When she tosses her gem upwards, its brightness lights up the sky. Nang Sida, on the other hand, has the worries of an ordinary woman. Will her husband, Phra Ram, accept her when she is rescued from Thotsakan’s palace? When she does return to Phra Ram, he asks her what gifts she received from Thotsakan, her kidnapper. She becomes angry at her husband’s distrust. Nang Sida then offers to walk on fire, to prove her innocence. I was a very shy girl, and it was only through the dance that I could express the range of emotions that both these characters display. For me, Nang Manora is the most difficult to perform physically. Your legs must be very strong for the balance required. Otherwise you’ll shake and won’t be able to stand back up, rising on one leg, as is necessary in this special choreography.

Exceptionally cold-hearted Thongchanh Souksavath, Luang Prabang Thotsakan is mean and brutal. Performing this is really difficult. There are times when I could not reach that level of brutality. Before each performance I had to gather my focus and concentrate on moving away from my natural character, which is kind of gentle and easy-going. When I’m kidnapping Nang Sida, for example, I have to give it my all to be exceptionally cold-hearted. But I’m not tough and mean at all.

The sweat is running Pheuy Kammaphadit, Luang Prabang Phra Lam is gentle and supple, sort of like a woman. Most people who know me say I’m a little like that, too! Phra Lam wears a green mask. It is really difficult to perform wearing a mask. The sweat is running beneath it the whole time. It’s hard to see through the little eye-holes, too.

Talking Dance.indd 123 4/21/2016 6:36:15 PM 124 Talking Dance Sweating buckets Thongchanh Souksavath, Luang Prabang The giant role is even worse. We use so much energy for our movements, meanwhile sweating buckets. The sweat fills our eyes. Our movements are big and it is so difficult to see where we are going.

We took some dirt Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane We often performed as part of some big festival or celebration in the countryside. Local artists would perform too, and we all could experience each other’s way of dancing. If there were dancers in the place we were visiting, they performed before we did. When I first went on one of those trips I was so excited and nervous, I felt like I had to go to the bathroom all the time! I was shaking. … We went really far, sometimes 700 or 800 km. We travelled for two days and a night before getting to the first place for a performance. The roads were really bad and rough. We were afraid of accidents and guns. In 1988 there was still fighting going on in some parts of the country. We heard there were robbers along the roads, too, but we never ran into any. It is our custom to ask for protection before a journey. So we took some dirt from here and put it on our heads and prayed to Neang Thorani for help. Sometimes we put some of the dirt into our pockets. We travelled through the countryside for hours and hours without seeing anybody – no people, no houses, no villages. I wondered how we would perform if there wasn’t anybody around to watch us. In areas with ethnic minorities they seemed to hide themselves and sneak a look at us. I didn’t know if they were just curious, or embarrassed at the differences between us and them, like the way we dressed, or whatever. Then, when we were setting up to perform, the local people would start to show up. By seven or eight at night the area would be full, packed. Hundreds came to see us, from all over. We heard that it was not just the local villagers. We heard that some people walked 10 km. I don’t know when they started out or how long they walked. Their homes are on mountain tops or at the foot of mountains, and they came all that way to see our performances. We usually performed in a theatre, if we were in a provincial capital, for example, or inside a school compound. When there was no stage, we performed on mats or plastic tarp. The spectators also brought their own mats and sat around to watch. The local authorities set up lights fuelled by a generator.

Talking Dance.indd 124 4/21/2016 6:36:15 PM Performing 125 The audience might not know the difference Khamtong Sumbath, Vientiane I perform at a restaurant or hotel almost every night of the week. I do this to get performance experience, and also to make money to help my mother take care of the family. It’s frustrating because the other dancers at the restaurants and hotels are not always as good as I would like them to be. Even though they are from the School of Music and Dance, they are younger – perhaps third- or fourth-year students – and have not had as much training as I have. I want to have pride in what I do. This is my chosen profession. The audience might not know the difference, but I do.

Too much like contemporary life Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh Eventually I became a star, performing the role of Neang Seda in the Reamker, and the role of Moni Mekhala, who is the guardian of people travelling on water. She is a goddess, a princess of the waters. She comes up during the rainy season. I heard older dancers say that the giant Ream Eyso likes her but she likes the deity Vorachon. In the story, Ream Eyso kills Vorachon by slamming him against a rock. Moni Mekhala never takes a husband. Ream Eyso never takes a wife. They fight every year, just before the start of the rainy season. When they meet in the sky, Ream Eyso follows her to get a hold of her magic jewelled ball. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince her to give it up. So he throws his axe at her. Even though he misses, the power of his axe shakes up the sky. Moni Mekhala then tosses her ball into the air. The light is so great that it causes Ream Eyso to lose his sight for a moment. While he cannot see, she slips away, into the clouds. We believe this story represents and actually calls forth thunder (caused by the axe) and lightening (the ball), which together bring the rain we need for the year’s crops. This dance is performed at the time of the New Year as a way to ask for rain. An excerpt from the long dance drama is performed on stages just as entertainment, too. Moni Mekhala as a character is totally confident. When I appear on stage as Mekhala, I think, ‘there’s nobody like me’. She is afraid of no-one. Even the giant doesn’t faze her. But she has a great heart. Neang Seda, on the other hand, is very patient. You have to be calm and mature to

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dance that role, maybe no younger than 20 years old. She expresses herself subtly. There is never an overt demonstration of the depths of her anger or the heights of her happiness. One of the dancers at the National Department of Performing Arts has told me that when she sees me dance Neang Seda going through the trial by fire, she cries. She cries because the inner suffering is so realistic, and because it makes her think of her own life. When I am performing I am no longer Sathya. I am Neang Seda. I am surrounded by flames, but cool inside. I have made up my mind: when the fire ordeal is over, I will disappear into the earth, preferring to leave this world rather than to live with a husband who does not trust me. These days schoolchildren in Cambodia don’t read the Remaker. Maybe that’s because it is too much like contemporary life. Men become jealous and violent over the smallest thing.

Just taking my tears away Lema Diaz, Manila We had the most unforgettable hip-hop championship in 2006. Everybody got a standing ovation. I was sick at the time. We all had jet lag and we didn’t have much strength. So we were in a circle praying the whole time, just praying. Everyone else was rehearsing, but we were just praying, waiting for our turn because we were too weak to move. Our last prayer was, ‘Lord, it’s up to you to give us two minutes of your energy.’ We couldn’t do it alone. I don’t remember that dance at all – somebody was moving me. It was so humbling because I heard the people screaming and I saw the people were up on their feet, the whole crowd. I went down on stage. I couldn’t stop crying. People were hugging me, just taking my tears away and hugging me. I was crying for 30 minutes, just crying the whole time because I have never felt anything like that. And, sure enough, we won that competition in Italy.

Far from the banana tree Keo Samean, Phum Tong Nong Liek At funerals they danced with their arms around each other’s shoulders or around each other’s waists in a circle. Old and young, boys and girls danced together. I learned by following the others. I felt really happy. They danced at funerals to pierce

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the sadness of the family of the deceased, and to help them feel less afraid. We still do this nowadays. When I was young they used to do the ceremony to invoke and honour the village spirits after an elder had a dream that signalled that they needed to move the village to a new site. The chief took a banana tree and thnam ptiel. First they tossed and spat the boiled plant on the ground to rid the land of violent spirits. Then they planted the banana tree. The people could then build individual houses for their families around the area. Happiness was the only feeling I had about the ceremony, because the elders of the village had me bring the water and pour it into the vat to make rice wine that they drank as part of the ceremony. It is our custom to use young people to bring the water for the rice wine. I was about 19 years old at the time. The five or six chiefs danced in the enclosure with the banana tree. They clapped their hands and danced in a circle. They beat five gongs, playing three special pieces in order to call and welcome the spirits of the forest and mountains, to ward off the evil ones, and to ask those remaining spirits to come and partake of the food, drink and everything else prepared for them. Now that I am a chief I do this too, for our annual ceremony to invoke and honour the village spirits. The spirits of the forest and mountains do not like women and girls. That is why the chiefs can only be men. And that is why on the first day of the ceremony, the day we dance, all the women and girls have to be far from the banana tree. During the Khmer Rouge years we weren’t able to perform any of our own ceremonies. They didn’t want us to have any beliefs. I had five children. One of them died under the Khmer Rouge because we had not been able to do the ceremony to invoke and honour the village spirits. He became ill. After Pol Pot lost power I went to my birth village. I saw that everything had changed. The houses were all burned. All gone. I slept right on the earth. One of the villagers had a dream and then we found a banana tree and thnam ptiel. Using that plant to select a proper spot, we planted the tree. We established the village anew, and started to build houses again.

A wild animal appeared Hsaw Reh, Mae Sot In Karenni tradition, dance is an important part of certain ceremonies. The Deeku Festival is particularly special for us. According to the story, we were at war with the Yuan people for a very long time. This festival recognises our victory

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over them. As part of the dance, we mimic rice-harvesting gestures, including cutting and threshing. Usually we dance to traditional instruments including gongs and drums, but some people nowadays add guitars. It was very difficult to learn at first. We tried to count along with the gong to help us. For this festival most Karenni people come from far away to dance, eat and celebrate together. Even if they didn’t know anyone before, once they have celebrated this ceremony together, they establish strong friendships. Some people meet their future husbands and wives there. Two years ago something bad happened in our refugee camp. We were in a difficult situation, so we thought we would wait a month to have the ceremony. The Chief said we should postpone the ceremony. That is when a wild animal appeared. The deer didn’t hurt anyone, but just ran around and left. It was a signal to warn us. We are Buddhist, but we also believe in spirits and this kind of signal. So we quickly cleaned the community and made a celebration. We danced. If we did not do this, even worse things would happen.

Bribe them one-by-one Yim Sinath, Phnom Penh We travelled so much, we hardly ever studied. I am really sad about that. We performed a lot on the road at that time. We were great at dance technique, but nothing else. We performed various traditional stories. One, called Sophea Tunsai, is about the search for justice among animals in the forest. It is funny, and the audience loves it. There is a moral message as well. A monkey is angry that a pretty bird will not open her door for him when he knocks, and sets her home on fire. Although there are witnesses, the monkey is able to bribe them one-by-one with a treat, to take his side. Eventually, most of the forest animals tell the bird that she must have done something wrong because something bad happened to her. The bird feels hopeless. Her loyal friends, the other birds, go to call upon Sophea Tunsai, Judge Rabbit, to find justice. The main message was about good and evil, but because we were in the midst of civil war, there was political symbolism, too. The monkey was Pol Pot, and the Americans and the royalists, represented by other animals, were duped by him.

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Yim Sinath and Sek Sophea, Phnom Penh My favorite dance is Kbal Kdung because it’s realistic about people in the countryside. It incorporates things I saw with my own eyes during the Khmer Rouge years, like pounding and threshing the rice. – Yim Sinath

One touch can start an argument Nguyen Chi Anh, Hanoi My current dancing partner, Nguyen Nha Khanh, makes a great dancing partner because she is very feminine. To be a good partner and a good couple are both very complicated. Nowadays people have to be sure their partners’ families have money – for lessons, travelling to competitions, clothes, shoes, make-up, hair and so on. They also have to see that their bodies fit together. The man should be taller. Neither one should be fat. They should have a nice build. And inside, there needs to be a sense of calm. They will need to practise six to eight hours per day from week to week. They really have to understand each other, as otherwise they will fight. Your bodies are very tired. You can become very sensitive and easily angered. One touch can start an argument.

Talking Dance.indd 129 4/21/2016 6:36:15 PM Nguyen Chi Anh and Nguyen Nha Khanh, Hanoi I experienced ten different emotions. – Nguyen Chi Anh

Talking Dance.indd 130 4/21/2016 6:36:16 PM Performing 131 In the refugee camp Hsaw Reh, Mae Sot Last year there was a dance contest in my school in the refugee camp. I taught all my friends as much as I could so that we could participate in the competition. We got first prize. My friends were so proud, and told me that it was because of me that they could do this. It was all Karenni dance troupes competing against each other. I love to be creative with movements and style, and to still maintain the meaning of the dance.

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Coming up against a group of ballerinas Bilqis Hijjas, Kuala Lumpur When I was 16, I went to France to an international convention of dance at La Baule, a convention for young dancers. There were a number of French conservatory ballet schools there, and we took classes with them. It was not a surprising experience but certainly a sobering one, to be in a class with these girls who were well on their way to becoming professional ballet dancers, and had always wanted to be. I realised the difference in standard. The group of Malaysian dancers we were with all stood at the back – shy, scared, put on the spot. The French ballet girls were all so terribly tall and slim and elegant, and they all had names like ‘Amalie’. I remember how fast the sequences were given, and they were given in French by French instructors. Of course that should not have made any difference because the ballet names are all in French anyway, so we should have been able to pick up the exercises. We had never been trained in this way to pick up things in class, because we had always been trained to a syllabus where you only had to do the same thing every day. We were always desperately behind. They were so long-legged and they moved so fast. I remember being in the middle of an across-the-floor sequence and not knowing where I was going – going the wrong way and coming up against a group of ballerinas sort of mid-seconde battement, clearly being in the wrong and getting so embarrassed and rushing off.

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One of the girls came up to us and said, ‘How well you all do ballet, considering you’ve never done it before.’ Of course, some of us had been doing it for many, many years. We all smiled and nodded and said, ‘Thanks!’ and swallowed our pride, and stood at the back.

My whole horizon Anna Chan, Hong Kong After Form Five, I decided I wanted to take up dancing as a professional. So I went to Australia, to WAAPA, the West Australian Academy of Performing Arts. It was something really new and strange and opened up my whole horizon about dance. In my first contemporary class there, I remember the teacher saying, ‘Don’t do that Chinese dance, walking across the floor. Make it big!’ It made me realise that there was a big cultural difference, as someone from Hong Kong, possibly the first Chinese in WAAPA. They were maybe a bit more outgoing, and some were a bit more laid back, compared with how I had been taught and trained.

An accordion instead Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi In 1964 and 1965 Hanoi was bombed really heavily. A lot of my friends had to perform for the military. At that time they went to the front lines to serve and to perform Western opera, such as Madame Butterfly, ballet and traditional dances for the soldiers and for the people who worked to fix the roads. They called it ‘To serve the soldiers’. For Western ballet they would do excerpts from story ballets – just duets or solos. My teachers also re-staged some Vietnamese dances using Russian ballet technique. They brought an orchestra with them to the front. They could dance anywhere. The musicians brought along their instruments, like flutes or violins, but they could not bring a piano so they brought an accordion instead. After the performance they would teach the soldiers some songs and dances. It was an honour. I felt disappointed that I could not do this, because in 1966 I was sent to study dance in Moscow instead. Others told me not to feel bad, that my duty was to go abroad and come back to help build something for Vietnam’s future.

Talking Dance.indd 133 4/21/2016 6:36:16 PM 134 Talking Dance The top bunk Cai Ying, Shamen At the Beijing Dance Academy we stayed in the school’s dormitory. I can remember the room, 405, so clearly! On the fourth floor. In the beginning we had eight people in the room, then in second and third years we become six classmates in one room; the others moved to another room. I stayed in the same room for six years. There were four bunk beds; I slept on the top bunk. We were the same age and it was the first time we had lived apart from our families. I cried a lot because most of my classmates were from North China. It is so different, the language, the food, their manners.

I imagined I was going to the source Nguyen Chi Anh, Hanoi My first trip overseas to dance was to Paris in 2002. It was a real struggle. The French say, ‘C’est dur.’ I went with money from my parents, which was a lot of money in Vietnam, and very little in Europe! So I had to work a lot to get money for lessons and just to live. I chose France because my dance partner at that time was a professional ballet dancer. She had earlier gone to France to perform. Some people she met invited us there to study dance. We stayed in France from 2002 to 2005. I took on every job – waiter, porter, dishwasher, clothes salesperson. My partner was a babysitter among other things. I spoke a little bit of French before I got there, and then studied at language school for the first three months in Paris. I could communicate, maybe not with good grammar, but people understood me. Unfortunately for me, I did not know back then which was the best country for ballroom dancing. I knew that the French had brought salon or Western social dancing to Vietnam a long time ago, during the colonial era, so I imagined I was going to the source. But although Dance Sport is popular in France, it is not the strongest country in Dance Sport.

Nobody asked, ‘Is this something you would like to do?’ Luu Thi Thu Lan, Hanoi I started my ballet training in Kiev in the Vaganova style. I was there as a student for eight years; then I stayed for two additional years working with the Kiev Opera Ballet Theatre. I still speak fluent Russian.

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There was a group of ten Vietnamese students there with me. We lived at the school. At first it was quite hard, but then it was fine, maybe because we were so young and just happy that we could go far away. Vietnam was so poor, and such a difficult place to live in. Our parents, of course, loved their children, but they were also happy that they could send them to learn something somewhere else. The Soviet Union was the only country helping Vietnam. It was not up to the children in any case. Educational decisions were completely the responsibility of the parents. They chose for you. Nobody asked, ‘Is this something you would like to do?’ At the school we had concerts twice a year in Kiev and I performed. When my studies finished, at our last exam, the people from the Opera Ballet came to choose dancers for their company. They chose me and some others. Maybe because it had been such a long time since we had been together with our families, we did not feel we needed to go back home right away after graduation. Also, I was scared that I might not have the chance to dance back in Vietnam and my eight years of study would be wasted. So I stayed in Kiev. My main roles in Kiev were as one of the four little swans in Swan Lake or as Angel in Don Quixote, and mostly in the corps de ballet for other pieces. I was in many ballets, but not as a soloist. The salary was very low and we had to have another job to support ourselves. I was working for a Vietnamese import/export company. I spoke Russian very well so I helped them with translation. As professional ballet dancers in Kiev with Vietnamese passports, we could not tour abroad. If we wanted to join the troupe in its travels, we had to go to Moscow to ask the Vietnamese Embassy there to grant us permission to go elsewhere. It was too complicated. My parents eventually asked me to come back, so that is what I did.

There were no Asians Jeffrey Tan, Singapore I had never been that far away from Singapore. I wanted to go a week earlier to see all the sights of Europe that you see on TV, but I didn’t know anyone. When I arrived in London I was supposed to stay with a friend of my half-brother. I had never met him and he came and picked me up. It was so cold and grey in the UK. I arrived in London and suddenly I felt very sad. I saw so many Caucasians, so many white people. There were no Asians and I cried.

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At first there were many boundaries. Because our Singaporean English is very different from that in the UK, it was hard for me to understand the English accent. But my teacher liked me very much and slowly got to know me. We only had about six guys in the ballet class. I secretly did some jazz dance classes as well – I was told not to do jazz because I have to be a ballet dancer. It was hard because I didn’t have much money and I worked in Burger King from 7p.m. to 11p.m. Actually, I worked there because I got a free meal. I had to wake up at 5a.m. every day because of the long distance to central London from where I was staying. The weather in London is also very bad, which made me depressed.

People in gorgeous shoes Phan Y Ly, Hanoi The UK salsa congress is one of the largest in the world. People come from all over Europe, and from as far away as New Zealand, to participate. You can never imagine what it’s like – dancing for three days and three nights. Everywhere you look you see beautiful people in gorgeous shoes dancing all over the place – in bus stations, in train stations. For the most part they are not professional dancers. You dance with a guy who dances really well and you ask him and he says, ‘Oh, I’m an accountant.’ Or a banker. Or an elevator technician. You might not talk to these people in real life, but in the salsa world they can be the best, most expressive dancers – romantic and all that.

My body was not made for this Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh The first time I saw contemporary dance was in 2004 in Bali and Surabaya, Indonesia. I was supposed to join in the workshop. I knew nothing; I wanted to cry. I had no idea how to even try to follow. I watched Indonesian dancers who had studied classical dance earlier, and were now doing something innovative with it. I didn’t think I would ever be able to do anything like what they were doing. I didn’t even understand what I was watching. I thought, ‘My body wasn’t made for this.’

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Sam Sathya, Davis, California For more than twenty years I’ve molded my body into one perfected for classical dance. I got dizzy when I tried to spin, for example, or to do other ‘contemporary’ moves. I cannot do something beyond my abilities.

Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh I can stretch those possibilities through training.

Talking Dance.indd 137 4/21/2016 6:36:16 PM 138 Talking Dance The weather change and the culture shock Layna Chan, Kuching We did not have money. My dad was a primary school teacher, earning about 1,000 ringgit a month. My two sisters learnt piano – that cost 200 ringgit a month. Three of them also learnt violin, and two of us learnt dancing. At the end of the month there was nothing left whatsoever. We basically did not have enough to eat. I knew there was no way I could do anything with dancing unless I could get some help. So after high school I applied for a few schools in New Zealand, Australia, the UK and Canada, but I did not have the money to go. I looked into some study funds, but they only gave it for academic study, nothing for the arts. I then went and taught in schools and asked the RAD (Royal Academy of Dance) in London to hold my place there for three years. Eventually there was a scholarship for Fine Arts that I could apply for, for Sarawakis. Thousands applied for it. I thought there is no way I was going to get it. The RAD college started on 16 September, and on 11 September I got a call from them telling me I’d got the scholarship. So I flew over to London, and stayed there for the three-year dance teacher-training course. I didn’t feel good during the first year. I didn’t feel good at all – the change in the weather and the culture shock. Like over here, I can kick my leg up at any time, but over there, it was so cold. With two layers, three layers, I still felt so stiff. I had no money, so I had to stay with this friend’s auntie, and she would not turn on the heater for me at night. I had no duvet, nothing. I would wear two pairs of jeans at night. And every morning I was freezing cold going to class. The first year was the most difficult. Basically, I couldn’t wait to get home. I came home for the first summer. The second summer I didn’t come back because I was dog-sitting. I looked after the dog of a Malaysian woman living in London for the summer – free food, free lodging. And after the summer she asked me to stay on. So my final year was great; every night I would come home at 9p.m., after teaching practise, and everything would be heated up and waiting in the oven, and she just would not take any money from me. She was lovely and we still keep in touch.

