When silence dances too
A historical account. References to the next international project reflect the time of writing.
Today, I stepped into another world.
Before my next international project, I had the opportunity to attend a noh class taught by master Reijiro Tsumura, guardian of a tradition that seems to be made of time, silence, and truth. The subject of the class was Hagoromo, the play in which a celestial figure returns to the moon. Just hearing that premise, I could already sense that this would be no ordinary class.
First came the spoken word. The history of noh, its roots, its schools, its way of understanding the stage. And then came the voice.
In the utai part, the singing of noh, I had to do more than follow a melody. I had to listen to the air between the sounds. I had to feel how pitch, duration, and pulse could draw an entire landscape. In this case, the moment when the celestial maiden returns to the moon.
It looked simple from the outside. It was not.
Trying to sing it made me realize that, in true art, what runs deepest almost never shouts. When the master demonstrated it, everything suddenly made sense. The room changed. Time changed. And the only response that came naturally was a great, heartfelt round of applause.
There was another particularly beautiful moment: the kakegoe, those vocal calls that accompany and sustain. In them, something unexpected and familiar emerged. There was an energy that reminded me of the jaleo of flamenco. Not because they were the same, but because they arose from the same place: that human impulse to encourage another person's expression, to support it, to kindle it.
Then came movement.
The fan in the hand. The direction of the gaze. The gliding of the feet. The turn. The pause.
Everything seemed minimal, but within that restraint lived an enormous demand. In flamenco, the body sometimes bursts forth. In noh, the body holds itself in. But in both, truth is immediately apparent.
One of the moments that stayed with me most was when the master showed us a mask used on stage. Seeing it up close brought a phrase to mind that kept resonating within me: a noh mask is not expressionless; it changes with the angle and with the heart of the person looking at it.
What a profound truth.
Some objects do not display a fixed emotion. Instead, they reflect what we carry inside. Like a silent mirror.
At the end, the master's singing and dance left us all in that place where nothing needs explaining anymore. Only watching. Only giving thanks.
Days like this remind me of something important: learning is not just acquiring technique. Sometimes it means allowing another form of beauty to enter the body and awaken it from within.
And today, without a doubt, something within me awakened.
Beni
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