Talking Dance.indd 138 4/21/2016 6:36:16 PM Travelling north, south, east and west 139 Jump from the trees Ramli Ali, Santubong The state government gave me a scholarship to study in Indonesia. I had to learn Javanese culture and dance and their customs. It was totally different from Sarawak and I found it very unusual. I studied in Bagong Studio in Bagong. There is a kind of uniform you have to wear during rehearsals – a black shirt and black pants. The lesson was a formal dance lesson, in a studio with mirrors and a wooden floor. In some studios the floor was made of cement. I had never experienced a studio like that, but I never had a problem learning. It doesn’t matter where I learnt; the most important thing was learning to dance. It is different from Kuching, because the people there don’t

Ramli Ali, Santubong So when the teachers asked me to beg or to jump from the tree, they said, ‘You have to do it! I dare you! If you make it or you don’t make it, it’s up to you. You have a brain, so work it out. You have to do it. Whether you live or you die, it’s up to you. You figure it out.’

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have formal dance training. In Indonesia they’ve all graduated with a Masters in dance. So the way they teach is different – they’ve learned some theories and time management; we have to be punctual. I never had a problem like homesickness. I never had a problem feeling like I was a foreigner in Indonesia, maybe because I had a very deep interest in learning to dance. The way the teachers treated me was quite different. Some didn’t pay attention to me, but I liked to approach the teachers myself, with curiosity. From that the teachers knew that I really wanted to dance. Sometimes I learned dance from 8a.m. to 12 at night. I even forgot to have a drink and to eat. I wanted to be the best student in the academy. In every performance or examination, I wanted to do my best. Sometimes the teachers took us out to the mountains, to nature. When the training was outside in the natural world it was more like military training. Sometimes they asked us to jump from the trees. Most of the students couldn’t do it; they would stop half-way. The trees can reach up to 20 feet from the ground. At first it was hard, but because I really wanted to do it, I had this determination, ‘I have to do it! I can do it!’ After the class the teachers asked me to go to every house and shop, begging. It is to train the mentality. The idea is whether you can make it, like acting. So when the teachers asked me to beg or to jump from the tree, they said ‘You have to do it! I dare you! If you make it or you don’t make it, it’s up to you. You have a brain, so work it out. You have to do it. Whether you live or you die, it’s up to you. You figure it out.’

It only mattered that you could hold a gun Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi The teachers decided to send me to the Lunachevsky National Institute of Theatre in Moscow. I studied Russian for a year and choreography for a year. Then they realised they needed someone to come back here to train the next generation. So I stayed there an additional four years to study pedagogy. Officially it was only six years of study, but I stayed for one more year because the Russian teachers realised that Hanoi was being bombed very heavily. They set up an internship for ballet students from Vietnam so that they could stay abroad. After the peace accords were signed, the Vietnamese dancers came home.

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The war was so tough. I knew that my friends, like the ones who studied music at the Tchaikovsky Institute in Moscow, had to go to the battlefield as soldiers right away upon their return to Vietnam. It was the last battle, and they needed every ‘body’ to fight. It was the hardest time. It didn’t matter what you had studied; it only mattered that you could hold a gun. Even before I left for Moscow, things had been pretty terrible.

Study under street lights Ladda Phomalath, Vientiane In 1985 I was one of a group of dance and music teachers selected to go to Cambodia for further studies. At first I was afraid, but I was told that many people would be going. They told us that it was not far; we could come back to visit at any time. So I asked my father and stepmother, and they said it sounded like a good opportunity. I had never seen Khmer dance. At that time we did not have a lot of interaction with Cambodia. Others who knew about Khmer dance explained that Khmer dance has a lot in common with Lao, just as Thai dance does. I knew about Thai dance. People also said that the Khmer are brilliant at technique. Their dance is of a high standard. They dance more beautifully than we do and more beautifully than the Thai. We rode in a military aircraft, sitting in two lines along the sides of the plane. When I got to Cambodia they had me practise the female role. I was afraid of the teachers there. I didn’t want them to be angry with me. In the mornings we studied technique and in the afternoons we studied the Khmer language and musical notation. We also had a class in art history. I was in Cambodia for five years, from 1985 to 1990. It was wartime there, but it didn’t impact us. We just weren’t allowed to leave the campus at night. We had electricity until 9p.m. In order to prepare for exams, we got up really early and studied under street lights because there was electricity outside the school campus in the mornings. I missed Laos, especially when it rained. I don’t know why. Maybe because it was so dark. But we were busy with our studies, and made friends. When I left Cambodia I was both happy and sad. I had finished my studies and was going home. But I thought of my friends who were close and thought it would be difficult for us to keep in touch with each other.

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Ladda Phomalath, Vientiane For the seven years of dance in this school, you study both classical and folk dance every year, and ballet the first four years.

When we came back to Laos, the school authorities asked us what we wanted to do with what we had learned. The dance traditions are very similar. We said we wanted them to put more effort into flexibility exercises. They had never taken this seriously in Laos and didn’t do it with precision. Also, we added a section to the basic gestures and movements sequence for classical dance in which the dancers move around the classroom in a circle. All of this we got from the Khmer. At the National School of Music and Dance here they still keep the innovations I introduced.

What we do can’t be wrong Belle, Phnom Penh In Holland I was in a choreography class where the teacher asked how people define classical, modern and contemporary dance. Each of the students had a different answer. I said to myself, ‘Oh my God! Wow! This must mean that contemporary dance is whatever we want to make it to be. So what we do can’t be wrong; it’s new and personal.’

Talking Dance.indd 142 4/21/2016 6:36:16 PM Travelling north, south, east and west 143 There was no salsa Phan Y Ly, Hanoi In 2004 I received a scholarship to Winchester University in the UK to get a master’s degree in Theatre and Media for Development. In Winchester there was no salsa. They taught hip-hop and contemporary dance. I thought of starting up a class, but was not confident enough to teach. As I was searching for dance classes, I learned a funny thing about that small town. Every Friday night a group of dancers travelled town to town by truck. It was like people selling fruit at different markets throughout the provinces. Well, on the Friday nights when this travelling group came to town, there would be an event in a big council hall for about four hours. There was one person who sold tickets and another who taught dance. For the first two hours they would give a dance lesson – something like modern jive. Even though there were not many steps, it was still nice couple dancing. Lots of people would go, both men and women. There were only two or three people my age. Most were in their thirties or older. They all dressed up. It was very funny. It was not something that came from the town itself. It was organised by others who came in from outside. I had lots of fun dancing with the very old men. I received the greatest compliments: ‘Oh, you’re the best dancer I’ve ever danced with’ and ‘I’m 80 years old so you should believe me …’ It was a very heavyweight compliment. I had such a nice time.

On the weighing scales every week Cheah Mei Sing, Singapore At first, it was a very great shock for me when I entered the Australian Ballet School in 1992, after being awarded the Shell Centenary Scholarship for the Arts in Singapore. I started at the ABS at an age when people usually graduate. My instincts told me that dance was what I love and nobody was going to stop me from doing it. I learnt that I was very fortunate in that all the doors in my life seemed to open to allow me to pursue dance as a serious profession. A lot of things came together that were navigated by the stars and a bit of effort on my behalf. The styles of dance training in Australia were very different. For a start, they taught the Vaganova training method. We had to step on the scales every week. I’d never known what it was like to manage my weight. Every day was different from what I had ever heard or seen before in Singapore. I’d never lived my life like I was

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being watched 24/7 or pushed myself to the limit. I knew what it was like to dance. I had the basics but not to the level of detail that was required at ABS. I think going to ABS really gave me an idea that if I wanted to teach, I had to know my work really well and I had to articulate it really well. I had to learn to use my mind and see dancing very differently, to work my brain as much as my body and teach myself how to do that. So the training was very different. For my body it was a re-training; for my mind it meant really growing up on my own. I think there are two things I will never regret about that time in Australia. I will never regret having the opportunity to really know what it was like to be put in a pressure cooker, because it let me know how much I love it. It has also brought me closer to my mother. I felt so homesick. My time in Australia made me appreciate Singapore so much more. The notion of leaving Singapore never came into my mind after that. Some people want to see the world and want to travel. I was very different. I wanted to come back and, if possible, be given a chance to make changes here in Singapore. So has Australia influenced me? It has brought me back to my roots, and I think that is something I am deeply grateful for.

Stuck on land that was not theirs Moeun Bun Thy, Siem Reap In 1984 we performed one night at the home of a high military official along the border. Since it was late when we finished, we slept at his house. The next morning, at about 5a.m., there was heavy shelling. We all screamed and ran to our own homes, trying to find our families. I must have run about 3 km along a dirt road. When I got home I found my parents waiting for me. They had collected what belongings they could, and were prepared to run away to another refugee camp. We ran – there must have been thousands of people – across the border into Thailand. It was the only place far enough from the fighting to be somewhat safe. The UN gathered everyone into a camp they called Site 2. The refugee camp was a terrible place to live. We never knew when we would have to run to another camp. People went crazy. We were always reminded of the war: lots of people had been maimed by landmines. Our parents worried about not having enough water or food for us. They worried about our future. But I loved going to the ‘Fine Arts Service’ every day. The artists were like my extended family. We practised hard together. We jumped into trenches to protect

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ourselves from artillery shells together. We dreamed about returning to Cambodia once there was peace. And on days when we got to perform outside we were like angels, bringing some happiness and hope to those people stuck on land that was not theirs.

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Squatters’ village Moeun Bun Thy, Siem Reap I started to teach dance in a kind of squatters’ village in Phnom Penh in early 2004. I decided to volunteer to do this because I wanted the children to understand our culture and arts, and to help preserve it. They also lived in dangerous conditions. I thought that if they focused on the arts, they might not sniff glue, run around in gangs, steal and other stuff. The slums are like the refugee camp in a lot of ways: small houses crammed close together; poor sanitation; poverty. The people there have to scavenge for food, work, etc., day and night. At first I had just four or five students, practising on the dirt. I sang and taught them to sing the rhythm of the drum. Sometimes a mother or father came and called the children to go and help them sell things along the road, so I had no students. Then a humanitarian organisation gave us a small enclosure with a stage. We had instruments, and I got a stipend of $40 a month. It was a big help because the salary from the National Department of Performing Arts at that time was the equivalent of about $20 a month. I needed about $100 a month to support my family. My husband became violent and kicked me and our three sons out of our house a few years ago. He took a new wife. I have been trying to support my family on my wages ever since. One day all the families in that slum area disappeared. They had been moved, I heard, so that the land could be developed. Some rich people bought the land from

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Students of Moeun Bun Thy, Phnom Penh At first I had just four or five students, practicing in the dirt. I sang and taught them to sing the rhythm of the drum. – Moeun Bun Thy

the government and needed all those people gone in order to fill in the swamp and build businesses. I don’t know where everyone was sent.

The son of the District Officer Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur My parents’ school’s group performed pretty well because they have really structured motifs. That’s how I learned about structure. When I went back to my old primary school, in Standard Four, the teacher was amazed that I was able to do more than they were teaching me. They found out why this was, and almost used me to be the (for want of a better word) prima danseur in the school. They would hand me something and I would be put in front of the group all the time. There would be 50 people behind me trying to learn the line dancing stuff, trying to follow my steps. I felt so big. I felt my ego was completely bloated. I felt that I was ‘the man’ in school. It was an all-boys school, and I was able to train the son of the District Officer and the sons of the Commissioner of Police. They were all behind me.

Talking Dance.indd 147 4/21/2016 6:36:17 PM Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur I’d say, ‘Guys, it’s so easy, just do this!’ and within a split second I just shifted from Anis who is the ordinary person into this extraordinary person.

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The kids would say, ‘Anis, show us a step!’ I’d say, ‘Guys, it’s so easy, just do this!’ and within a split second I just shifted from Anis who is the ordinary person into this extraordinary person. That was a joyous moment. And they’d say, ‘Anis, that’s awesome! Let’s do it again!’ I would be the mentor. I would be the coach. I was so high up among them.

Ritual steps Quang Thuyet, Dong Cao I learned to perform Luc Cung from a senior monk. The previous generation teaches the current generation. In a big temple with many people, they study in a group. In a smaller temple it might be individual instruction. Younger monks attend many different rituals and imitate the steps. Then senior monks describe the details and help the learners perfect their steps. I have taught the ritual steps to others, but to study well the monks should accompany me to many different rituals. It cannot be learnt in one or two days.

Quang Thuyet, Dong Cao The monk has to have talent and ability, and also has to learn this with his true spirit.

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The monk has to have talent and ability, and also has to learn this with his true spirit. He has to really want to learn this to help people; it’s not to gain money. The ritual functions to help people and their families. We all – monks and the lay people sponsoring the ceremony – must approach this with a pure heart. If not, the ritual will turn into something very bad.

Getting them to write a journal Stellar, Hong Kong Now I teach, but in the past I just gave a class. Then I demonstrated a lot instead of helping them to understand. My method at that time was just to demonstrate. Then when I saw my students, I thought, ‘Why don’t they look like me?’ That made me think about how to teach effectively. How? It’s the ‘how’ not the ‘what’ you teach. Now I find different ways to help the students – ways like getting them to write a journal of the class. Now I like asking questions. I’ve always had a very good memory for visualisation; I can see a movement and remember it straight away. But how am I to transfer this skill to my students? I have to find ways through teaching, and also through study.

Monks chanted prayers Noppon Jamreantong, Chonburi My dance background is incredibly varied. In addition to everything I did in school, I danced for tourists in restaurants and performed at funeral ceremonies, to honour the dead. Before a cremation the monks chanted prayers and we danced. I was also a make-up artist and costumer for both khon and lakhon performances. After graduation I was offered a teaching position at the School of Dance and Music in Kalasin, in northeastern Thailand. But my father was extremely ill so my family asked me to stay closer to home. As the only son, it was my duty to help care for my father. I took a job at a private school. I taught khon to the young children. Although challenging, I loved it. The school became famous throughout Prapradaeng District for its dancers. Every time there is a district-wide dance competition, this school receives the first prize.

Talking Dance.indd 150 4/21/2016 6:36:17 PM Noppon Jamreantong, Chonburi My dance background is incredibly varied. In addition to everything I did in school, I danced for tourists in restaurants and performed at funeral ceremonies to honour the dead.

Talking Dance.indd 151 4/21/2016 6:36:17 PM 152 Talking Dance A quiet revolution Nguyen Chi Anh, Hanoi My parents told me that many years ago social or ballroom dancing was not allowed in Vietnam. After the war, we had many things to do that were considered more important than dancing. With this prohibition ingrained in them, dancing conjures up images of playboys and playgirls for a lot of people. Since the ban has been lifted and there are TV shows available of competitions, performances and even some of my classes, dancing has become very popular. However, I can still see that somewhere in their minds or their bodies there is a certain reticence. Vietnamese people are quite shy in general. When the girl stands in front of the boy, she has to keep her hands on his shoulders which is difficult at first, so my goal as a teacher is to break through the initial shyness so they are more open to dancing, and to teach them how to enjoy the music and their partner. Once the shyness has been pierced, I can see the desire inside them. As for children, in particular, I want them to learn to believe in themselves. Now six and seven year olds enjoy studying and competing with good partners and wearing nice clothes. I think it is a quiet revolution.

One day in a coffee shop Le Vu Long, Hanoi From 1999 to 2000 I lived in France. I worked with many contemporary dance companies there. When I got back home, my idea was to build a performance project for young artists at Vietnam National Opera Ballet – trying to let them know in more depth about freer forms of dance expression, as well as classical ballet. The problem was that the young dancers were always too busy. They are all so busy, but nobody knows why, for what goal. In the mornings they study classical ballet and traditional dance. In the afternoon they try to invent something new. At night they perform. They have no time to really understand one particular style of dance; it’s all mixed up. They were too busy to focus and explore something on a deeper level with me. I began looking for pupils who had never danced before. I just needed people who could or would spend time learning in depth. One day in a coffee shop, I felt this keen interest in a group of deaf people I saw, because of their body language. Their body language wasn’t like that of a professional dancer, but it was still a form of communication. I tried to befriend them and understand more. In the

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beginning, they wrote down everything for me. I understood nothing. There was a distance between us. They were a big group: maybe 50 or 60 of them would often gather together. I asked if they would like to dance. They agreed. Since then (2002), we have kept going. I could not stop.

Making our own way of moving Luu Thi Thu Lan, Hanoi All our teaching methods come from Le Vu Long. He and I were both originally classically trained. He later studied contemporary dance in France for two years, and he wanted to shift his career to focus on contemporary dance. I think my husband is very clever, very smart. He invented all the methods himself – how to work with people who are not so young (from teenagers to people in their forties), people who have never been trained in dance, people who cannot hear. He starts with very simple exercises that help them explore themselves. Our first piece required very little technique, but people seemed to love it.

Luu Thi Thu Lan, Hanoi Our first piece required very little technique, but people seemed to love it.

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For ‘Together Higher’, we are inventing our own way of moving, rather than taking it from established techniques. We include improvisation in this because it is the shortest route to getting people to dance. If you have specific rules, it can be difficult.

Rich people/private parties Yim Sinath, Phnom Penh Rich people invite dancers to go to their private parties as hostesses. I would never do that. Other dancers and dance teachers do. The men of the house want us to dance with them and they will give us money. Sometimes they take a liking to a particular young dancer and set her up in a separate house. When the wife finds out, there is trouble. Some people are desperate because of the terrible poverty here. Others are afraid of their teachers. Some of the dance teachers insist that their students go so that they (the teachers) can make money. They get $1,000 for arranging an evening of this. Those teachers should know better. They do not value themselves or their students. It is no different from a woman in a bar who gets money from dancing with the patrons. The young women do not dare go against their teachers. Their parents don’t know where they are going. They only find out when there is a problem, a story. They think it’s a regular stage performance. The rich guys like to take the professional dancers instead of the women from the bar because the dancers are more beautiful and graceful. They can show off to the guests that they have hired beautiful women to dance with them. If the wives are there, they all dance in circles and the rich men secretly ask for the dancers’ phone numbers so they can contact them later. Young people are afraid of their elders. Women are afraid of men. They dare not not give the number; they dare not not show up when summoned. Some get up to $500 or even more a night in tips. I have declined every time I’ve been invited, even to sit and eat next to a rich man. Others have said to me, ‘Oh, now you have another way of making money?!’ It’s not that. What I have is self-respect. The word kru (teacher) means a model of morality. As a teacher we should do only what is good for the students. What these teachers are doing is terribly wrong.

Talking Dance.indd 154 4/21/2016 6:36:17 PM Teaching 155 Circus acts in those stone carvings Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh In 1981 Chheng Phon, the Minister of Culture and Information, said he didn’t want ballet in Cambodia any more. He didn’t want any foreign culture in Cambodia. I was so sad when ballet was taken off the roster. I had studied it all my life. We had nothing to do. Other ballet dancers stopped and found other kinds of work. I knew some classical dance and folk dance. I could perform folk opera, too. I went to the folk dance department and became a performer. I stayed there for two years. Then the circus department was formed. When the circus department opened I became a ballet teacher for the circus arts students, based at the Olympic Stadium. I am not sure why they wanted a circus troupe. Some Cambodians had studied circus arts in the Soviet Union before the war. I heard that some people had researched the bas-reliefs at Angkor and found evidence of circus acts in those stone carvings, so that meant there was a circus tradition in Cambodia.

Circus School students, Phnom Penh Some people researched the bas reliefs at Angkor and found evidence of circus acts in those stone carvings, so that meant there was a circus tradition in Cambodia. – Nuon Kunthor

Talking Dance.indd 155 4/21/2016 6:36:17 PM 156 Talking Dance Raw and cooked food Ladda Phomalath, Vientiane On Thursdays the students offered their teachers incense, candles and flowers. Once a year they held a ceremony to honour the dance teachers at the school, just before New Year. They told anyone who was an artist to come and join in the ceremony. Singers, past students, and others were all welcome. Sometimes they publicised the event on television and invited everyone to join in. There were banana stalk offerings, raw and cooked food and special fruit. Students would bring a needle and white flowers, bananas and a coconut and one boiled chicken egg each in order to have them blessed. After our things were blessed and we ate, the teachers said that partaking of things that were blessed would make us smart and that we would dance well. We would get positive things from the spirits of the dance. If we included our make-up and perfume in the ceremony, and it got blessed there, then when we wore it for a performance, we were told, the audience would see us as especially beautiful. We still do this every year at the National School of Music and Dance.

Hammer a nail into a piece of wood Chatuporn Rattanawaraha, Bangkok Back when I was a student, the whole teaching style was different from how it is now. Today they study both khon and lakhon through new curriculum units, and have to pass from one to another. In my opinion, the unit system is not appropriate for the teaching and learning of dance, since in dance the learner should be able to dance the positions and roles by heart. Students nowadays do not have confidence in their dancing because they have not had to memorise all the dance postures over the long term. They remember the ones they’ve just learnt, but forget the previous ones. In my era we did not follow a curriculum. It was up to individual teachers to decide what to teach when. We had to repeat the fundamentals over and over again. The teacher was the one who guided us until he thought we were ready to go to on the next teacher and work on something else. In that way, your body worked hard to internalise the knowledge. You could do anything after that; the knowledge was so solid. It’s like when you hammer a nail into a piece of wood: the knowledge is deep inside your body, inside your heart.

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Chatuporn Rattanawaraha, Bangkok In my era we did not follow a curriculum. It was up to individual teachers to decide what to teach when.

They proposed changing the teaching system in 1977. I am the only one who opposed the change. I based my opposition on my years of experience as a student and a teacher. Because of my concern about the unit approach to teaching, I wrote a handbook about the traditional way to train to be a ‘giant’ in khon. I believed that only if your body knows how to do the basics will you be able to do anything. This kind of training requires constant repetition, until the body and mind work together. I wanted to write this book because I was so worried about the younger generation in the ‘curriculum unit’ system. I was afraid their knowledge of the dance would become less and less. This book would be a resource for the young people to reference. This was part of my responsibility as a teacher.

Loved the atmosphere Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh I learned from all my teachers about the importance of the relationship between teacher and student. I studied with Neak Kru Huy Serey Phousita, Neak Kru Mao

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Tep Mony, Neak Kru Soth Somaly and Lok Yeiy Chea Samy. I felt close to them and wasn’t scared. None of them ever hit me. They played around with us, too. They stood in front of us and demonstrated very slowly until all the students mastered the movements, instead of screaming at us, ‘You do it! You do it!’ as some other teachers did. At the end of class we stood together in a row after changing out of our practise costumes and sang a song with Lok Kru Thavarak and Lok Kru Saem who were teaching khol. I loved the atmosphere so much; I try to recreate it for my students.

‘Your heart is big’ Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok A good dance teacher is one who gives to all the students equally. Some students have wanted to go to my house for extra studies. I have told them not to follow me home because my house is so small. They’ve said in return, ‘Your house might be small but your heart is big.’ So they come to my home to practise dance. I give them food and support, because some of them travel a long distance to my house. I also offer them medicine. They are students – up studying much of the night. I try to give them as much as possible, just as I received so much from my teachers. It is hard these days. There seems to be less discipline, focus and patience among the students. Sometimes they ask to study a particular dance, but halfway through the training they give up because it is too much work for them.

The road is dangerous and narrow Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh All the classical dance classes share one open hall, so it can be distracting when another class plays music or is doing an interesting dance. I explain to my students that if they want to be able to dance as well as those older students are doing, they need to concentrate on what we are doing. Their attention comes back to whatever we were in the process of learning. They are all dedicated. I love my students. I write out the drum rhythm – ‘chak chong chak’ – that accompanies the series of basic gestures and movements in each student’s notebook. I want to make sure they know the words for all the body parts too, so for homework I ask them to draw what they are supposed to do on each beat, and label their head, fingers, etc. Using red

Talking Dance.indd 158 4/21/2016 6:36:18 PM Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh There was never a point when I wanted to stop dancing. The more I learned, the more I liked it. You know, when you do something well, you really like it.

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ink, they draw the position of the arms (they look at friends who demonstrate), the legs, and so on. Sometimes I ask my students to sing. If you know how to sing the lyrics for a particular dance, it’s easier to remember the steps. So I have them practise the songs for the dances they are learning. The dances we teach in the second year are kind of easy. They are young, so we do dances related to birds and nature. They can laugh at themselves. At this age you cannot act like a princess, but you feel great dressed up as a bird or gesturing about flowers. When I was young, I just sat in a row and did what my teachers asked me to do, or what they demonstrated. My teachers were still thinking about how the old masters had taught. It doesn’t mean traditional forms of training are bad. This school has produced a lot of good dancers, but these days the number of students is decreasing. In the past, students somehow felt an obligation or responsibility to dance because of our ancestors, and because the tradition, which was so closely linked with national identity, had almost been lost. Those things are less prominent these days: we have to find a fun way to encourage students and engage them a lot in the class. The decrease in the number of students in the dance department has to do in part with the school’s location as well. It is far away for a lot of the city people who are not used to long commutes. The road is dangerous and narrow and lots of big trucks travel on it. Parents worry about their children’s security and safety. Another problem is that the programme tends to be not all that interesting. It is quite repetitive. We have to help students realise that school is a place where they can learn, gather with friends and share. The administration and the teachers themselves still need more training. What our students can do after graduation remains a big problem. People go to school because they believe that after graduation they will have a job and do what they want to. But the truth is, they have no opportunities to perform, no opportunities to create dance and no alternative career. Ten years devoted to one thing and when you leave you feel you know nothing.

The moment they feel the dance belongs to them Phan Y Ly, Hanoi In the salsa community I was very active in inviting teachers in, but when everyone started becoming a teacher I took a step back.

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I have a unique teaching philosophy, one influenced by my work. I use creativity, like community art. I do not impose what is ‘right’. People have to feel it, grasp it for themselves. When people learn the basic step in most salsa classes in the world, they would be taught one-two-three, five-six-seven, one-two-three, five-six-seven. It is just right-left-right, left-right-left, with a pause in between. Later, when you dance, you realise it isn’t just a straight walk. You have to do a lot of styling. People get stuck because of how they were taught. So I teach them from the beginning to travel anywhere in the room, keeping the one-two-three, five- six-seven, and to still be on time with the right leg. The only thing I check is to see if they are ready with the right leg. I hold competitions in the class to see who can walk all over the room. This is required for styling. The moment they feel the dance belongs to them, they can create any step.

Dancing with the Stars Nguyen Chi Anh, Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City I am a judge on Vietnam’s version of Dancing with the Stars. This is the first season we’ve had this show here. Most of the professional dancers are from Bulgaria. There aren’t any professional dancers from Vietnam in the show because the models and actors who are the ‘celebrities’ are tall. We have some short celebrities, but not many. I am too short to dance with them. Also, Vietnamese people are excited by something new, and something from overseas. The show is very popular. People all over the country discuss and argue about the show. I think it’s great. I’d watched Dancing with the Stars from America, England, Italy and Russia before it started here. Our show is broadcast live. It’s the same format as the other shows around the world: it lasts for one and half hours with advertisements. The judges give their critiques. Fifteen minutes after the show ends the audience can vote for the couple they like. The adjudicators’ results count for 50 per cent and the audience vote counts for 50 per cent. In episode four I disqualified one singer, but he had a lot of fans so the audience didn’t agree with me. The difficulty with being a judge is, as a professional dancer, always seeing with the eye of a professional. I have to combine this eye with the eye of the audience – they might be attracted by the dress or something else. Before we give our points we explain our reasoning. I have to talk a lot, which is different from professional competitions. It is difficult to criticise. I talk around it, not directly mentioning the criticism. I soften it a bit. The camera is on me. I feel like a diplomat on this show.

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We have four judges. After four episodes, the other three judges have each had the audience attack them at least once. Not me – yet. I will do it again next year if they ask me. It helps to make dancing popular and to make everybody happy. A lot of celebrities in Vietnam (singers, actors, models, comedians) think that if they do not win this game it will impact their reputation. But I don’t believe that. If they are famous as actors, nobody really cares if they can’t dance. But if someone can both sing and dance, it will have a positive impact. The most difficult dances for the stars to learn are standard (ballroom) dances because the man and woman have to stay very close to one another. In Latin, you are further apart and can improvise a bit. In standard you have no chance to improvise.

What they already have in their bodies Julaluck Eakwattanapun, Chonburi I am a lecturer in contemporary dance at Burapha University. My job is to take Thai dance, contemporise it through choreography, and teach this to my students. I introduce them to the issues and concepts. I will never touch the classical poses that they have. I encourage them to come up with new vocabulary from what they already have in their bodies from their previous training. They might be most comfortable with folk movements or classical. I have to guide them through composition and choreography. I ask them where the poses they are using come from and what they mean, in order to decide whether they will work in the new piece they have in mind. For their final thesis project my students have to perform something they have created themselves. For the most part, they are classical dancers and add some contemporary elements into a traditional dance.

Stand on our feet Martina Benedict Paul Jenis, Santubong I work as a full-time dancer at the Sarawak Cultural Village. I have also been promoted to become a dance instructor. I sometimes perform if they need more manpower. Sometimes we teach not only people on our own staff but also tourists who want to learn dancing on the spot. We charge them 10 ringgit per hour; we teach them the simple movements of our dance, the Sarawak dance. For those who have zero

Talking Dance.indd 162 4/21/2016 6:36:18 PM Julaluck Eakwattanapun, Chonburi My job is to take Thai dance, contemporise it through choreography, and teach this to my students.

Talking Dance.indd 163 4/21/2016 6:36:18 PM Martina Benedict Paul Jenis, Santubong It helps me learn to be patient and have a kind of feeling of humanity.

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knowledge, it’s quite difficult to teach, but we know how to tackle it because we have a teaching system. I come across a lot of challenging students: we have blind students, those who use a wheelchair, those with physical disabilities. We know how to teach them as we’ve had a lot of experience in teaching disabled people. The most difficult are the deaf; we have to make them feel what we feel. For those who have difficulty in hearing the music we have to play the beat on their bodies, the rhythm on their bodies, and we let them stand on our feet and teach them how to do the movements. It is quite fun and it is also a good experience for me. It helps me learn to be patient and have a kind of feeling of humanity. There was this one student from West Malaysia – a teenage girl. She really wanted to dance, but her time with us was very short, only about an hour. I was teaching the most aggressive and fun Bidayuh dance; it is very energetic. Some of the students felt they couldn’t keep up with the dance. Some of them gave up. Sometimes you play around with them until they are ready to start dancing again. But this one girl didn’t stop. She kept doing the dance as she left the studio. She didn’t want to forget the steps so she kept doing it outside until I couldn’t see her and her group any more. I felt happy, because we have made a commitment to teach. The difficult part is when they cannot catch onto what you are teaching them. So you have to touch their hands, both hands, and let them feel the movements, the counting, and move forward, backward, maybe sitting down.

I failed, so I stayed Anouza Phoutisane, Vientiane In primary school I had studied classical dance. When I was in middle school I started to think of dance as a girls’ thing and concentrated on sports. There was a guy in the late 1990s who came here from abroad (he was half-Lao) who danced hip-hop. What he was doing really caught my interest. From that introduction I went on to teach myself. Some of my friends joined me, too, at first, though some of them criticised me for doing something that was not part of Lao culture. A real break-dance teacher came here from France in 2004. He ran a workshop for ten days. I had seen a poster about the classes and I joined the workshop on break-dance and contemporary dance. From that time onwards, I was hooked on both types of dance.

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If I had passed my exams during my last year of college I would have gone to China on a scholarship to continue my studies. But I failed, so I stayed here and worked on creating a performing troupe. I guess that’s lucky. I started to teach for free. I went around and invited street kids to study with me. I thought that if I could get them off the streets and teach them to dance, I could give them an alternative to begging. This would be a small effort in the fight against poverty here.

Lessons that involve drawing or playing Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh I teach classical dance at the Secondary School of Fine Arts on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. Although I work in contemporary dance too, teaching the classical form helps me look back at my own traditions as I consider how to use them in a new way. I teach the second-year students. They are between eight and 12 years old. In my class not many are the children of artists – maybe only two out of 15. I like the small group of students – I have more time to work with them individually and it is easy to control. Class lasts from 7:30 to 10:30a.m. Monday to Friday. I like to be flexible about what I teach, but at the same time I always write out my lesson plans. I want to make sure that at the end of each class my students have learnt something. When I’ve prepared well, the students get it more easily. They are so young. I try to design lessons that involve drawing or playing. For example, I might ask them to walk here and there and look at each other. I want them to walk and feel what the other one does so that when they dance with a partner they can connect. If they show up at school early they warm up by themselves – in the traditional warm-up style. I still believe in its value; it is what brought me to the stage. After those exercises I have them do an additional warm-up for the joints. This was missing during my years of training. Everyone’s body flexibility is different. I know what I needed that I did not get from the traditional warm-up, so I added something focused on rolling the wrists, for example, and lifting a bent leg higher.

The Lord has been speaking to me Pia Paderes, Manila In high school we had a yearbook which asked, ‘What’s your goal ten years from now?’

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I wrote down, ‘Lord, you gave me the gift of dance and I’m going to use it until that time when I can’t’. I am 38 now and, looking back, Lord, from the time I was 16 onwards, Lord, you have woven dance into my life. It wasn’t like I sought it out; there were opportunities after opportunities put in front of me, open doors, mainly for relationships with other people. There was one time when we went on mission trips to different places like Mongolia. I was able to perform a number in front of the church and it blessed them. If I hadn’t been trained when I was younger and hadn’t had the experience I’ve had I wouldn’t have been able to minister to the people through using dance as a medium. Recently the Lord has been speaking to me to use it but I really don’t know how. People say, ‘You’re not too old to dance’, but I’m really not sure where I can take it to further. I know that I’m now training a new generation of dancers, and I know that they won’t only have the experience I’ve had; they will have more. They don’t just receive the training I received, but also the heart of God. Every time we have class we pray together and I ask them what they want the Lord to do with their dancing, so it is like discipleship.

Nobody attended the class Ramli Ali, Santubong There are a lot of sweet memories and a lot of bad memories. There’s one time I taught in Kapit, a very small town in another part of Sarawak. Nobody attended the class. There was a rumour that said the way I taught was very rough on the students. Then a few students attended the class and after a few moments they started to enjoy it. After that the class was full. In learning the arts we are learning how to live. It is like a journey, like when you go to war; it is a battle, it lasts forever. I’ve never given up while teaching a child, because it is a philosophy, it is a gift, it is like learning how to live.

Hope they are still married Anna Chan, Hong Kong When I was in the UK, I did some part-time ballroom and Latin teaching for a local dance community hall. I was asked to teach a couple their wedding dance. That was the most difficult teaching I have ever done. Teaching someone a dance just for the

Talking Dance.indd 167 4/21/2016 6:36:18 PM Ramli Ali, Santubong In learning the arts we are learning how to live. It is like a journey, like when you go to war; it is a battle, it lasts forever.

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purpose of their wedding and making sure that in four lessons they can do their first dance – that was very challenging! I tried to make them dance together, as a couple. They were very keen, a very young couple and they were going to get married in a month’s time. They were desperate about their first dance, and they kept asking, ‘Can we do it in four lessons?’ I said, ‘Don’t worry whether you can get the steps or not. The most important thing is that you enjoy yourselves. Even if you step on each other’s toes, just don’t kill each other at the wedding!’ But it was hard work. I think the pressure came from inside myself: I had to make sure they felt confident, that they could dance with each other, trust one another. You know, quite often in couples dancing, you can get into an argument very easily. By the fourth lesson they looked okay. I haven’t been in touch with them since those four lessons. I presume they are okay and I hope they are still married!

Like a sixth sense Nguyen Chi Anh, Hanoi In standard (ballroom) dancing, the quickstep is the most difficult dance to teach. It is so fast. You have to keep your top stable while almost running. In Latin, the samba presents the greatest challenge for students because the hips and waist move. It’s difficult for beginners. Most of my students eventually dance the samba well, perhaps because I divide the movements up clearly. I take things apart and explain. I like to vary my teaching technique. Sometimes I have everyone in a line, sometimes in a circle. I make sure they often change partners. My students come to me after sitting down all day. I want them to forget everything, to move and to have fun. I learned a long time ago that in break-dancing, yoga, ballet and jazz you must have a warm-up, so I incorporate a warm-up into my teaching. A lot of people just want to learn the steps. But I think it is not only the steps that you need. You need to know about yourself – about the different parts of the body. Most people can learn to dance in a short time in my class, in part due to the warm up. I can tell right away whether a new student has the potential to be good or not: ‘If he continues, he will be a champion’ or ‘Maybe he shouldn’t continue because he won’t get anywhere’. Maybe it’s like a sixth sense. It comes from experience. I can just tell.

Talking Dance.indd 169 4/21/2016 6:36:18 PM 170 Talking Dance Just close your eyes and think of yourself as Darcey Bussell Layna Chan, Kuching When my studies finished, I had to return because of my scholarship. When I first came back, I worked for the Ministry of Culture, but they did not have anything for me for a while. The Performing Arts Department in Kuala Lumpur – which was mostly about cultural dancing – was short of people, so I flew over there and became the Dance Executive, sitting in front of a computer. After nine or ten months I wrote to the scholarship provider and said, ‘You sent me to England for three years, spending so much money, and now I am sitting in front of a computer doing nothing relating to what I have learnt. And in three years I am going to have forgotten everything.’ So I asked for permission to quit. I resigned and came back to Kuching, but I was still supposed to wait for them to assign something to me. I waited a couple of months and then I started my own school. I gave them a call and told them, ‘I’ve started my school and I already have so many students!’ They just laughed it off and were really nice about it. Teaching here was very different, especially with the little ones. When I taught in the UK I just put on a piece of music and said, ‘You be the witch … you be the princess … you be the mushroom’, or whatever, and then, ‘Yay!’ You just can’t stop them. When I came here, I told the children what to do and then put the music on, and … nothing. … They just didn’t know what to do. They didn’t dare move. They were just from a very different background, a very different upbringing. I tried to teach them how to move, but I had to give them very clear guidelines. Even when they were starting to move, if I put on something new, they didn’t move. I think visualisation helps a lot. I always encourage them to look at pictures. We don’t have ballet shows here, but we have DVDs. Last week I was teaching the children, and I said, ‘Give me a better attitude’. I had this picture of Darcey Bussell in attitude. I said, ‘Come on, you’ve seen that picture! Just close your eyes and think of yourself as Darcey Bussell. And give me that attitude!’ It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

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Layna Chan, Kuching I waited a couple of months and then I started my own school. I gave them a call and told them, ‘I’ve started my school and I already have so many students!’

Talking Dance.indd 171 4/21/2016 6:36:19 PM 172 Talking Dance Bring them to nature Suhaimi Magi, Kota Kinabalu When I was teaching the students how to improvise, they had never heard the word before. I really wanted them to understand their bodies, how they felt. I didn’t want them to think, just to move and explore. For some people who really can’t improvise there is a problem, because they only know how to move. They don’t know how to explore and expand, to get more and more. One thing I discovered that helped was taking them into nature – climbing rocks and trees. Nature presents them with a lot of movements, because in climbing up on a stone they have to use a different kind of movement, a different energy, and then they have to get down in a different way. Mostly I use the waterfall: they have to feel the water; they have to feel the heat; they have to climb up everything; they have to pull the energy; they have to feel the small stone, the big stone. Then we put those experiences into the studio.

Suhaimi Magi, Kota Kinabalu When I was teaching the students how to improvise, they had never heard the word before.

Talking Dance.indd 172 4/21/2016 6:36:19 PM Teaching 173 This could be a very good platform Cai Ying, Shamen When I graduated from Beijing Academy, the first thing I said was, ‘I’m not going to be a dancer. In my life I only want to teach and create. I have no passion for performing at all.’ I think this is because of the system that made me feel that only the perfect can be on the stage – the perfect technique, the perfect face, like everything outside but not inside. And a dancer’s life is so short – 30 maybe, and then you are finished. Also parents tend to think you can have a long life as a teacher. The president of the Beijing Dance Academy had started a private school in Shamen, and when I graduated he asked me to go there. He said, ‘Oh, you have family there, and I know you like to create and you have a passion for teaching. This could be a very good platform for a young teacher like you.’ I thought, ‘Yeah, okay. I can try if there’s an opportunity.’ Before I graduated we had a three-month internship. I taught in a secondary school. I became more patient because I came to realise that everyone wants their students to become good and to understand their bodies more, but it really takes time. It is just so easy to get overexcited and say, ‘How come you don’t understand what I’m talking about?!’ I get angry with myself rather than angry with my students. I feel like I really want them to improve. I don’t want to hurt them.

A unit on geometry Cindy Chan, Hong Kong Last week I was trying to teach third graders creative dance in order to enhance their mathematical studies. I was doing a unit on geometry, as an after-school activity, an experiment. We were talking about perpendicular lines, parallel lines, triangles. I thought I had planned my class in a very nice way. They had to find the lines and the curves in their bodies first. Then in the next class we talked about how two lines make angles, different types of angles. So in the third class we talked about perpendicular lines, and they used stretchy bands to make shapes, and I thought they’d got it. But, when I asked them to show me perpendicular lines in their bodies, they just stood there. ‘But I want to see two lines! The lines on the floor don’t count. I want to see two lines clearly on your body.’

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I repeated this many times, but they didn’t get it. So it made me think. Maybe I had overestimated their ability. I thought, ‘Okay. What do I do next?’ We tried to make triangles, but some kids still didn’t get it. Others quickly adapted the shape to make a triangle. I praised them and they felt good, and I thought, ‘Good, you’ve got it.’ I’m still reflecting on this class. What was my objective? They know a triangle when they are writing it on paper. The fact that they cannot complete it with a line of their body, what does it really mean? Do I have to insist on that? What do I want to help them achieve and learn? I think if you use more senses it will enhance your learning. For kids who are more kinaesthetic it might help them. If they are like the kids that work in the system mathematically, if they are good linguistically – they might not need it that much. But overall, in education, especially here in Hong Kong, the kinaesthetic sense is really not tapped into.

The tying of the bells Puspavathy Naniapen, Kuching I did my certificate level in 1992 in Bharatanatyam. That is where, for the first time, they tied the bells around my legs. Without their prayers we cannot tie the bells around our legs. In around six months I learnt the basic steps; then I qualified for the certificate. In those six months I did not wear the bells. After this, the teacher gave an exam. I had to memorise all the steps plus the hand movements. I had to write them down, and then I was given the exam. After that I had to be a vegetarian for 48 days. She did the prayers and brought me to the beachside. She did more prayers at the beach and then tied the bells around my feet. I was confident I would pass, and I was very happy when I passed because she tied the bells for me. It wasn’t me that tied them; she did. I showed my legs and she tied them, in front of all the students. After the prayers I performed for the audience. That was the first time I was on the stage. Now I teach small kids. We teach classical steps, so twice a year my teacher comes over from Johor Bahru, and she checks the students and whether they qualify for the tying of the bells or not. When the kids graduate to having their bells that is the happiest moment, because we have been successful in teaching the kids. When my teacher comes and says, ‘Yes, they have done very well,’ she decides to put the bells on the kids.

Talking Dance.indd 174 4/21/2016 6:36:19 PM Teaching 175 I am not a good teacher Humphrey Robert Linggie, Kuching I teach all kinds of dance, but mostly I teach West Malaysian dance, royal dance. Aside from that I love to do contemporary dance. I have had a lot of difficult students. I am not a good teacher, because I can only teach a person who can dance. Those who cannot dance, I pass on to my friends. For me, when teaching dancing, I do not want to teach them the basics; I want to throw them my ideas.

Get the young researchers to record Boonnak Tantranon, Bangkok I came to the University of the Thai Chamber of Commerce in 1985, after teaching at Chulalonghorn and Thammasat universities. I am trying to get students who research dance to work with older people to collect all their information, to record their experiences and their gestures and postures. Two months after one of my students went to interview one of the older dancers, that artist passed away. I am trying to get the young researchers to record as much as they can so that the art and knowledge are passed on to the next generation.

A ‘giant’ had replaced her Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh I have often wondered where the spirits are when I call them during my private prayers or during a ceremony. Have they arrived? Where are they sitting? One morning when we had a ceremony honouring the spirits of the dance, a student brought in a pig’s head prepared the wrong way for the rite. When she presented it to me, I was afraid to take it because I saw Lok Yeiy Soth Sam-on looking angry and withdrawn. I turned away for a second, and when I glanced at her again, she had transformed into someone or something else. I didn’t recognise her. It was as if a ‘giant’ had replaced her. She went to the centre of the stage and sat in a position that a giant would take in performance, with her shoulders open and back, both arms bent at the elbow, and hands in fists. She spoke in this really powerful voice, demanding to know why we were preparing the ceremony with those offerings. She was exactly like a giant within a dance drama. We were so scared. All the students bent forward, not daring to look at her.

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She ordered me and another teacher to perform a sacred dance right away. Then she told the musicians to play a particular melody, lifted her hands in prayer and slowly became herself again, asking the supreme god of the arts to forgive her. She did not remember what she had said or done. She just knew she had been ‘not’ herself. That was the first time in my life as a dancer that I was certain the spirits were present – so tough and mean, just like a giant in a story. The spirit had been afraid of losing what was there from before. The ceremony had to be done according to tradition. Since that time I have always invited the spirit of Lok Yeiy Chea Samy to be with me when I am making my beysey. I know she comes to watch me and help. There are times right before a performance when I am so tired and distracted, I’m afraid I’ll dance poorly. But as soon as I start dancing, all that has gone and I have energy and focus. I think it comes from Chea Samy watching over me. Usually, if a dancer does not have a teacher to help her in that way, she cannot perform well.

They did their crucifix action Christina Jensen, Hong Kong I was going to the New Territories and I couldn’t find this bloody school. I was running around all over town. I had to get the MTR and then a bus. I was in the middle of Hong Kong and had never been in that area before. I walked into this all-girls Catholic school and was there ready with my post-rock music on my iPod, wearing some clothes that were maybe inappropriate to that scene. As I walked in it seemed like a normal school. Walking into the sports area, some of the girls were playing netball, and in another corner the girls were laughing and giggling. I thought, ‘Okay, okay. I can kinda get this.’ Suddenly the bell rang and everything stopped. I was standing in the middle of a kind of basketball court and everyone started praying. There was a woman on the loudspeaker saying some sort of prayer. They just stopped, held their hands together, very static, very un-emotive. They were echoing the words that were being said on the loudspeaker, not verbally, just kind of miming the words. Then at the end they did their crucifix action, crossing themselves, and that was it. It was very casual. It is just something they have to do, a kind of arbitrary ritual. But for me, it was still completely surreal, because it was this sort of unexpected performance that I walked into.

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They led me into a small room. I taught them a little phrase that they could use at any time, and I put on some really ambient kind of post-rock. I could see they suddenly got really, really into it. It got quite, quite intense. At that moment I thought, ‘Okay, I’m getting somewhere and this is actually really useful, to be teaching in this kind of school which is so conservative. They don’t get any creative subjects.’ But then the bell went off, and they had to stop and do their ritual. If it was on video it would be an incredible performance, to have that little interruption of my agenda.

The negative comments we hear on American Idol wouldn’t work Thiem Chuthidej Thongyu, Pathum Thani This is the sixth year of the TV programme I helped create, Ching Cha Sawan. It’s a national competition among high school students involving luk thung music, singing and dancing. Ching Cha Sawan means ferris wheel. For me it symbolises reaching heaven, in the sense of letting yourself go and having unbridled fun. Luk thung is a form of music with origins in the Thai countryside. Traditionally, performers would sing with a hang krueng – a chorus of four, six or eight dancers behind them. In our show, the troupes involve 20–40 people, with elaborate choreography. It has become a family time. People eat together as a family and watch Ching Cha Sawan. This is quite unusual today in Thailand. Even members of royalty have requested videotapes of the programme because they enjoy it so much. It has become wildly famous all over the country because it challenges the kids to compete with one another and face judges who give honest, direct and constructive comments. The kinds of forceful, negative comments we hear on American Idol wouldn’t work in a Thai context. The comments on our show are softer, focusing on improving the abilities and understanding of young kids, rather than on handing out harsh criticism. We find that the students enjoy the feedback from real masters of the art. I serve as one of the judges as well. When I judge the dance portion of the performance, I have to realise that today many young people in this competition may know some hip-hop, popping, jazz, contemporary dance and ballet; they will bring all those styles in. They also google dance forms, and find stuff on YouTube and include it. My duty is to say which ones are good for luk thung; which ones

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Thiem Chuthidej Thongyu, Pathum Thani The kinds of forceful, negative comments we hear on American Idol wouldn’t work in a Thai context.

can enhance this art form, working to its benefit. Jazz is often a good addition, for example. I have to communicate what I believe is going to preserve the beauty of luk thung – the ‘Thai’ style of singing, dancing and having fun. It is my duty to remind them of good luk thung taste. In addition, as a judge, I consider the relationship between the choreography and the music. What is the tone of a particular piece of music? Does the choreography complement that music? If the song is slow, and the costumes and make-up ‘loud’, it might not be the right fit. The choreography should reflect the meaning of the lyrics as well. If performers do not understand the meaning, even if the choreography is beautiful, it isn’t appropriate for luk thung. I have seen people use choreography from synchronised swimming and gymnastics, which might have been fine except that there was no relationship to the lyrics. The viewers guess what the judges are going to say. They wait especially to hear what I am going to say. That is because I am honest about what is good and what is

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bad. I do not embellish. For the audience, for the kids who come to this project, for me, it is all about communicating from the heart. The schools that participate in the competition are also sincere, and invested in doing well. They cry when they lose. The emotions are so high, I feel for them. Some come from rural areas nobody even knew about and now national television features them.

I felt a bit sick Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh Lok Yeiy Chea Samy was well known for having danced as Moni Mekhala. After she trusted me with the role, I told her that each time students asked me to teach them this role, I felt a bit sick. She said not to worry. I had already done the appropriate ritual, a sampeah kru ceremony, to ask for permission to study and perform Moni Mekhala. So the spirits would not be displeased if I taught the role to others. Once I had that assurance, I went ahead and was fine whenever I taught that dance. At least twice a year, Chea Samy comes to me in my dreams. She is always teaching Moni Mekhala.

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Military forts Christina Jensen, Hong Kong We ended up doing a performance in Cebu City, in one of the Philippines’ oldest military forts, which was created by the Spanish and which was of course a place of serious destruction and violence. So we made an hour-long improvised performance with 15 young people, some of whom had lived on the street, some of whom came from poor families. Like Bernie. He is an amazing young adult. He lives at home and his parents make jewellery for Fairtrade; they thread beads on strings and make very little money. It is a squat. Actually their house is going to be torn down. He had done some hip-hop and he had the facility, body-wise, to become an incredible dancer. He was very disciplined and a beautiful, beautiful presence. He did one improvisation where I asked him to make a hip-hop phrase and to slow it down to around 10 per cent. So it became this butoh form of hip-hop, and his body was having to work so much harder from this kind of movement, because normally this movement is fast. So he was sweating. We had just had a blackout, which happened in the orphanage. The lights always went out. It was completely dark; we only had the light from the mobile phones around. He was doing this slow motion hip-hop, and that was the time when I cried during the process. It was the most beautiful performance ever. It was just so touching, and not necessarily because he was expressing an emotion or a voice, but because he was so

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engrossed in what he was doing. It was more interesting than a lot of the professional work that I go and see. It was really, really incredible. But he said to me, ‘Christina I’m gonna do drafting, ’cos I’m gonna need to get a job that’s going to help support my family.’ I didn’t say anything but I felt really embarrassed because here we are. I come from a middle-class family and they pay for my studies and support me, and now I still live at home because I can’t afford to move out. And yes, so of course they need a practical job.

Ordinary movement becomes so extraordinary Anis Nor, Kuala Lumpur In the cinemas there was a smell of cigarettes everywhere. There were more adults than children, but my parents would never leave us at home. It was very family oriented and there were many musicals. In those days all the Malay movies followed the structure of Hindustani movies. I remember fidgeting for a while because the story wasn’t interesting, but the moment the music came up I sat with my eyes transfixed and my mouth dropped open. I remember very clearly, after the dance had finished, the feeling that I had left my mouth open for a long time. Most of the movements were with the lower torso, with a lot of stepping and jumping. I had no understanding of aesthetics, but I was transfixed by how movements of the body transformed an ordinary person into an extraordinary person. For example, a group or the chorus will come in from a field or somewhere and they will be talking about how wonderful it was and feeling good about it, and then the music starts. The person who is the main actor or actress will start to move around and the chorus joins in, and there is my amazement. I say, ‘Oh, my God!’ They were doing something that was related to what was shown before that. The dance is always connected to that event, so their movements depict the paddy farmers, the paddies. I have the visual impression that such ordinary movement becomes so extraordinary when the rhythm is controlled and not let loose; therefore the rhythm is there all the time. Why do we assume we have to wait for it to happen? These guys didn’t wait for it to happen; they just sang. Of course I didn’t understand it, but to me it was magic. It means you do not have to be a dancer: anyone can move. When I went home, without the music or anything in my head, nothing, I started moving. I moved!

Talking Dance.indd 181 4/21/2016 6:36:19 PM 182 Talking Dance The dancers ask for tips Jo Jo, Phnom Penh I have been to Thailand, Singapore and Malaysia as a tourist. I wanted to know about life elsewhere, and in Thailand I wanted to compare their ‘show’ performances to ours in Cambodia. They are so different from one another. In Pattaya they are about two generations older than we are. We are like grandchildren in terms of capacity, not in terms of age. They have more experience, more financial support, infrastructure, and so on. They have a big stage, and teachers who teach them to dance and to lip synch. We could not do what they do in Thailand because we would have to practise by day, too, to get the show that polished as a group. Dancers in Cambodia have to work at other jobs in the daytime to make ends meet. It cost about $20 a ticket for VIPs to sit at the front at the performances in Thailand. We could never charge that. Not enough people in Cambodia would pay that price. I saw only foreigners in those audiences in Thailand, even during the daytime performances. It was like going to the movies: they go for a two-hour show on a big stage. In Thailand I heard the dancers ask for tips from the foreigners who wanted to take pictures with them after the shows. Here we do not dare ask for tips. Instead, we thank the guests for asking us to take pictures with them!

Mobile youth work brigade Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh Kids in my mobile youth work brigade were taught revolutionary songs and dances. I never performed, only practised – although I did see the Khmer Rouge troupes perform. They had no real technique. They just clapped their hands and stomped their feet. They sang about work and the revolution. I thought only of hunger and of ways to meet my parents. I had no reaction to this music and dance, none.

Wings that carry them Sang Sar, Mae Sot I remember one particular Shan New Year celebration in our village in Burma. It was when I was in standard two or three. It was so nice. There were many kinds

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of dancing, including a dance of the kinari kinara. They dance as girl and boy, starting in heaven and then coming to earth to dance. They have wings that carry them here. I remember how they bent and straightened their legs – up and down, up and down – as if they were floating in the sky, and then using their arms as wings. There were other dances in which they used bamboo and another in which they clapped their hands. In rural villages there were always a number of dances performed at New Year time. Seeing those performances really made me want to learn how to dance. Sometimes I would dance by myself at my house. But, because I was so young while I was in Burma, I did not perform in the community celebrations.

The choreographer used the aisles Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh I have been to Broadway in New York to see two plays, notebook in hand. I always bring my notebook with me – wherever I go. It is really important to write things down. Sometimes unpredictable things happen. I can go back and check it any time I want. Otherwise, I may forget something. When I see a show I list what I have seen on stage. For example, in Promises Promises, the transitions from one scene to another were so smooth. I noticed how the choreography in musical theatre is different from that in other dance forms. I want to note how the show begins, how the atmosphere changes and how it ends. In Fela, the stage was so small that the choreographer used the aisles. It was done as if the audience was attending a Fela concert. So I learned how that choreographer adjusted for the space, and I paid particular attention to the interactions of the audience and the performers. Fela as an artist was inspiring to me because of the choices he made. He was really brave. He made a clear decision that no matter how hard it was he would continue his fight for justice. I admire and appreciate that. I would take that as a lesson for me. People have difficulties everywhere. Cambodia is a poor and developing country. It inspired me to fight against the difficulties we face. You have to be strong and courageous to do that. Fela also created his own form of music. He liked a lot of styles but ultimately developed his own. I also think about this a lot.

Talking Dance.indd 183 4/21/2016 6:36:19 PM 184 Talking Dance Peered over a wall Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh Once back in Phnom Penh, after liberation, I went to a public school. At the school they taught us a bit of dance, for competitions and assemblies. All the kids had to be part of the Young Pioneers, and at occasional official events we presented flowers and dance. During school recess one day, I heard some beautiful music. I called to my older sister to go check it out with me. We walked up the street and peered over a wall. I remember seeing kids my age dancing. They were so flexible. I wanted to dance like them. I went home and told my father. My aunt knew one of the dancers and she took me to the dance school so I could watch for a morning. I saw how strict the teachers were. I was so scared. I came home and went to bed. My dad came in and asked how it was. I said, ‘I am not going to dance. The teachers hit the students. They are too mean.’ But my audition was so good: I got the highest points. I still told my father, ‘I don’t want to do it.’ My father explained that in the past only royalty could see this kind of dance. I was lucky to be able to study it. So I went to practise. We studied technique in the morning and regular academic subjects in the afternoon. In the academic areas I was good. I wasn’t so good at technique, but they moved me into a class with all the stars because I’d skipped an academic grade. All my classmates were dancing the important difficult roles and I was still in the chorus.

Scared to death Pheuy Kammaphadit, Luang Prabang My parents were farmers. I first saw the dance during a ceremony honouring the bones of the deceased king here in Luang Prabang. I went with my parents. I was about 11 or 12 then. When I saw the character of the giant I was almost scared to death, but I was mesmerised too, and I have been interested ever since. They had giants and monkeys, so it was probably the Phra Lak Phra Lam.

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Pheuy Kammaphadit, Luang Prabang As for the future I’d like to continue to educate people about this tradition, and spread the word even more. We don’t need anything new. We just need to preserve what’s been handed down to us.

They had not lost most of their performers Ros Kong, Phnom Penh While on a performance tour of the US in 1990 (I was a costumier, not a dancer!), I watched the Javanese court dancers perform the Bedhayo at the Los Angeles Festival. I couldn’t help crying, thinking that they had a large ensemble because they hadn’t lost most of their performers. I thought about all my friends and peers who had perished under the Khmer Rouge. We could never be together again. I thought about one teacher, and then another, and another. When the royalty came back to Cambodia in 1991, we dancers had some hope that things would become better than they had been for those past 15 or 16 years. We remembered when we were young and Prince Sihanouk and his mother took care of us. When he returned to Cambodia in 1991, Prince Sihanouk was pleased to see those of us who had survived. He invited us to the palace. When I saw the sacred

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Ros Kong and fellow Royal Ballet dancers, Phnom Penh I thought about all my friends and peers who had perished under the Khmer Rouge. We could never be together again. I thought about one teacher, and then another, and another. – Ros Kong

ceremony that the dancers performed in honour of his return, I thought back to how it had been before – how lovely, how much fun, and how it might have been if there had been no Khmer Rouge.

They thought I was there to spy Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi Ever since I was young I have loved to draw. When I was little I dreamed of becoming a painter. I liked music, too, but I hated dance. The only dances I had the opportunity to see were traditional Vietnamese dances. They gave me no special feelings. Instead, they bored me. In the late 1970s, Vietnam was pretty much closed to the outside world. We were also at war on two fronts: with China in the north and with Cambodia to the west. Boys my age were being drafted into the army. A lot of people were dying in the

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military, or coming back maimed. I didn’t want to die. The only other option was to become a police officer. It wasn’t a favourite career choice of mine, but I enrolled in the police academy in 1976 when I was 17. So much about being a police officer ran counter to my character, to my soul. What helped soothe and nourish my soul was music. And, somehow, movement. It seemed there was something in my blood that, once unleashed as ‘dance’, gave me purpose and fulfilment. In those days, social dancing was forbidden for Vietnamese people. The government allowed only foreigners to dance in nightclubs. I could get in with my police card, so I walked in and stood towards the back, hoping not to be noticed. But, of course, as a Vietnamese person – with a police badge, no less – people stared at me with contempt. They thought I was there to spy on them. I didn’t know any of those social dance steps, but once I heard the music I needed to move. I didn’t speak English so I could not explain myself to anyone. I closed my eyes and moved. I loved it! Just to move, to dance. When I moved I felt like a sculptor moulding myself into various shapes. I imagined the beautiful forms I was creating. I was shy, but I loved to move. When I opened my eyes the club patrons were looking at me with hatred, suspecting I had been watching them. Over the course of one year I spent 200 nights in clubs, exhausting my salary by buying drinks. The funny thing is, my official charge as a police officer was to watch and report on artists. Vietnam is a communist country. There was a lot of censorship. I had to go to theatres and watch rehearsals, to museums, to the Fine Arts College, and check on what they were doing. We were told that it was our duty to control the creative output of artists. But what others considered bad, I thought of differently. I actually never saw anything to report. Pretty much everything I saw was boring – very limited and unchanging.

The most impressive ballet Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi The most impressive ballet I have ever seen is Spartacus. I saw it in Russia during my first year there. It was revolutionary for Russian ballet when it was first performed. The director used a new structure to arrange the performance. He used body language – the actual dancing – to tell the story more than before. Up to this point, they’d told the story mainly through lyrics. Also, the image of the hero in this ballet is like a huge symbol worthy of admiration. Bejart,

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Balanchine, Roland Petit, Jerome Robbins – I could start to understand these other choreographers only after seeing Spartacus.

Walking on corpses Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh I had just turned six when the Khmer Rouge came to power in 1979, tearing my family’s life apart. I was too young to understand what was going on. The day we were sent away from our house in Phnom Penh we went south on the road towards Takhmao, but we moved very slowly. The street was packed with people ordered out of the city. There were about 20 of us in my extended family, who were eventually taken to Battambang Province together. Once there, they sent us all to different places. After a year or so into that regime, I did not even remember the city. I only knew that I was hungry. I was obsessed with finding food, and salt. Most people in my family and in the village where we were sent were swollen because of a lack of salt. Oh, you cannot imagine what our feet and hands looked like! My uncle swelled up so much his skin burst apart. There was a revolutionary dance troupe, made up of children of Khmer Rouge officials, who performed to entertain the cadres. One day a girl who was the daughter of the village leader called me aside and asked if I wanted some salt. ‘Yes,’ I almost shouted. She told me that if I wanted some I would have to go with her and help with the dance performance that night. They had me light the firewood around the performance space for their evening show, and play the hand drum, even though I didn’t know the rhythm. I had no idea what the dances were about. I just thought it looked like fun, like something I might like to do. I helped them more than once. I was rewarded with a pinch of salt each time. I carried it home with me and gave it to my mother who distributed some to everyone in the family. But I was still starving. There were times when I wandered off, trying to find some fruit to pick, even though that was punishable by a beating or worse. I just couldn’t stand it. On one of those searches I fell down because the path was so uneven. I realised that I had been walking on corpses and even recognised some people who were half-buried. But I was not scared. I was numb. I was just too hungry.

Talking Dance.indd 188 4/21/2016 6:36:20 PM Watching 189 A romantic folk dance Phan Y Ly, Hanoi I have to try to remember my earliest exposure to dance. I want to be fair, to the memory. The first time I saw something close to dance was seeing my mum on stage with her colleagues for a university function when I was three or four. (She taught sports at that college back then.) I remember the moment I saw her – doing a romantic folk dance. She was dancing with a very famous, very handsome man. I remember the photo, too.

Phan Y Ly, Hanoi I remember the moment I saw her – doing a romantic folk dance.

Talking Dance.indd 189 4/21/2016 6:36:20 PM 190 Talking Dance They became possessed by spirits Kim Vorn, Koh Oknhatey At every New Year celebration, as well as at every Pchum Ben holiday, our village holds a ceremony to honour the spirits of the dance. When I was young they did this. They did it in the time of my mother and grandmother. The old people told us that it has always been this way. When I was little I couldn’t wait to dance. We worked in our fields much of the year, growing corn, tomatoes and beans. Just before New Year time or before Pchum Ben, we spent our evenings rehearsing. During the celebrations, we held the ceremony to the spirits one morning, and then performed dance dramas for seven nights. We set out banana stalk offerings in pairs, along with pigs’ heads, chickens, fruit, candles, incense and other things. Once the offerings were lined up in the temple compound, we could hold the ceremony for the spirits. When the melodies were played, some of the villagers went into a trance. They became possessed by spirits who came to play around with us, or to tell us some news, or to heal or bless us.

Kim Vorn, Koh Oknhatey They did it in the time of my mother and grandmother. The old people told us that it has always been this way.

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In the evenings we danced, the young people and the old. The stories were really long. They had princes, princesses, magical creatures, giants and monkeys. I danced the role of the giant. When I was young I was a ‘child’ giant. As I got older, I took on the more powerful roles. I got married when I was 20 and had four children. I kept dancing and later taught the younger dancers. I know that in other villages they do not hold the ceremony for the spirits of the dance. I don’t know why we do it. It is just our belief. We ask the spirits to look over the village. When I was young, our village was too poor to have any fancy costumes. Most of the women wove silk and cotton, so they made a 3 m length of cloth as dance pantaloons or as a skirt and that is what we used for performances. Really, we were so poor.

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Nothing but ourselves and our memories Ros Kong, Phnom Penh In 1979, once the Khmer Rouge had been defeated, as soon as we could, my children and I walked to the main town in Pursat Province. We had been evacuated from Phnom Penh in 1975 with everyone else, and sent to labour in the fields in rural Pursat. The provincial office of the Ministry of Culture and Information found a house close to the rehearsal space for my family. I ran into another surviving classical dancer, and we got to work performing and teaching dance right away. We had nothing but ourselves and our memories to start with. I think there might have been one drum and one tro. There were no costumes; there was nothing to buy. People wore whatever clothes they had both for training and performances. I forget what the building was, but it had a theatre inside and we rehearsed there. The arts are very important to Cambodians, and because we were not allowed to practise them during the Khmer Rouge years, we wanted to revive classical dance to give the people hope – to give them something entertaining, to make them happy. For me, I wanted to communicate with the spirits of the dance again, by dancing, not only by praying secretly, as I had done all that time under the Khmer Rouge. I never let anyone else know, but I would pray every day to the spirits, asking for protection from the horrors of those times. I asked that my family be kept from harm and that the fields I was tending reap a huge crop quickly so that I would not

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be punished. If the authorities had known I was praying they would have chastised me, or maybe killed me.

The cost of lights Anouza Phoutisane, Vientiane We had some problems in the beginning with the parents. Some of the kids didn’t know how to organise their schedules, so dancing took over their lives. It interfered with their schoolwork. Their parents were really upset. Others were careful and fitted in both dancing and schoolwork. I used to teach only on Saturdays and Sundays from 8a.m. to 4p.m. during the day; from 5p.m. onwards at night our Association would practise. We had a room at the Lao Opera Theatre. We had a free place to practise but if we made money from a performance we contributed to the cost of lights or the cleaning of the theatre. Now I have a troupe made up of kids who used to be students of mine. Some have developed their abilities so much that they are teachers, too. I am the head teacher. My troupe is called the Lao Bang Fai Association. We have 23 members, including seven women, from ten to 25 years old.

A bunch of dreamers Lema Diaz, Manila We started out with everyone doing their own thing. Some of them were back- up dancers on TV and some were doing something independent, but basically everything was about hip-hop. One of the members was a music producer and some were doing TV commercials so we came together when we heard about a hip-hop competition. Michelle and Kicks knew us from the clubs. They started gathering people who they thought were hip-hop enough to represent and compete. It wasn’t a formal organisation; it was like a small group of friends who loved dancing together and it grew slowly from there. We run a studio here and it has become a company now. It just started with a dream; it was a dream for us. We were a bunch of dreamers. With us coming from different backgrounds in the industry it was more of a lifestyle for us rather than just dancing in the studio. That’s why it is really personal for a lot of us.

Talking Dance.indd 193 4/21/2016 6:36:20 PM 194 Talking Dance I’ve been looking for you Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur The year 1994 was when I was having all these questions in my head. What am I going to do? Where am I going to go? What’s going to happen to dance and me? I was ready to give it up. I did enjoy teaching the children in the school, very much, but at 18 ringgit an hour, what can you do? So I said, ‘Oh, I’ll take a drive down memory lane.’ I drove to the University of Malaya, to the campus. That is where it all began many years ago, very nostalgic, a little bit dramatic. I went back to the studio where I first learned Malay dance, and as I walked out of the studio, I bumped into Dr Anis. He said, ‘Oh my God, Josef, I’ve been looking for you because we’re starting this academy.’ I really think at that moment it was the hand of God, and I said, ‘Okay!’ The next day I came with all my certificates, and in a month we were sitting in his house planning the curriculum. This was just before the school opened. It opened in July and I started working there part-time, so that meant quite a lot of teaching because they did not have a big staff. All of us were part-time.

We’ll dance there no matter what Yim Sinath, Phnom Penh The Bassac Theatre burned down in 1994. I had left the theatre for our lunch break that day, and was at home. When I heard it had burned, I almost fainted. That was our home, the artists’ home. Many of us had even brought pots and pans there so that we could cook and eat together on performance days, and even on some regular rehearsal days. It was the place where we made our living. For a while, I lost all my will to dance. But then we said, ‘We’ll dance there no matter what!’ So, in the burned-out remains, we practised. Then a small wooden rehearsal space was built behind the skeleton of the theatre. Even now when I ride past that site, I feel so sad. When the building caught fire, some artists got there in time to run in and get things, but for the most part we lost everything – all the costumes and masks and other accoutrements.

Talking Dance.indd 194 4/21/2016 6:36:20 PM Organising 195 I lost all my money Bo, Hong Kong The first two years of the studio were very bad. I lost all my money. In 2003 in Hong Kong there was a sickness that spread quickly through society – SARS – and the government advised people not to go out. So for half a year no one came to take classes and if they did, they wore a mask. Every time I taught a class there were around two to four people. We lost all the money in the first year. So Alex asked, ‘Should we go on?’ I said, ‘We can start being dancers again.’ We all started dancing again in 2004 and went out to join the freelance dancers. At that time people would say bad things about us. They said, ‘You are the boss, so why do you need to dance?’ I explained, ‘Everyone does this in New York: they’re the dancers and the boss. I don’t think it’s a bad thing.’ But if they do not like you they will keep talking about you.

To piece things together Thongchanh Souksavath, Luang Prabang I danced every year until the liberation in 1975 when the authorities said this was theatre of the king. So it was stopped. Through subsequent discussions, they came to understand that this does not belong to the king. It is Lao culture. It belongs to the Lao people; it is their heritage. It is not a possession of one person or one group of people. It was in 1980 or 1981 that we started to piece things together again.

Tickets for the last show Nguyen Anh Duc, Hanoi The life of an independent contemporary dancer in Vietnam nowadays is very difficult. We get some support from the British Council and the French Cultural Centre. It is impossible to find places to practise and we do not earn money from performances. My colleagues and I went to work in the north-east for a year with a government- supported folk dance troupe just to save money. When we returned we could not find rehearsal space. From July of this year we will be able to practise every afternoon

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at the French Cultural Centre and perform every Thursday evening. We will work for seven weeks and have seven shows. But we will get no money. I still live off the money I saved from that year away. The government salary was low, but they gave me some additional money for my work as a choreographer. I don’t want to sell tickets to the performances because it is more like a test night or experimental activity than a polished performance. It’s a chance to see audience reactions to new work. Maybe we’ll sell tickets for the last show.

Performers who happen to have disabilities Le Vu Long, Hanoi If someone says, ‘You’re an artist. Why are you working with disabled people?’, I answer, ‘They are artists!’ Some groups make up dances for people with disabilities, but we develop professional performers who happen to have disabilities. At some performances I do not tell the audience that the performers have disabilities. They just enjoy the show.

We stuck with that name Luu Thi Thu Lan, Hanoi ‘Together Higher’ is the name of our dance company. To us it implies coming together to accomplish something, to be better than before. In Vietnamese we call ourselves something that means ‘Destination’ or ‘The Place to Go’. ‘Destination’ did not sound so good in English, so we came up with Together Higher. It is ironic because there is a Vietnamese Communist Party Union song that talks about working together to reach a higher place! My roles in the company are varied: sometimes I am the person who writes proposals; sometimes I help my husband teach classes. Many years ago, when we formed the company, I performed with them. When the company started in 2002 the other performers were not trained. Since then, they’ve become strong enough as an ensemble, so I stopped performing with them. We started with a very small grant from the British Council and support from Mr Nhac, the director of the Vietnamese National Opera Ballet, who gave us night- time rehearsal space, as well as a place to perform.

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Together Higher was the name of the first piece we did as an ensemble. Our audience for that piece was small, perhaps about 200 people, at the Vietnam National Opera Theatre. I could see others at the theatre looking at us and wondering, ‘What are they trying to do? What are they trying to show?’ They asked us this in a less than supportive way. It was unusual then to do an independent project in dance. Among the audience were British expatriates and some Vietnamese professional dancers who were our friends. We invited one quite important government official who was a friend of our parents. After seeing the piece she donated $1,000 in support of the company. Once we’d decided to continue, we stuck with that name, in part for memory’s sake, honouring our first piece. After that we did a number of dances and dance workshops in Vietnam and one performance in Thailand. We started Together Higher with ten dancers. We still have ten dancers, but in the meantime some have left and new ones have joined. We tried to work with people with other kinds of disabilities, but the problem was that they were scared to be involved and we did not have enough time to spend with them.

The tourists think everyone is cute Moeun Bun Thy, Siem Reap I was having a hard time supporting my children. A friend of mine from the National Department of Performing Arts was moving to Siem Reap to work with dancers in hotels. She had connections there and invited me to join her. I left my sons with relatives and went up to Siem Reap. Once I found a position teaching a troupe that performed for tourists I brought two of my sons to live in Siem Reap. I had only a small room in the section of the hotel for staff, so each son had to live somewhere else. One lived with a distant relative who was not too far away. Another lived with a dance teacher who had room for him. He danced for tourists in her ensemble in a different part of town. People might not know how hard it is to work in these conditions. Everything is put upon me. I have to coordinate the music, the costumes, the stage. At the hotels they do not always understand what is best for the artists. They just want us to please the tourists. The tourists pay $25 or more each for dinner and a show. We get almost nothing and I have to rent the costumes and divide the pay among the performers. It is hard, too, because I am used to high-quality technique. My teacher would never

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allow us to perform if we could only dance at this level. But here, the tourists think everyone is cute in their shiny costumes. The performers do not know any better either. They have never seen anything else. They like to look pretty and dance to the nice music. They think they are representing Cambodia, but it isn’t the way I was taught to represent the country. As soon as they know the dances a little, they just show up for the performances because they think there is nothing more to work on. Sometimes I feel ashamed that this is what I had to do to have a career as a dancer. Siem Reap was full of tourists for a while, but then the world economy started to fall apart. When there aren’t enough tourists, there aren’t jobs in the hotels. The tourist dinner and dance show closed. I went from one hotel to another, getting jobs in the laundry rooms, but eventually I couldn’t find any more work. A lot of people I know are in the same position.

A postcard on a table Phan Y Ly, Hanoi My first exposure to salsa was in 2002. I had been living in the mountains for a year and a half, working with a UN development programme, after returning from three years in India. I did no extracurricular activities. I moved back to Hanoi and got together with a boyfriend who took me around to expatriates’ parties. We heard upbeat, bubbly music, not rock but something upbeat. I didn’t know what it was, but I liked it very much. People mostly went to those clubs to drink. It wasn’t set up as a place to dance, but a few people were doing some salsa. Now I know that what they were doing was basic, but at that time, what they did seemed lovely to me – the way they moved up and down. I loved it. And I thought, ‘What is this?’ This continued for a month. Every night we went there and saw some dance like this. I noticed one older short man who could dance really well. I was curious. I saw a postcard on a table at that club advertising salsa lessons with this guy. All my friends who had been going to the club were excited. This was like a dream come true. We started the class in a rented house. For the most part it was Vietnamese women and expatriate men. And there weren’t that many men! We paid 50,000 dong to practise for about one and a half to two hours. It turns out that our teacher was a diplomat, with a very high position in the Swiss Embassy. He is better known in Vietnam for his album of songs (and for his

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girlfriends and his dance teaching) than for his work at the Embassy. That’s how the first salsa class got started here. At that time it was mostly expatriates involved. I tried to make it more Vietnamese. I was attempting this as a kind of outsider myself. I was not really a local and I was very disconnected from the Vietnamese community. I spoke English most of the time – both at work with the NGO, and outside work with my Australian boyfriend. I had been away from Vietnam for many years. So for me to approach the Vietnamese to ask them to come to our dances was scary, very scary. It was even more scary for me to enter a dance sport club, but I did it and approached the teachers. I invited them to join us. They started coming and, since that time, salsa has spread very fast.

Tutus, pants and ballet shoes Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane I studied ballet for four years, just two days a week. I graduated from the National School of Music and Dance in 1990. I was like a teacher’s assistant for ballet, classical and folk dance as well as in the music notation class for a while, without a salary. When I was accepted as a full teacher I was assigned to teach both ballet and folk dance. I was ecstatic. It was as if I had reached my goal. There was a visiting ballet dancer from Finland in the late 1990s, who worked with students and teachers here to create a ballet for performance. That was the only ballet performance experience I have ever had. We wore tutus, pants and ballet shoes and put our hair up in buns. I use this choreography in my classes now. The Vietnamese government supplies the ballet shoes for our students these days. Each student gets one pair. If the student loses the shoes, or destroys them in some way, he or she has to pay for another pair. In Laos, only this school sells them. So we take that money to buy other supplies for the school. My current students do not have a chance to perform ballet; they perform the other kinds of dances they study, just like I did. The Lao public is not really interested in ballet. But we have a plan: we have started to talk about this already, to invite another foreign ballet teacher here to prepare something that we can perform. Also we are hoping that teacher will help us develop a real ballet troupe.

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Sengphachanh Bouphachanh, Vientiane When I was accepted as a full teacher I was assigned to teach both ballet and folk dance. I was ecstatic. It was as if I had reached my goal.

Prayed for another performance invitation Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok When we got the news that Jacobs Pillow had invited us to perform Chui Chai there, we realised that they could pay very little, only the cost of the plane tickets and a small stipend for the artists. Maybe, I thought, we could go to another festival in the US as well, and have some more money, to make the long trip worth it. I went to the same temple where my mother had prayed for a son, and prayed for another performance invitation. My prayers were answered. Last month I took my whole company to perform classical dance at the temple statue, as a way to show my gratitude. I danced, too. I was so happy. The public knows me and my company as very demanding, and picky. The place at the temple where we performed was very dirty. There were people selling noodles and other things right around the performance space. These are the very kinds of things I would never allow in a theatrical setting. I explained to my company that this is what we

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grew up from. The atmosphere was like it was when I was young. We performed the original classical version of Chui Chai. To others, I seem like a modern man who does not believe in this. The truth is, I believe in this very much, and now I want people to know it. I do this because of my master. He told me that every time I perform classical dance or do something related to the demon character or the Ramayana, I should go to the temple to offer apologies in case I have done anything wrong. Every time I return to Bangkok from a tour, I make sure to visit the temple.

It’s a Cinderella story Lema Diaz, Manila When we started, we got together as 12 people in the room. We were from different walks of life, different backgrounds. We were just a bunch of misfits at that time so not a lot of people believed in the group and what we did. We just wanted to try our luck and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we could compete with the rest of the world and see.’ People at that time, when they looked at us, did not believe it because, ‘Come on, you’re Filipinos!’ Day and night we rehearsed for the competition. We had two weeks to rehearse for the competition here in the Philippines. We would rehearse from 10a.m. to midnight and then we stopped everything. We did not do our jobs; we had to freeze everything. I was doing commercials at that time. We really had to stop everything, even school, for two weeks straight. We had different styles. Some were locking, b-boying, new school hip- hop. We had to combine and marry the styles that we had because we moved differently. So what we did was to highlight everyone’s strength and hide their weaknesses. We won the competition here in the Philippines and we were qualified to compete for Worlds in 2005. After winning, they called us for a meeting and said they are not going to fly us because there were no sponsors. We had a meeting and said, ‘Look, we came all the way in two weeks, so what’s another two weeks? Let’s find sponsors and just try our luck and see if we are going to win.’ While rehearsing we tried finding sponsors. It was hard because no one really wanted to invest in hip-hop; it was not marketable. ‘What’s the guarantee if you fly to the US? What’s the guarantee that you’re going to win? Chances are you’re just going to be twentieth out of how many teams?’

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We went around to clubs and passed around hats to get change, like 20 pesos, but we never stopped rehearsing. It was hard even getting visas. Nine of us were able to get a stamp, but some of the people who were meant to compete were not able to get a visa. The Allstars at that time had no name. It was nothing, really nothing. We kept on going, kept on praying. God was one of the things that really pushed us. Five days before the flight we still did not have sponsors. We were flying nine people, and the group’s thing is really to go together. Some people don’t understand that and they’re like, ‘How come you have to fly everyone when you can just fly eight people?’ But the thing is that everyone worked hard for it and we wanted everyone to be there. So we kept on praying. We did not have money even the day before. We only had 50 per cent of one ticket. That is why we just kept on praying and praying and finally people started to lend us money, so we were in debt for half a million pesos. I was humbled. I started asking for help from people. I started calling people and asking, ‘Hey, we don’t have a place to stay, can you help us?’ A person I barely know – he’s a friend of a friend in the US – said, ‘Okay, I’m going to send my driver to pick you up.’ I said, ‘No, pick up the rest of the group, not just me, because they have no place to stay.’ He said, ‘Okay I’ll bring my limo.’ It’s a Cinderella story! The next day we were leaving and one of the guys was like, ‘I thought we had a plan.’ I was like, ‘Just believe!’ Literally five minutes later a white limo pulled up and a white guy got out and he was like, ‘Are you guys the Philippine Allstars?’ Then he took all of our bags and took us to San Diego. This guy was so awesome. He took care of us for three weeks in his mansion. He treated us like his kids and we were like, ‘Who do you meet like this? When do you ever meet people like this?’ Only when I think God has a purpose or a plan for you that he makes things possible. We didn’t win in 2005. We placed sixth out of 26 teams, but a lot of people remembered us. I think it was the passion that people saw. We danced like it was our last dance and people felt it.

Talking Dance.indd 202 4/21/2016 6:36:20 PM Organising 203 We’ll call when we have another project Luu Thi Thu Lan, Hanoi We are always bringing in new dancers. The training is constant. It is hard because we do not have regular work, and cannot pay them for rehearsal time. They need to have other sources of support. We do our company work project by project. If we have sponsorship, we get together for a while, maybe one or two or three months, depending on the money. We try to have two periods of work a year, periods that include training and performance, but it gets harder and harder. After performances, we’re always approached by people who would like to join our company. We have to tell them, ‘We’ll call when we have another project.’

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‘Divorce them’ Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh Just before Lok Yeiy Chea Samy passed away in 1994, I was with her in the hospital. She called me and Huy Serey Phousita to her side, lifted the oxygen mask up just a centimetre and whispered, minutes before her second surgery, ‘When you get married, if your husbands don’t allow you to dance, divorce them.’ That was her message to us before going into the operating room. She did not survive.

His future as well Li Long Hin, Hong Kong I had a family discussion with the whole family. Not just my parents, but my aunts and the whole group. Most of them did not advise me to go into the Academy of Performing Arts, but then my dad said, ‘It’s his life. He’s the one who has to decide his future, so we should give him a chance.’ My younger brother and I have a very close relationship. We are best friends. He said nothing. He was so silent, until I heard of something. After two years he said, ‘Oh, if you go into the industry then I cannot go.’ It is like somehow my decision decided his life as well. We both know our parents wanted us to take care of their lives when we reached adulthood. My brother thought that if I became a dancer I would never earn enough income and never have a stable

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life, so I would really not have the ability to take care of others. So my younger brother had to be the stronger one and had to take care of the other people. He thinks my decision decided his future as well. I tried to convince him: ‘You can do anything you want. It’s not only your responsibility to take care of the parents, but it’s also mine. I know it’s a little bit unstable, for me, but I will try to take care of them.’ He was not convinced. In the end he did not go into the same industry as me but he went onto the academic side. It was a very big sacrifice and somehow, at this moment, I still feel pretty sorry for this, because I did not want my decision to affect his decision.

‘You want to torture yourself?’ Khamtong Sumbath, Vientiane Speaking of ballet, on my very first day in the dance department I went home with a fever. I am sure it was from trying to lift my legs, jump and lift my arms in ballet class. I had never done anything like that before! My mother sold traditional medicines from our home, but my fever and soreness from ballet were something she did not think the traditional medicine could cure. She went to my ballet teacher, who assured her that if I just stretched and kept practising I would be okay. My mother asked me if this was what I want to do to myself, ‘You want to torture yourself?’ I answered that because this is what I love, I have to work hard at getting better at it. Then she didn’t say anything more. I was 11 years old.

I called him Father Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok My master died seven or eight years ago. From that first month until now I send money to his wife every month. I studied with him for 16 years and never paid him anything. When I got the Princess Margaret Award for Best Production I gave the money to her. I said, ‘Father gave this money to you. It’s from your husband.’ I call her Mum. I called him Father.

Talking Dance.indd 205 4/21/2016 6:36:21 PM 206 Talking Dance ‘Just give me back her eyes’ Pring Sokhanarith, Phnom Penh My father used to tell my dance teachers, ‘Take my daughter and just give me back her eyes.’ That means, do whatever you need to do to her to make her a successful dancer. Today, students complain to their parents that dance training is too hard, and the parents complain to us.

Dragging them home Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi At that time many of my friends were from different ethnic groups in mountainous regions. When their parents came to visit them at school, the parents were elated to see their children living in a big building with better conditions than they had at home. But they got upset when they saw the tight clothes and the ways that boys and girls had to touch each other. The students would cry when their parents insisted on

Nguyen Cong Nhac, Hanoi They got upset when they saw the tight clothes and the ways that boys and girls had to touch each other.

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dragging them home. The teachers had to explain to them that this was appropriate clothing and behaviour for ballet. They all eventually allowed their children to stay because the school administrators and teachers convinced them that they would maintain moral standards and educate their children well. That was the major difficulty back then, to get over the old concepts. It was a huge step.

I went on strike Chhoun Outdon, Phnom Penh When I grow up I want to be a dance teacher like my father. My dad is a great teacher. I started dancing when I was 12 years old. I had seen my father perform and wanted to transfer from my regular school to the arts school. My dad wouldn’t let me. Then I went on strike: I refused to study. Finally, he let me go. Students who dance well will make good teachers. I am one of the students who tries very hard. It’s like I have a calling, and real talent. I study the monkey role. I am 17.

It cannot make you happy Bboy Royal, Guangzhou In my family, I have my parents and a little brother and a little sister. My mother is a housekeeper and my father is a businessman. I live with them. I am not sure what they think but sometimes they will say something I do not like about dance. First of all, they do not understand dance, especially breakdance and street dance. Chinese people always think very traditionally; they think that dance is just dance and that it means nothing to our lives because it cannot make money and it cannot make you happy. They do not know what we really think about dance. In our thoughts, dance can make us happy and dance can bring us a lot of things, but they do not know about this so they do not support me. My parents do not want to try to know about these things. They are not interested.

He understood my heart Dao Ang Khanh, Hanoi My father was a high-level police officer. He did not understand my art, but he understood my heart and he supported me.

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Bboy Royal, Guangzhou In our thoughts, dance can make us happy and dance can bring us a lot of things.

As one of the pioneers of contemporary art in Vietnam, I have often had trouble from the government. Government spies have come to watch and destroy my work. In the year 2000, I put up a 1 km installation along the road, and danced with others beside it. The police destroyed it after the show, even though my father was an important man in the police force. They have interfered with openings. I performed in a public space without permission, and was taken to the police station.

A business opportunity! Anna Chan, Hong Kong My family was not supportive at the beginning, but now they are supportive. Being a Chinese family, my mum was very concerned about academic subjects. She said, ‘If you’re going to have extracurricular activities, you are not going to cope with your academics.’ My mum actually refused to let me join. So I paid from my piggybank money. I enrolled myself, being quite stubborn. I wanted to do it! I wanted to be good! Then

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Anna Chan, Hong Kong In the 1980s there was no degree in dance; it was all just diplomas. So I promised my mum that if she allowed me to do this, I would go back to university after my dancing career was over. That was the bargain.

my aunties supported it, but my mum was still very sceptical, the first year. The principal of the school actually talked to my mum, saying, ‘She has a bit of talent. You should let her explore this and excel in this area.’ She was still very sceptical. She didn’t really understand what the dance training was about. To her, as long as I did not fail in my academic subjects, then it was okay. During the year when I was deciding that I wanted to take this seriously as a study, there was a very serious discussion among my family members. My family is a very traditional, business-oriented family. All my uncles and my mum were in business. They wouldn’t dream of allowing their next generation to go into the arts. Art to them was basically, ‘What!?’ They just had no idea. So again I thank the principal of my dance school, who convinced my mum and my uncle (because my father had passed away when I was three so it was basically my mum and my uncle who had the strongest interest in my development). The principal was very clever because he convinced my mum by saying, ‘If she wants to dance, let her dance. She can always come back and have her own ballet school.’

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And my mum could immediately see this was a business opportunity! In the 1980s there was no degree in dance; it was all just diplomas. So I promised my mum that if she allowed me to do this, I would go back to university after my dancing career was over. That was the bargain. There was still a lot of scepticism. After that, my mum became much more supportive, both because there was no way to turn back and because she could see I was excelling in this area. I fulfilled my promise. I went back to university and got a Masters, so it all worked out quite nicely. I was just joking to my mum the other day about how she never actually went to see any of my performances, but now, somehow, she accompanies my daughter, her grandchild, to every single ballet lesson!

Mum, don’t embarrass us Yim Sinath, Phnom Penh I have two daughters. They are 20 and 21 years old. I didn’t want them to dance because the career of a performer is short. Also, our lives have been so difficult because of the low salary. I wanted them to get a higher education and better jobs. I have a hard time finding the money to support my daughters in their studies. I don’t want them to have the same problems when they have children. Our family of four needs about $300 to live – just to get by – every month. And my husband, who is a dance teacher at the School of Fine Arts, makes about the same amount I do – $50. We get extra for special performances, so that is good. But now that I am older I’m not always called for all these shows, maybe just two or three times a month. My husband teaches privately and does a bunch of other things so that our daughters can go to university. My daughters have gone to watch me perform a lot. Nowadays when they go, they tease me, ‘Mum, don’t embarrass us. You’re old. Some of the others are so young and pretty.’ They have been invited to perform in some movies, but I won’t let them do it. I am scared, because some ‘important people’ take young women movie stars and do what they want with them. They offer them lots of money. Then there is violence. All kinds of trouble. Maybe those young women are desperate for money. It’s a big problem here.

Talking Dance.indd 210 4/21/2016 6:36:21 PM Relationships 211 ‘I’m going to the office!’ Bo, Hong Kong I’m from a divorced family. My father lives with me. My mother lives in Sri Lanka. I studied fashion because my mother owns a factory there. She always said, ‘You can become a designer and help with my business.’ I said, ‘Okay, okay, okay, after I graduate,’ but I wanted to dance. She was very disappointed because she thought one day I could help. My father just wanted me to get a good job; he didn’t know I’d already got ‘my’ good job. My mother supported me because she learned Indian dance when she was young, like very sexy, shaking, and body movements like the body wave. But my father rejected it completely. He said, ‘If you want to become a dancer, don’t even try to talk to me.’ My mother talked with me three years ago. She said my dance life is a miracle. She used to think I couldn’t dance well. She watched me dance for the first time at the university. She said to me, ‘You messed up some sets. You looked so nervous!’ I said, ‘It’s because you came and I know you’re sitting in front of me.’ I know my mother did not like me dancing. That is why I was so shy. For the first two years after I graduated I told a lie to my father. I woke up early in the morning every day, like nine o’clock, and got changed. My father asked, ‘Where are you going?’ I said, ‘I’m going to the office!’ Then I would go and dance. Once I asked my teacher to come out and have tea and then we went to dance. My teacher asked, ‘We start dance at 10:30. How come every day you come out at nine?’ I said to her, ‘My father checks my schedule, because he thinks everyone starts working around nine if they work in an office. If I don’t, he’ll think I’m not working in the office.’ He did not realise because I had the right dress code. The first year I had to wear suits at times. It is a very tiring job; sometimes we start work at midnight, 2a.m. or 3a.m. for MTV. Sometimes there is no job for three months, because maybe I get hurt or just because no-one has offered me a job, and I just wait. You do not call the teacher and ask, ‘Why is there a concert and no-one called me?’ You just wait. Even when there was no work as a dancer I had to go out for a while and come back at like three or four o’clock. I just went out to the game centre – for the first three months. I then told my father I was just over the probationary period, and I could stop wearing the suit.

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He asked me why I finished work in midnight and one o’clock. I said, ‘overtime working!’ Finally my mother told him, maybe two years after graduation, because I needed to start my dance career. I needed to invite him to come take a look because I couldn’t tell a lie any more. But they kept arguing over the same thing. ‘So why didn’t he quit school if he wanted to be a dancer?’, my father would ask. I do not know if he is proud of me or not because I never talk to my father. My father is very strict with me. He gave me many, many different kinds of rules like, ‘You can’t lead, you follow!’ and ‘If you fail, you die.’ Not ‘if you fail you try again’. He said, ‘Here is the belt. If you fail this one, here is the belt.’ I am very scared of him. I didn’t want to do anything wrong and make him angry. I tried to stay away from him and watch him. ‘Okay, he’s angry. I’ll go to sleep!’ So I discovered dancing and it was different: no-one gives me rules for dancing. You can dance; you can fall down. I took some modern dance classes. In the space you think about your inner room. I said, ‘Good! This is my father! And I’m pushing him away.’ I think at that time I was 16 or 17. It is good my father didn’t respect me very much because I want to spread out more, out from my body. It is one force that makes me want to keep on dancing: ‘I won’t give up and let you look down on me!’

Only son Wayz Cheng, Guangzhou I am the only son in my family. My family only has three people: my mother, my father and me. So sometimes I feel alone. I just want to go out and find some friends who like breaking or like street culture. My mother is an officer for the government and my dad works in security. I have a lot of responsibility to my family, being the only child. So I am worried about when I graduate. I wonder if they will allow me to be a dancer or not. I guess I won’t listen. B-boy or die!

My mother went into labour Anouza Phoutisane, Vientiane AJ is my hip-hop name given to me at an Asian B-Boy meeting. Each of my dancers has a hip-hop name given to him or her by others. They cannot give themselves a name.

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Wayz Cheng, Guangzhou B-boy or die!

Outside of my hip-hop world, I have the nickname ‘Aek’, which in Lao means ‘actor’, because my mother went into labour with me while my father was performing on stage. My father was a singer and an actor.

I had given my mother-in-law my word Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh Right after I gave birth to our fourth child I was critically ill. I couldn’t walk. I was in the hospital for three months. My relatives came to help me, but my husband never showed up. He was too busy getting drunk. My baby had no milk to drink. Nobody had money to help buy milk. When I finally got home from the hospital, I walked as best I could, still in pain. I was kind of dragging my feet. I would raise my foot on the bed, and rock the baby in the hammock between the beds. One day in 1992, when my husband was drunk and angry at me for something, he kicked the baby in the hammock really hard. The hammock flipped over and my baby fell out, face first onto the concrete floor. Her skull cracked. I screamed

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and cried and somehow we got the baby to the doctor. I stayed with my baby in the hospital for two weeks. My husband never once came. He did not bring rice or anything. At the end of two weeks, my baby died. My husband was always drunk. I still did not divorce him, though, because I had given my mother-in-law my word that we would stay together. I waited until she passed away to divorce him officially. I have raised my three kids all by myself since then, supporting them by teaching ballet in the circus arts department.

Ruining my studies Maui Manalo, Manila When I was a kid, my parents told me they were proud of me and what I was doing. They liked seeing me perform on stage. When I went to high school they didn’t like it anymore because they could see it was ruining my studies. I was spending so much time, so much, dancing.

My tiny children Ros Kong, Phnom Penh I had hidden some gold during the Khmer Rouge years. Early in 1979 there was no money in use, so I exchanged the gold for rice and even for some silk cloth that someone else had hidden. If the Khmer Rouge had seen what we had hidden, they would have taken it and we would have been punished severely. Anyway, I was able to exchange the things I bought with gold for other things that we could sell. My tiny children went up and down the street selling bread every morning. They were able to stop as soon as the dance programme got started and food was provided at the school. I had become good at hiding things, even my identity. When we were evacuated from Phnom Penh to Pursat, there was one person who recognised me. ‘Oh, I know you. You used to be in the royal dance troupe.’ I said, ‘Yes, I used to dance but as soon as I got married my husband wouldn’t let me perform because he thought dancers weren’t good people.’ This saved me. If they knew I was associated with the palace they would have taken me away to kill me. I told my children to remember not to reveal that I was a dancer, and to say that their father was a farmer.

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Ros Kong and family (Pring Sokhanarith, Soeur Thavarak, Chhoun Outdon, Chhoun Kong Sokhoun), Phnom Penh I told my children to remember not to reveal that I was a dancer, and to say that their father was a farmer. – Ros Kong

I should have told them earlier Humphrey Robert Linggie, Kuching I lied to my parents. I was supposed to go camping with the cadet police but I did not go. Instead, I went to a cultural performance. From when I was 13 to 18 I just danced. My parents did not know I was taking dance classes after school. I think most Malaysian parents do not want their sons to dance. They want them to be a teacher, or doctor, lawyer, whatever. But I just loved dance. During my Form Five year, at 18 years old, the teacher asked all the students, ‘What do you want to be in the future?’ Everyone was, ‘Oh, I want to be a doctor! I want to be a policeman!’ When it came to my part: ‘I want to be a dancer on TV.’ The teacher said, ‘You should go to classes. We have a lot of good classes now in Malaysia.’ All the other kids laughed at me. I told my parents after I’d finished my Form Five, my higher level. Their reaction was, ‘If you want to do it, do it properly.’

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I was surprised. I should have told them earlier! They said, ‘But make sure you don’t make any mistakes.’ They meant drugs, drinking, mixing with people who can corrupt me.

Not trying to prove them wrong Chin Vui Soon, Kuching For me and most of my close friends, our parents don’t really recommend that we do hip-hop because hip-hop isn’t very popular, yet. They think we might be doing bad things. When I told them, they tried to stop me. When I went out they asked me, ‘Are you going to dance now, that hip-hop again?’ ‘Yeah, why?’ ‘It’s a very bad thing!’ ‘Why bad? I don’t smoke; I don’t do anything bad.’ They just kept going on about it and I went out. It caused tension. At that time all our crew members were facing this problem. We decided that we were not trying to prove them wrong, but we needed to feel we were doing the right thing. We decided to attend the competition, and we won. Not a big competition, but we got 1,000 ringgit, so for us it is quite big. We invited our parents, and they came. They just watched us and we won a prize. I could see they were very proud; they were smiling. When I talked to them afterwards, they just said, ‘Next time don’t come home too late, okay?’ We had proved something, got some results and got them to see.

Just a straight face Boy, Kuala Lumpur I hate maths. I failed in maths. I told my father and mother, ‘I want to learn dance.’ I was shocked because they said, ‘Okay.’ Then after five or six years I asked them, ‘Why were you okay about me choosing dance?’ ‘Because if you didn’t choose dance we didn’t know what else you could do.’ I am still wondering, ‘What are my parents actually thinking?’ When they see me dancing, their response is, ‘Oh. Okay. Yes. Oh.’ They do not say, ‘Oh you are very good!’ or, ‘Oh you are bad, bad!’

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Boy, Kuala Lumpur I hate maths. I failed in maths. I told my father and mother, ‘I want to learn dance.’ I was shocked because they said, ‘Okay.’

They do not have an expression. Just a straight face. Like Butoh.

Talking Dance.indd 217 4/21/2016 6:36:22 PM 218 Talking Dance It became ordinary Noppon Jamreantong, Chonburi The first couple of years that I was at the School of Dance and Music my parents came to see me perform almost all the time. They were so excited. Then it became ordinary, and they didn’t come so often.

Like having curry without soup Salai Jobson, Mae Sot We were always dancing in Chin State. We are Christian. We had many celebrations in church that included dancing. There was National Day, and Chin New Year. And something like a thanks to God celebration. I enjoyed dancing but my father said, ‘Son, if you dance like that, you’ll seem too effeminate.’ My mother said, ‘You have to dance. All your friends are dancing. Go and dance. If you love your Chin people you have to know how to dance. You can dance and you can teach it to other people.’ My mother loved it very much. We performed inside the church. The dances often represented rice planting and harvesting movements or other farming activities. It would be disrespectful to not have the traditional dance at our ceremonies. It is like having curry without soup.

As a chief Keo Samean, Phum Tong Nong Liek I don’t know when I was born. It was around 80 years ago in Kamal Village in Rattanakiri Province. There were three children in my family. My mother and father were rice farmers. I remember seeing people dance in my village when I was young. They danced at funerals, at ceremonies to honour the village spirits and at harvest ceremonies. About five years ago I had a dream that I was given a ptiel trau tik tree to plant. My wife and children said this meant I should become a chief. After I told my wife, I went to tell the chiefs/elders. They said, ‘No problem, good, you should join us to saen phum all together.’ As a chief, I would have to dance during all the ceremonies.

Talking Dance.indd 218 4/21/2016 6:36:22 PM Relationships 219 Alongside the railroad Ryan Diwa, Manila I grew up alongside the railroad. I lived in the squatters’ area. My family didn’t have much money for schooling, for food. They were just small-time people in the Philippines. My mum did manicures. I didn’t have money so I prayed for money, but God didn’t give it to me. I think God did not give it to me so that I realised that my heart was not focused on money. It was focused on what is my passion, what is my dream. And I think that was God’s plan for me. Then my friend taught me to dance, and once he taught me I taught the others. My mother told me, ‘If you’re dancing, get out of my house and don’t live with me because you don’t have money!’ After that I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. I did not stop praying for God to give me the opportunity to fulfil my goals, to fulfil my dreams. God gave it to me. First God gave me the winning prize in a talent contest and my mother saw that and she was proud of me. She was happy. I won 180,000 pesos, lots of money, and my mother was proud of me. So very proud and she told me I was a great dancer.

My neighbours sometimes criticise me Belle, Phnom Penh People from outside look at Khmer dancers and say, ‘They’re beautiful, graceful, supple, gentle!’ They imagine we must be completely happy. But, inside, there is oppression. For example, my neighbours sometimes criticise me, saying, ‘Look at Belle, the dancer who goes out to perform and comes home late at night! Hmmm …’ No matter how well known I am, featured in national magazines, they still say I am a dancer, so not a good Khmer woman. I don’t understand this kind of thinking at all.

Talking Dance.indd 219 4/21/2016 6:36:22 PM 220 Talking Dance My mum went to the temple and asked for a son Pichet Klunchun, Bangkok My dream had been to be a policeman. Kids from the countryside always dreamt of becoming a policeman, nurse or teacher. I failed to achieve that dream. But I love what I am doing. Maybe the tevoda brought me to this dance master. I have three sisters. Thai people believe that they will go to heaven if they have a son who becomes a monk. My mother wanted to have a son. So she went to Sothorn Temple in Chachengsao Province. If you want a son, you go to this temple. Attached to the temple is a Thai classical dance troupe that performs in front of a statue that loves to see the dance. My mum went to the temple and asked for a son. I think this might have influenced the future: she got me and I became a dancer.

Intensive care Maui Manalo, Manila I was born prematurely, like at seven or eight months. My mother told me I was in the intensive care unit and there were so many children there. My mum was praying, ‘Lord, please let him live and then he can serve in your kingdom.’ To be honest, they told me that my feet were inverted up inside so the soles of my feet were facing upward. My dad warmed up his hands and then he massaged them, every day for two years. My dad massaged them every day until they became normal, and right now I am dancing. It’s a miracle.

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Talking Dance.indd 222 4/21/2016 6:36:22 PM List of interviewees

Adea, Carissa. Dancer, Ballet Philippines. Interview conducted by Sarah Lee Pearson in English in Manila on 9 August 2010. Alhawiudi, Adam. Dancer, Sarawak Cultural Village. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Santubong on 19 December 2011. Ali, Ramli. Dancer, choreographer and dance teacher, Sarawak Cultural Village. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe with translation by Fop Malavia in Santubong on 19 December 2011. Anh Duc, Nguyen. Dancer and choreographer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English and Vietnamese with translation by Hanh Y Ly in Hanoi on 16 May 2010. Anh Khanh, Dao. Site-specific performance artist, choreographer, painter and sculptor. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Long Bien, Hanoi on 17 May 2010. Bboy Royal (Jiayi Wong). Director, 80s Dance Crew. Interview conducted by Katherine Walker in English in Guangzhou in January 2011. Belle (Chumvan Sodhachivy). Independent dancer and choreographer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 7 June 2010. Bo (Chong King Yin). Independent dancer. Interview conducted by Katherine Walker in English in Hong Kong in January 2011. Bouphachanh, Sengphachanh. Dance teacher, National School of Music and Dance. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Lao with translation by Soeur Sophea in Vientiane on 17 March 2010. Boy (Mohd Bin Azam). Dance student and performer, ASWARA. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuala Lumpur on 16 December 2011. Bun Thy, Moeun. Dancer and dance teacher. Interviews conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Siem Reap on 28 May and 29 June 2010. Chan, Anna. Head of Dance, Hong Kong Academy of Fine Arts. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Hong Kong on 2 November 2011. Chan, Cindy. Independent dance teacher. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Hong Kong on 5 November 2011. Chan, Imogen. Dance student, Layna Ballet Academy. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuching on 20 December 2012. Chan, Layna. Director of Layna Ballet Academy, choreographer and dance teacher. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuching on 20 December 2012.

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Chan, Rhianna. Dance student, Layna Ballet Academy. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuching on 20 December 2012. Chankethya, Chey. Dancer, dance teacher and choreographer, Secondary School of Fine Arts, and Artistic Director, Amrita Performing Arts. Interviews conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English and Khmer in New York City on 17 and 19 July 2010. Cheah, Mei Sing. Head of Dance, School of the Arts. Interview conducted by David Zeitner in English in Singapore on 11 February 2012. Cheng, Wayz. Dancer, 80s Dance Crew. Interview conducted by Katherine Walker in English in Guangzhou in January 2011. Chi Anh, Nguyen. Dancer, dance teacher and choreographer. Interviews conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Vietnamese with translation by Hanh Y Ly in Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City on 14 May, 15 May and 25 June 2010. Cong Nhac, Nguyen. Director (retired), Vietnam National Opera Ballet. Interviews conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Vietnamese with translation by Hanh Y Ly in Hanoi on 15 May 2010. D’Cruz, Marion. Dancer, choreographer, dance teacher and founder of Five Arts Centre Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuala Lumpur on 10 December 2011. Diaz, Lema. Dancer and choreographer, Philippine All Stars. Interview conducted by Sarah Lee Pearson in English in Manila on 11 August 2010. Diwa, Ryan. Dancer and teacher, ACTS Manila. Interview conducted by Sarah Lee Pearson in English in Manila on 10 July 2010. Eakwattanapun, Julaluck. Dancer, dance teacher and choreographer, Pichet Klunchun Dance Company and Burapha University. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Thai with translation by Pornrat Damrhung in Chonburi on 30 November 2010. Eh To. Dancer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Mae Sot on 16 November 2010. Gonzales, Josef. Dancer, choreographer, dance teacher and Dean of ASWARA. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuala Lumpur on 15 December 2011. Hai Ying, Xia. Dancer and dance teacher, Director of City Ballet Academy. Interview conducted by David Zeitner in English in Singapore on 11 February 2012. Hijjas, Bilqis. Independent dancer and producer. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuala Lumpur on 13 December 2011. Hsaw Reh. Dancer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Mae Sot on 26 November 2010. Ismail, Ismadian. Dance student and performer, ASWARA. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuala Lumpur on 16 December 2011. Jamreantong, Noppon. Dancer, dance teacher and choreographer, Burapha University and Pichet Klunchun Dance Company. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Thai with translation by Pornrat Damrhung in Chonburi on 30 November 2010. Jenis, Martina Benedict Paul. Dancer and dance teacher, Sarawak Cultural Village. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Santubong on 19 December 2011. Jensen, Christina. Independent dancer and choreographer. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Hong Kong on 4 November 2011. Jo Jo (Keo Pisey). Dancer, Pontoon Night Club. Interview conducted in Khmer by Toni Shapiro- Phim in Phnom Penh on 28 June 2010.

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Kammaphadit, Pheuy. Dance teacher, Royal Ballet Theatre. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Lao with translation by Soeur Sophea in Luang Prabang on 18 March 2010. Klunchun, Pichet. Dancer, choreographer, Pichet Klunchun Dance Company. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Phnom Penh on 12 December 2010. Kong, Ros. Dance teacher, Royal University of Fine Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro- Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 25 June 2010. Kunthor, Nuon. Dance teacher, Circus Department, Secondary School of Fine Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 12 June 2010. Lianto, Ria. Independent dancer. Interview conducted by Sarah Lee Pearson in English in Manila on 14 July 2010. Linggie, Humphrey Robert. Dance teacher, House of the Performing Arts. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuching on 21 December 2011. Long Hin, Li. Dance student and dance performer, Hong Kong Academy of Performing Arts. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Hong Kong on 5 November 2011. Magi, Suhaimi. Choreographer and dance teacher, University of Malaya Sabah. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kota Kinabalu on 3 January 2012. Manalo, Maui. Independent dancer. Interview conducted by Sarah Lee Pearson in English in Manila on 12 August 2010. Mar Chua, Angelica (Lyka). Independent dancer. Interview conducted by Sarah Lee Pearson in English in Manila on 10 August 2010. Muntha, Sim. Costumer and embroiderer, National Department of Performing Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 12 June 2010. Na, Zhao. Dance student and dance performer, Hong Kong Academy of Performing Arts. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Hong Kong on 5 November 2011. Naniapen, Puspavathy. Dance teacher and dancer, Vadhini Fine Arts Association. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuching on 21 December 2012. Nor, Anis. Dance teacher and choreographer, University of Malaya. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuala Lumpur on 13 December 2011. Outdon, Chhoun. Dance student, Secondary School of Fine Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 25 June 2010. Paderes, Pia. Independent dancer and dance teacher. Interview conducted by Sarah Lee Pearson in English in Manila on 6 August 2010. Phan Y, Ly. Dancer, dance teacher and art for development practitioner. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Hanoi on 17 May 2010. Phomalath, Ladda. Dancer and dance teacher, National School of Music and Dance. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Vientiane on 16 March 2010. Phoutisane, Anouza. Dancer, dance teacher and choreographer, Lao Bang Fai Association. Interviews conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Lao with translation by Soeur Sophea in Vientiane on 15 and 16 March 2010. Po Ei. Dancer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Mae Sot on 26 November 2010. Rattanawaraha, Chatuporn. Thai ‘National Artist’ and dance teacher (retired), Fine Arts Department. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Thai with translation by Pornrat Damrhung in Bangkok on 29 November 2010.

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Richelle. Dancer, Feasible Dance Studio. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuching on 21 December 2011. Salai, Jobson. Dancer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Mae Sot on 26 November 2010. Samean, Keo. Village chief and ritual specialist. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Kreung and Khmer with translation by Sek Sophea in Phum Tong Nong Liek, Ratanakiri on 4 April 2010. Sang Sar. Dancer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Mae Sot on 26 November 2010. Sathya, Sam. Dancer and dance teacher, Royal University of Fine Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 20 June 2010. Shapiro, Sophiline Cheam. Dancer, dance teacher, choreographer and Artistic Director, Khmer Arts Ensemble. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Takhmao, Kandal on 12 June 2010. Soeur, Thavarak. Dancer and dance teacher, Secondary School of Fine Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 25 June 2010. Sokhanarith, Pring. Dancer and dance teacher, Secondary School of Fine Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 25 June 2010. Soon, Chin Vui. Dancer, Feasible Dance Studio. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Kuching on 21 December 2011. Souksavath, Thongchanh. Dance teacher, Royal Ballet Theatre. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Lao with translation by Soeur Sophea in Luang Prabang on 18 March 2010. Stellar (Lau Yin Ling). Dancer and dance teacher, Hong Kong Academy of Performing Arts. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Hong Kong on 3 November 2011. Sumbath, Khamtong. Student, National School of Music and Dance. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Lao with translation by Soeur Sophea in Vientiane on 16 March 2010. Tan, Jeffrey. Independent dancer, choreographer, dance teacher. Interview conducted by David Zeitner in English in Singapore on 11 February 2012. Tantranon, Boonnak. Dance teacher, University of the Thai Chamber of Commerce. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Thai with translation by Pornrat Damrhung in Bangkok on 30 November 2010. Thi Thu Lan, Luu. Dancer, administrator, Together Higher Dance Company. Interview conducted in English by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Hanoi on 14 May 2010. Thiri. Dancer. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in English in Mae Sot on 26 November 2010. Thongyu, Thiem Chuthidej. Dancer, choreographer and television host, Workpoint Entertainment Studios. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Thai with translation by Pornrat Damrhung in Pathum Thani on 28 November 2010. Thuyet, Quang. Buddhist monk and ritual specialist, Ðô�ng Cao Temple. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Vietnamese with translation by Hanh Y Ly in Y Yen, Hai Duong on 16 May 2010. Vorn, Kim. Dance teacher. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Koh Oknatey on 6 March 2010.

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Vu Long, Le. Dancer, dance teacher and choreographer, Together Higher Dance Company. Interview conducted in English by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Hanoi on 17 May 2010. Yim, Sinath. Dancer, National Department of Performing Arts. Interview conducted by Toni Shapiro-Phim in Khmer in Phnom Penh on 7 June 2010. Ying, Cai. Dance student and dance performer, Hong Kong Academy of Performing Arts. Interview conducted by Nicholas Rowe in English in Hong Kong on 4 November 2011.

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Hollway, W. and Jefferson, T. (2000). Doing Qualitative Research Differently: Free Association, Narrative and the Interview Method. London: Sage. Huntington, S. (1992). The Clash of Civilizations? Washington, DC: American Enterprise Institute. Lewis, B. (2002). What Went Wrong? The Conflict between Islam and the West in the Middle East. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Kaeppler, A. (2000). ‘Dance ethnology and the anthropology of dance’. Dance Research Journal, 32(1), pp.116–25. Kvale, S. (1988). ‘The 1,000 page question’. Phenomenology and Pedagogy, 6, pp.90–106. Maslow, A. (1971). The Farther Reaches of Human Nature. New York: Viking Press. Mishler, E. (1986). Research Interviewing: Context and Narrative. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Perry, G. (2007). ‘History documents, art reveals: Creative writing as research’. In B. Bolt and E. Barret (eds), Practice as Research: Approaches to Creative Arts Enquiry (pp.35–46). London: I.B.Tauris. Phillips, M., Stock, C.F. and Vincs, K. (2009). Dancing Doctorates Down-Under? Defining and Assessing ‘Doctorateness’ when Embodiment Enters the Thesis. Adelaide and Brisbane: Australian Dance Council (Ausdance Inc) and Queensland University of Technology. Prakash, G. (1990). ‘Writing post-orientalist histories of the third world: Perspectives from Indian histography’. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 32(2), pp.383–408. Rowe, N. (2010). Raising Dust: A Cultural History of Dance in Palestine. London: I.B.Tauris. ——— (2011). ‘Dance and political credibility: The appropriation of Dabkeh by Zionism, Pan- Arabism, and Palestinian nationalism’. Middle East Journal, 65(3), pp.363–80. Said, E. (1978). Orientalism. New York: Vintage Press. Shapiro-Phim, T. and Thompson, A. (1999). Dance in Cambodia. New York: Oxford University Press. Shay, A. (1999). ‘Parallel traditions: State folk dance ensembles and folkdance in the field’. Dance Research Journal, 31(1), pp.29–56. Sklar, D. (2001). ‘Five premises for a culturally sensitive approach to dance’. In A. Dils and A. Cooper Albright (eds), Moving History/Dancing Cultures (pp.30–2). Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Snyder, A.F. (2003). ‘Keynote address: Foundations, evolutions and changes in the field of dance ethnology’. In E. Ivancich Dunin (ed.), Proceedings of the CCDR’s Symposium: Applying Dance Ethnology and Dance Research in the 21st Century, 6–8 June, Flagstaff, AZ (pp.8–21). Speedy, J. (2007). Narrative Enquiry and Psychotherapy. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Titan, J.T. (1992). ‘Music, the public interest, and the practice of ethnomusicology’. Ethnomusicology, 36(3), pp.315–22. Tuhiwai Smith, L. (1999). Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. UNESCO (2011). Seoul Agenda: Goals for the Development of Arts Education. Available at http://www.unesco.org/new/en/culture/themes/creativity/arts-education/official-texts/ development-goals/ (accessed 24 June 2014). Vygotsky, L. (1978). Mind and Society: The Development of Higher Mental Processes. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Zebec, T. (2004). ‘The challenges of applied ethnology in Croatia’. Anthropology of East Europe Review, 22(1), pp.85–92. ——— (2007). ‘Experiences and dilemmas of applied ethnochoreology’. Nar.umjet, 44(1), pp.7–25.

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Ampil – A Cambodian refugee camp in Thailand Apsara – A celestial being carved on ancient Khmer temples; the name of a classical dance ballet – A classical theatrical dance form with roots in Europe Benyakai – Giant who transforms into the likeness of Princess Sita in the Ramayana epic Bedhayo – A sacred dance of Java, Indonesia beysey – Banana trunk and leaf offering beysey pacham – Small banana trunk offering Bharatanatyam – a classical dance form from South Asia buong suong – A prayer ceremony in which offerings are made diev – A dance gesture in which a leg is lifted to the back, bent, with sole of foot to the sky Galang – Vietnamese and Cambodian refugee camp in Indonesia Han Viet – Ancient Vietnamese hip-hop – Subculture that includes rap music and break-dancing, with roots in urban centres of North America; sometimes used as a synonym for break-dancing iban – Dance forms appropriated from this group are commonly referred to as iban dances. ISTD – Imperial Society of Teachers of Dancing Jacobs Pillow – A prestigious dance festival in the US joget – A Malay traditional dance kbach – Decorative design motif Khmer Rouge – Communist political group that ruled Cambodia from 1975 to 1979 khoa chao – Wide, loose-fitting cotton wraparound pants khol thmey – New/modern lakhon khol khon – A masked dance kinari kinara – Half-bird/half-human mythical beings kru – Spirit or teacher lakhon – A dance form or theater form lakhon khol – Khmer all-male masked form of dance drama likay – Thai folk opera form Lok Kru – Title: Teacher Lok Ta – Title: Grandfather/elder Lok Ta Moha Eysey – Supreme spirit/teacher of the arts Lok Yeiy – Title: Grandmother/elder

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Luc Cung – A Vietnamese danced Buddhist ritual luk thung – Thai popular theatrical form Mani Mekhala – Sea goddess, in Thai Manora/Menora – Dance drama of southern Thai origin; name of principal character in that dance Moni Mekhala – Sea goddess, in Khmer MTR – Mass Transit Railway in Hong Kong prima danseur – Principal/main male dancer Nang Sida – Princess Sita in the Ramakien and in Phra Lak Phra Lam Neak Ming – Title: Aunt Neang Seda – Princess Sita in the Reamker Neang Thorani – Earth goddess Pchum Ben – A festival that honours the dead Phra Lak – Prince Laksmana in Phra Lak Phra Lam Phra Lak Phra Lam – The Lao version of the Ramayana epic Phra Lak Truaj Pon – A scene from the Ramakien Phra Lam – Prince Rama in Phra Lak Phra Lam pin peat – Orchestra that accompanies Khmer classical dance, shadow puppet plays and Buddhist ceremonies Pol Pot – Leader of the Khmer Rouge poi – a style of dance that involves swinging tethered weights RAD – Royal Academy of Dance ram wong – A Thai and Lao social dance Rama – Prince in the Ramayana epic Ramakien – The Thai version of the Ramayana epic Ramayana – Epic of Indian origin, with great importance in South East Asian arts Reamker – The Khmer version of the Ramayana epic roam vong – A Khmer social dance saen phum – Rite to honour village spirits salsa – Music genre and social dance form with Cuban and other Latin American aesthetic influences samlor – Tricycle taxi in Thailand sampeah kru – A ceremony to honour spirits and teachers of dance and music seconde battement – In ballet, a kicking action to the side of the body silat – Indonesian martial art Site 2 – Cambodian refugee camp in Thailand Spartacus – A Russian ballet, created in the 1950s Sovann Machha – Queen of the fish in the Reamker; name of a dance tevoda – Celestial being thnam ptiel – Local plant in northeast Cambodia Thotsakan – Ravana in the Ramakien and in Phra Lak Phra Lam tro – Traditional fiddle tua aek – Star or principal character wat – Temple wainab – the final cadence of a zapin

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Wittayalai Nattasin – College of Dramatic Arts yiké – Khmer folk opera form that includes stylised dance movements zapin – Malay dance form

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60 Minutes 1 Bangkok 22, 24–5, 30, 35, 38, 47, 58–9, 62, 64, 70, 75, 80s Dance Studio 60–1 77, 84, 96–7, 109, 113, 116, 119, 122, 156–8, 175, 200–1, 205, 220 Abdul, Paula 45 Baryshnikov, Mikhail 11, 81 Adea, Carissa 22 Bassac Theatre 194 Africa xvi Battambang Province 98–9, 103, 114, 188 Agent Orange 86 B-boy 13, 201, 212–13 Akeang Khameaso 73 Bboy Royal 207–8 Alex 88, 195 Bedhayo 185 Alhawiudi, Adam 39 Beijing 34, 36 Ali, Ramli 28, 139, 167–8 Beijing Dance Academy 34, 36, 50, 134, 173 Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves 93 Belle 53, 60, 66, 91, 120, 142, 219 Alliance Française 116 Benyakai 58–9, 109 Almeda, Gilbert 72 Berger, John 16 America see United States Bernie 180 American Dance Festival 90 beysey pacham 37 American Idol 177–8 Bharatanatyam 54, 174 Ampil Camp 23, 44 Bidayuh 165 Amphorn, Acharn 113 Bo 50, 88, 109, 195, 211 angin 107 Bong Sophiline 90 Angkor 155 Borneo 4 Anh Duc, Nguyen 39, 48–9, 93, 116, 195 Bouphachanh, Sengphachanh 36–7, 60, 124, 199–200 Anh Khanh, Dao 71, 87, 95, 102, 186 Boy (name) 49, 114, 216–17 animal dances 58 Bradley, Ed 1 Antharanat, Kru Aram 47, 70 Brahman 5 Apsara 63 Brazil 29 Argentina 29 break-dancing 31, 49, 119, 169 Asia xvi, 4 British Council 195, 196 Australia 133, 138 Broadway 115, 183 Australian Ballet School 143–4 Buck, Ralph xv, 7, 8, 13 ‘Australian Dance Culture’ 12 Buddha 100 Austria 29 Buddhism 5, 47, 102, 111, 128 Bulgaria 161 backwards/forwards 118 Bun Thy, Moeun 3, 23, 44–5, 78, 106, 144, 146–7, 197 Bagong 139 buong suong 106 Bagong Institute 139 Burapha University 162 Bahru, Johor 174 Burger King 136 Balanchine, Bejart 110, 188 Buriram Province 59 Bali 136 Burma 83, 110, 182–3 ballerinas 13 Burmese with an Axe 38 ballet 12, 22–3, 35, 40–3, 45–6, 48, 50–1, 53, 60–1, 64, Bussell, Darcy 170 108, 116–17, 132–6, 140, 142, 152, 155, 169–70, 177, 187, 199–200, 205, 207, 209–10, 214 Cambodia 2, 4, 16, 23, 33, 35, 40, 46, 53–4, 62–3, Ballet Philippines 22 67–8, 74, 90, 97, 106, 126, 141, 155, 182, 183, ballroom dancing 2, 16, 134, 152, 162, 167, 169 185–6, 192, 198

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Cambodian dance 63, 89 Denmark 27 Cambodian New Year 46 Diaz, Lema 126, 193, 201 Canada 138 diev 63 Capitol building 108 Discovery Bay 27 Cartesian 8 Diwa, Ryan 219 Cebu City 180 Doc 117 Central America xvi Don Quixote 135 Central Asia 4 Dong Cao 100–1, 149 Chachengsao Province 30, 220 Dusun 39 Chaktomuk Hall 66 Champa Sea see South China Sea Eakwattanapun, Julaluck 92, 162–3 Chan, Anna 23, 133, 167, 208–9 Eh To 47–8 Chan, Cindy 58, 173 England 30, 161, 170 Chan, Imogen 117 English 2, 17, 27, 75, 117, 136, 187, 196, 199 Chan, Layna 24, 118, 138, 170–1 Eocene 4 Chan, Rhianna 51, 105 ethnochoreology 10 Chankethya, Chey 62–4, 90, 157–9, 166, 183 Eugene, Oregon 1 character dances 46 Europe xvii, 5, 75, 97, 134–6 Cheah, Mei Sing 143 Cheng, Angela 89 Feasible Dance Crew 31, 119 Cheng, Wayz 60, 212–13 Feelings of Love 120 Chenla Theater 120 Fela 183 Chi Anh, Nguyen 16, 28–9, 129–30, 134, 152, 161, 169 Filipino team 114, 201 Chiang Mai 116 Fine Arts College, Vietnam 187 Chin State 218 ‘Fine Arts Service’, Vietnam 44, 144 China 36, 41, 50, 166, 186 Finland 199 China Sea see South China Sea folk dance 23, 35, 43, 48, 57, 60, 117, 142, 155, 189, Chinese classical dance 50, 105 195–6, 199–200 Ching Cha Sawan 177 folk opera 23–4, 44, 48, 106, 155, 230, 232 Chonburi 92, 103, 150–1, 162–3, 218 folklorists 13 choreography 11–12, 53, 68, 70–2, 75–6, 80–1, 85, Ford Foundation 83 88–9, 93, 95, 97, 108, 119, 123, 140, 142, 162–3, foxtrot 30 177–8, 183, 199 France 62–3, 132, 134, 152–3, 165 Christianity 5, 69, 218 French 75, 134 Chui Chai 84–5, 116, 200–1 French Cultural Centre 90, 120 Chulalongkorn University 70 freestyle 55, 88 Chumvan, Sodhachivy 120 Cinderella 201–2 Galang Refugee Camp 2, 16 Civic Centre 118 Gateshead xv Clara 43 Germaine Acogny of Senegal 54 Classic 33, 108 German theatre 77; see also Theater der Welt classical ballet 12, 42, 152 Gonzales, Josef 21, 52, 73, 114, 194 classical dance 40, 43, 58–60, 68, 77, 80, 84, 89–90, 97, Grease 21, 115 105, 136–7, 142, 155, 158, 165–6, 192, 200, 220 GRO, the Guangzhou crew 60 classical Russian ballet 61 Guangzhou 50, 60, 207–8, 212–13 Cold War 5 Guangzhou Dance School 50 College of Dramatic Arts, Bangkok 31, 77 Guantanamera 102 community animation 12 Guarding the Country 78 Cong Nhac, Nguyen 40, 61, 108, 133, 140, 187, 206 gurus 13 contemporary dance 54, 80–1, 85, 91, 136, 142–3, 152–3, 162, 165–6, 175, 177, 195 Han Viet 100 corps de ballet 43, 135 hang krueng 177 creative dance 173 Hanoi 16, 28–9, 39–40, 42, 48–9, 61, 71, 81–2, 86–7, Cuba 29, 102 89, 93, 95–6, 102, 108, 116, 129–30, 133–4, 136, 140, 143, 152–3, 160–1, 169, 186–7, 189, 195–6, Damrong, Pornrat 17 198, 203, 206–7 Dance City Studios, Newcastle xvi Hijjas, Bilqis 45, 106, 132 Dance Theater Workshop 83 Himalayas 4 Dancing with the Stars 16, 161 Hinduism 5, 69 ‘Dangerous Ground, The’ 5–6 Hindustani movies 181 D’Cruz, Marion 69, 118 hip-hop 17, 27, 41, 80, 86, 88, 102, 126, 143, 165, 177, De Lustrac, Philippe 75 180, 193, 201, 212–13, 216 Deeku Festival 127 Ho Chi Minh City 108, 161

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Holland 142 kinaesthetic 4, 6, 174 Hong Kong 23, 27, 43, 50, 58, 88, 105, 109–10, 117, kinari kinara 183 133, 150, 167, 169, 173–4, 176, 180–1, 195, King Norodom 67 204–5, 208–9, 211 Klunchun, Pichet 30–1, 62, 70, 75, 77, 84, 86, 96, 116, Hong Kong Ballet 43 119, 200, 205, 220 Hope of Tomorrow 68 Koh Oknhatey 83, 190 Hsaw Reh 127, 131 Kompong Cham 114 Hungarian dance 46 Kompong Chhnang 114 Hurstsville Town Hall 8 Kompong Som 114 Kompong Speu Province 98 I am a Demon 70, 119 Kompong Thom Province 35, 106 iban 28 Kong, Ros 37, 103, 185–6, 192, 214–15 ICTM Study Group on Ethnochoreology 9 Kong Sokhoun, Chhoun 215 Imperial Society of Teachers of Dancing (ISTD) 53 Koplowitz, Stephan 71 Indian dance 54, 211; see also Baratanatyam Kota Kinabalu 24, 115, 172 Indian music 91 Kreung 17 Indian Ocean 4, 54, 91, 211 Kru Chamrieng Buddhpradap 113 Indonesia, Indonesian 2, 16, 24, 53, 96, 112, 136, Kru Linchee Jarujron 22 139–40 Kru Tuan 113 Iran Mountains 4 Kru Yat Chanthong 109 Islam 5 Kuala Lumpur 21, 25, 45, 49, 52, 55, 69, 72–3, 104, Ismail, Ismadian 107 106–7, 112, 114, 118, 132, 147–8, 170, 181, 194, Italy 83, 126, 161 216–17 Kuching 24, 26–7, 30–1, 51, 54, 79, 105, 113, 117–19, Jackson, Michael 28–9 138–9, 170–1, 174–5, 215–16 Jamreantong, Noppon 103, 150–1, 218 Kunthor, Nuon 40, 46, 64, 155, 182, 213 Jane 118–19 Java 24, 185 La Baule 132 Javanese dance 97, 139, 185 Labuan Island 114 Jazz 41–2, 53, 118, 136, 169, 177–8 Lakhon 150, 156 Jenis, Martina Benedict Paul 162, 164 Lakhon khol 43, 86 Jensen, Christina 27, 176, 180, 181 Lantau Island 27 jive 29, 143 Lao Bang Fai Association 193 Jo Jo 31–2, 75–6, 108, 114, 182 Lao music and dance 60, 80, 86, 141–2, 193 joget 21, 52 Lao Opera Theatre 193 Johor 112 Laos 17, 38, 86, 195 Judge Rabbit 128 Latin 162, 167, 169 Lianto, Ria 102 Kaeppler, Adrienne 8 likay 38 Kamal Village 218 line dancing 21, 147 Kammaphadit, Pheuy 123, 184–5 Linggie, Humphrey Robert 30, 175, 215 Kapit 167 Literary and Dramatic Society (University of Malaya) 72 Karen dance 47 locking 85, 201 Karen New Year 47–8 Lok Kru Malis 62 Karenni 127–8, 131 Lok Kru Meas Van Roeun 23 kbach 89 Lok Kru Saem 158 Kbal Kdung 129 Lok Kru Sakhorn 35 Kelantan 55 Lok Kru Thavarak 158 Kerala 21 Lok Kru Van Roeun 44 Kesha 108 Lok Ta Chheng Phon 42, 107, 155 Khan, Chea 37 Lok Ta Moha Eysey 63 khoa chao 86 Lok Yeiy Chan Bo 42, 57 Khmer 2, 17, 45, 54, 66, 68, 75, 81, 86, 89, 91, 96, 106, Lok Yeiy Chea Samy 42, 58, 63–4, 158, 176, 179, 204 114, 120, 141–2, 219 Lok Yeiy Soth Sam-on 51, 175 Khmer Rouge 23, 35, 42, 46, 64, 67, 83–4, 98–9, 104, Lollipop TV show 60 106–7, 127, 129, 182, 185–6, 188, 192, 214 London 42, 115, 135–6, 138 khol 87, 158 London Studio Centre 42 khol thmey 86 Long Hin, Li 204 khon 22, 47, 64, 103, 150, 156–7 Los Angeles, LA, Los Angeles Festival 88, 185 Khru Amporn Chatchakul 59 Luang Prabang 121–4, 184–5, 195 Khummanee, Chaiyut 70 Luc Cung 149 Kiev 42, 134–5 luk thung 59, 177–8 Kiev Opera Ballet Theatre 134–5 Lunachevsky National Institute of Theatre 140

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Luzon 4 North America 97 Lyon, Leslie 72 North Carolina 90 North China 134 Machhanop 86 Nutcracker 43 Madame Butterfly 133 Mae Sot 47–8, 83, 110–11, 127, 131, 182, 218 Old Stadium, Phnom Penh 62 Magi, Suhaimi 24, 115, 172 Olympic Stadium, Phnom Penh 155 mai reaw 47 opera 48, 133 Malay Peninsula 4 Oressey Market 35 Malaya, University of 55, 72, 194 Outdon, Chhoun 207, 215 Malaysia 69, 114, 215 Malaysian dance 46, 52–3, 114, 132, 175 Pacific Ocean xvi, 4 Manalo, Maui 28, 214, 220 Paderes, Pia 166 Manora 55, 59, 113, 122–3 Pamina Devi 94–5 Mani Mekhala 109, 122 Pamino 95 Manila 22, 29, 49, 102, 126, 166, 193, 201, 214, 219–20 Panadol 69 Manou 81 Paris xv, 134 Mar Chua (Lyka), Angelica 49 Pathum Thani 59, 177–8 Martinez, Gerald 72 Patravadi Theatre 116 Martinus, Miroto 53 Pattaya 182 Mass Transit Railway (MTR) 176 Pchum Ben 190 Mediterranean i, xvii pedagogy 140 Melaka 5 Performing Arts Department, Kuala Lumpur 170 Michael, George 41 Petit, Roland 188 Michelle 193 Phan Y, Ly 136, 143, 160, 189, 198 Millennium Bridge, Gateshead xv Philippine Allstars 202 Ministry of Culture 35, 56, 80, 91, 99, 170, 192 Philippines 4, 180, 201–2, 219 Minister of Culture and Information, Phnom Penh 35, Phnom Penh 16, 31–2, 35, 37, 40, 42, 46, 50, 53, 57, 99, 107, 155, 192 60–4, 66, 75–6, 81, 84, 86, 90–1, 98–9, 103, modern 142, 212 106, 108, 114, 120, 125, 128–9, 136–7, 142, 146, Mom Achan Thanpuying Paew Snitvongeni 113 154–5, 157–9, 166, 175, 179, 182–6, 188, 192, Mon 110–11 194, 204, 206–7, 210, 213–14, 219 Mongolia 167 Phomalath, Ladda 38, 70, 141–2, 156 Moni Mekhala 63, 93, 125, 179 Phoun, Emanuelle 54 Moscow 133, 135, 140–1 Phoutisane, Anouza 17, 80, 85, 165, 193, 212 Mrs Fermage 12 Phra Lak 121 M-Style 114 Phra Lak Phra Lam 56–7, 112, 121, 184 Muntha, Sim 98–9 Phra Lak Truaj Pon 109 Muslim 5, 69 Phra Lam 121–3 Phum Tong Nong Liek 126, 218 Na, Zhao 50, 105 Phumea 89 Nang Mani Mekhala 122 Pillow, Jacobs 200 Nang Manora 122–3 pin peat 89 Nang Sida 58, 121–3 Pleistocene 4 Naniapen, Puspavathy 54, 113, 174 Po Ei 83 National Department of Performing Arts, Cambodia 67, Poipet 114 126, 146, 197 Pol Pot 57, 66–7, 84, 103–4, 127–8 National Liberation Front, Cambodia 106 polka step 23 National Museum, Cambodia 43 Polo, Marco 5 National School of Music and Dance, Laos 36, 142, Pontoon 108–9, 114 156, 199 popping 80, 85–6, 177 Neak Kru Huy Serey Phousita 157 Prapradaeng District 150 Neak Kru Mao Tep Mony 157 Prasrimahathat Temple 109 Neak Kru Soth Somaly 158 prima danseur 147 Neak Ming Voan Savay 23 Prince Rama 100 Neang Seda 125, 126 Prince Sihanouk 185 Neang Thorani 124 Princess Margaret Award for Best Production 205 New England Foundation for the Arts 83 Princess Sita 112 New York Times 17 Promises Promises 183 New Zealand 136 ptiel trau tik 218 Newcastle Summit xv, xvi Pulau Bidong refugee camp 1 Nijinsky Siam 75 Pulau Galang 2 Nor, Anis 26, 55–6, 104, 108, 112, 147–9, 181, 194 Pursat Province 43, 103, 192

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Queen Mother, Cambodia 37 Shapiro-Phim, Toni 1, 16 Queen of the Night 95 Shell Centenary Scholarship for the Arts 143 Qui Duc, Nguyen xiii, 16 Shiva 74 Quickstep 30, 169 Si Pana 52 Siem Reap 3, 23, 44–5, 78, 99, 106, 114, 144, 146–7, Rahman 55 197–8 ram wong 24, 35–6 Sierra Madre 4 Rama 84 Sight Memory 86 Ramakien 58, 109 Silapakorn Theatre 113 Ramayana 84, 85, 112, 201 silat 24 rap dancing 31 Singapore 41, 92, 143, 144 Rattanakiri Province 17, 218 Singapore Armed Forces Music and Dance Company 41 Rattanawaraha, Chatuporn 22, 35, 47, 64, 156–7 Singapore Ballet Academy 41 Ravana 47, 84 Singapore Dance Theatre 41 Ream Eyso 125 Singin’ in the Rain 115 Red Cross 35 Site 2 (refugee camp) 3, 44, 144 Red Shirts 116 Snow White 105, 117 Remaker 125–6 Snowflakes 43 Riau Archipelago 2 social dance 2, 24–5, 29, 35, 38, 42, 134, 152, 187 Richelle 31, 79 Soeur, Sophea 17 ritual 2, 68, 84, 100–2, 149–50, 176–7, 179 Soeur, Thavarak 42, 86, 215 Robbins, Jerome 188 Sokhanarith, Pring 206, 215 Romeo and Juliet 90 sompoton 39 Rowe, Nicholas 8, 11, 13 Sondab, Nou 66 Royal Academy of Dance (RAD) 53 Soon, Chin Vui 27, 119, 216 royal dance 86, 175 Sorn, Chumvan 67 Royal Palace, Cambodia 43 Souksavath, Thongchanh 121–4, 195 Royal University of Fine Arts, Cambodia 40, 60 South America xvi rumba 29 South China Sea xvii, 2, 4–5, 6–7, 10, 13, 15, 20, 222 Russia 41, 48, 187 South Pacific Ocean xvii Russian 133–5, 140 Southeast Asia 1–2, 4 Russian ballet 61, 133 Southern Sea see South China Sea Russian models 41 Sovann Machha 63 Soviet Union 40–3, 46, 135, 155 saen phum 218 Spanish dance 46 Sala Meas 62 Spartacus 187–8 Salai, Jobson 218 Sri Lanka 211 salsa 136, 143, 160–1, 198–9 Stellar 43, 110, 117, 150 samba 29, 169 Stories of Us 82, 86, 96 Sambath, Khamtong 56–7 Strait of Malacca 2 Samean, Keo 17, 126, 218 Sugar Plum Fairy 43 samlor 58–9 Sumbath, Khamtong 110, 121, 125, 205 sampeah kru 179 Sunda Shelf 4 San Diego 202 Supriyanto, Eko 97 Santubong 28, 39, 139, 162, 164, 167–8 Surabaya 136 Sarawak 167 Swan Lake 135 Sarawak Cultural Village 39, 162 Swiss Embassy 198 Sarawak dance 139, 162 Sathya, Sam 50, 57, 81, 125–6, 136–7, 175, 179, 184, Taiwan 60 188, 204 Takhmao 73, 188 Saturday Night Fever 21, 72–3 Talking Dance xvi, xvii, 8, 10–11 Savay, Ming 44 Tan, Jeffrey 41, 135 Savay, Voan 23, 45 tango 29 School of Dramatic Arts, Bangkok 22 Tantranon, Boonnak 24–5, 38, 58, 109, 113, 122, 158, 175 School of Fine Arts, Cambodia 42, 91, 166, 210 Tanuwara Beach 24 School of Music and Dance 36, 125, 142, 156, 199 tap 41, 53 Seahorse Lane 27 Tchaikovsky Institute 141 Secondary School of Fine Arts, Cambodia 166 teaching 2, 7, 22–4, 31, 41, 45–6, 50–3, 55–6, 61, Shaanxi Province 50 63, 76, 78, 86, 100, 106, 133, 138, 140, 143–4, Shamen 26, 36, 134, 173 146–7, 150, 152–3, 156–8, 160–3, 165–7, Shan State 83 169–70, 172–5, 177, 179, 182, 184, 192–4, 197, Shanghai Theatre Dance 50 199–200, 214, 218 Shapiro, Sophiline Cheam 73–4, 89, 93–4, 97 teav 90

Talking Dance.indd 237 4/21/2016 6:36:23 PM 238 Talking Dance

Tenom Village 24 Vaganova style 134 Thai-Cambodian border 23 Viennese Waltz 29 Thai Vientiane 17, 36–8, 56–7, 60, 70, 80, 85, 110, 121, Thailand 3–4, 17, 70, 75, 84, 97, 116, 119, 144, 150, 124–5, 141–2, 156, 165, 193, 199–200, 205, 175, 177–8, 182 212 Thai (classical) dance 58–9, 77–8, 93, 141, 162–3, 182, 220 Vietnam 1–2, 16, 35, 39, 60, 61, 71, 81, 83, 86, 93, Thaksin 85 100, 102, 135, 140–1, 152, 161–2, 186–7, 195–7, Theatre der Welt 77 198–9, 208 The Doll Dance 24 Vietnam National Opera Theatre 152, 196–7 The Lives of Giants 89, 95 Vietnam Opera Ballet Theatre 71 The Magic Flute 94 Vietnamese Communist Party Union 196 The Skater’s Waltz 24 Vietnamese dance 16, 39, 40–1, 48, 60, 61, 133, 134, The Tree of Life 95 140–1, 152, 161–2, 186–7, 195–7, 198–9 Thi Thu Lan, Luu 42, 134, 153, 196, 203 Vietnamese Embassy 135 Thiri 110–11 Vorachon 125 thnam ptiel 127 Vorn, Kim 83, 190 Thongyu, Thiem Chuthidej 59, 177–8 Vu Long, Le 81–2, 86, 89, 96, 152–3 Thotsakan 121–3 Vung Euy: ‘Open Sesame’ Thuyet, Quang 100–1, 149 Tibetan Plateau 4 wainab 112 Tick Tock 108 Waltz 29, 43, 56 Titiwangsa 4 Waltz of the Flowers 43 Together Higher 154, 196, 197 Wat Bavornnivej 22 Tonle Sap Lake 106 Wat Lanka 65 traditional dance 24, 28, 44, 48, 53, 83, 93, 108, 133, West Australian Academy of Performing Arts 133 152, 162, 218 West Side Story 115 Travolta, John 21 White Nights 11 tro 192 Who Cares 110 Truong Hanh Ly 13, 16 Wilson 49 tua aek 63 Winchester, University of 143 tum teav 90 Wittayalai Nattasin 38 Tunsai, Sophea 128 World Alliance for Arts Education Global Summit xv Tyne, River xv World Trade Organisation 93 World War II 5 UCLA 89–90 Ukrainian dance 46 Xia, Hai Ying 34 Uma 74–5 UN High Commissioner for Refugees 2 Yak Ramasoon 109, 122–3 UNESCO Convention on Intangible Cultural Heritage Yellow Shirts 84–5, 116 (ICH) 9 Yieu 88 UNESCO Policy on Arts Education xv Yike 103 UNESCO Seoul Agenda Policy xvi Yim, Sinath 35, 106, 128–9, 154, 194, 210 United Kingdom (UK) xv, 135–6, 138, 143, 167, 170 Ying, Cai 26, 36, 134, 173 United Nations 1, 3 yoga 169 United States (US) 1–2, 16, 29–30, 81, 83, 86, 128, Young Pioneers 183 161, 185, 202 YouTube 50, 177 University of Fine Arts, Cambodia 23, 40, 60 Yuan 127 University of Malaya 55, 72, 194 University of the Thai Chamber of Commerce 175 zapin 28, 52, 112

Talking Dance.indd 238 4/21/2016 6:36:23 PM Richelle, Kuching I didn’t think I would be a dancer. I just followed my brother.

Josef Gonzales, Kuala Lumpur I really think at that moment it was the hand of God, and I said, ‘Okay!’

TD ColorPlate.indd 1 4/21/2016 2:59:25 PM Layna Chan, Kuching It was not perfect, but it was better.

Anouza Phoutisane, Vientiane I started to teach for free. I went around and invited street kids to study with me. I thought that if I could get them off the streets and teach them to dance, I could give them an alternative to begging.

TD ColorPlate.indd 2 4/21/2016 2:59:25 PM Belle and Nuon Chhaylot, Phnom Penh I love learning new ways of moving. – Belle

Belle, Phnom Penh ‘Look at Belle, the dancer who goes out to perform and comes home late at night! Hmmm…’

TD ColorPlate.indd 3 4/21/2016 2:59:25 PM Noppon Jamreantong, Assam If we were doing khon (masked dance), we’d have to invite the hermit kru (spirit of the hermit/teacher) prior to the performance. Backstage, we’d offer flowers, incense, candles and some money. We learned the proper ritual for this from the dance teachers who prepared all the offerings.

TD ColorPlate.indd 4 4/21/2016 2:59:25 PM Dance observers, squatters village, Phnom Penh One day all the families in that slum area [where I was teaching dance] disappeared. They were moved so that, I think, the land could be developed. Some rich people bought the land and needed all those people gone so that they could fill in the swamp and build businesses. I don’t know where everyone was sent. – Moeun Bun Thy

Dance students, squatters village, Phnom Penh I started to teach dance in a kind of squatters’ village in Phnom Penh in early 2004. I decided to volunteer to do that because I wanted the children to understand our culture and arts, and to help preserve it. – Moeun Bun Thy

TD ColorPlate.indd 5 4/21/2016 2:59:25 PM Nguyen Chi Anh and Nguyen Nha Khanh, Hanoi What pushes me is that I like to renew myself every day. You can’t eat the same thing all the time. I’m kind of driven to do a new thing or something special every day, with every dance. – Nguyen Chi Anh

TD ColorPlate.indd 6 4/21/2016 2:59:26 PM Chey Chankethya, Phnom Penh They are all dedicated. I love my students.

Jo Jo and dancers, Phnom Penh I didn’t care what others thought of me. – Jo Jo

TD ColorPlate.indd 7 4/21/2016 2:59:26 PM Khamtong Sambath, Vientiane Before a performance I have to concentrate on the dance I am about to do, to think of the gestures and movements on my own.

Keo Samean, Phum Tong Nong Liek The houses were all burned. All gone. I slept right on the earth.

TD ColorPlate.indd 8 4/21/2016 2:59:26 PM Keo Samean, Phum Tong Nong Liek One of the villagers had a dream and then we found a banana tree and thnam ptiel. Using that plant to select a proper spot, we planted the tree. We established the village anew, and started to build houses again.

TD ColorPlate.indd 9 4/21/2016 2:59:27 PM Khamtong Sambath, Vientiane I have to persevere, looking in the mirror, on my own, to develop the right expression and movement quality.

TD ColorPlate.indd 10 4/21/2016 2:59:27 PM Dao Anh Khanh, Hanoi I hope I am helping them to believe in themselves as artists.

TD ColorPlate.indd 11 4/21/2016 2:59:27 PM Dao Anh Khanh and Nguyen Thi Lieu, Hanoi I always approach choreography by finding a way for individuals to create from within their true natures. – Dao Anh Khanh

Nuon Kunthor, Phnom Penh We performed ballet at schools and at the Bassac Theater and in Kompong Cham, Koh Kong and Siem Reap Provinces before the war. Regular folks came to see the shows. I don’t remember, but I think that on the road we played for free.

TD ColorPlate.indd 12 4/21/2016 2:59:27 PM Phan Y Ly and Dinh Quang Anh, Hanoi I do not impose what is ‘right’. People have to feel it, grasp it themselves. – Phan Y Ly

Thiem Chuthidej Thongyu, Pathum Thani This is the sixth year of the television program I helped create, Ching Cha Sawan. It’s a national competition among high school students involving luk thung music, singing and dance. I started this because I was afraid that luk thung as a music form was going to die.

TD ColorPlate.indd 13 4/21/2016 2:59:28 PM Sam Sathya, Phnom Penh The birth of the earth can be traced to Neang Neak [a sacred serpent].

TD ColorPlate.indd 14 4/21/2016 2:59:28 PM Yim Sinath and Meas Kim Hanh, Phnom Penh We were so happy, studying dance and being together with our friends. – Yim Sinath

Khmer Arts Ensemble, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania I created an image of a melody I heard. – Sophiline Cheam Shapiro

TD ColorPlate.indd 15 4/21/2016 2:59:28 PM Kim Vorn, Koh Oknhatey When I was little I could not wait to dance.

TD ColorPlate.indd 16 4/21/2016 2:59:29 PM