Gotama: A Journey to the Buddha

The Buddha has been peering around the corners of my spiritual life for a long time. It comes recommended to me by Jewish liberals, Anglican Canons, Japanese booksellers, and Unitarians recovering from the more punitive forms of Christianity. So I was looking forward tot his production to learn more.

It was a good start. This delicious production is touching, moving, a delight to the eye and ear, and conveys the beginnings of the journey that the young prince makes when he escapes from his stately pleasure-dome to see what the world is really about. My only complaint is that it stops short. It uses its time to tell us how he got here, but not to tell us where he got. It's the story of a teacher without any of his teachings. Maybe it would be best to call it Part One. But I'd sign right up for part 2; this is a quibble more than a complaint. I would heartily recommend this show to anyone who wants to enjoy a superb 75 minutes of minutely crafted world theater that blends stagecraft from around the globe to make sense out of a great religion to anyone wondering in from East lake Street.

The story is of a rich prince who seemed poised to inherit the best of everything. He will inherit his father's kingdom, he is known to be a great archer and athlete, a lover of learning and a lovely lover. His father tries to keep him in the dark about the outside world, because the prophecy of his youth is that he will either be a great prince of a great teacher, and we all know the differential in salary between those two posts. His father wants the best for him, as he can only hope for from what he knows. But Gotama escapes.

He sees the sights foretold; an old man, a sick woman, a dead man, and a monk who has renounced the world. He asks, does this happen to all of us? His charioteer acknowledges this truth, that death comes to us all. Gotama is moved. He casts off his clothing and all that is attached to the manor to which he was born, and takes on the teachings and the trappings of the ascetics who would instruct him in self denial. It leads to a night under the banyan tree where he achieves enlightenment. This is the story of us, of how we could be, if we peeked around the corner of our wealth and the walled gardens of our prosperity, and saw the despair of Darfur, of Baghdad, of our own streets stared of food and compassion. We need to look to be moved, and we need to feel the pain of others in order to be able to help. That is what this play calls enlightenment.

The story is told in layers of superb puppetry and live actors. Julian McFaul carries the narrative ball as the Charioteer who accompanies the prince in his pleasures and guards him in his fall to earth. The ensemble of puppeteers (Masanari Kawahara, Janaki Panpura, Sandy Spieler) are wonderfully trained and inspired in their humanizing of the sculpted characters. We expect the best from Heart of the Beast, and we get it. They are dressed in white; instead of disappearing like black-clad bunraku puppeteers, this ensemble guides us with their eyes,m and with their expressions, to where we should look, and to coach us in the effect of the action. Its like having company in watching the show. The baby Gotama is tiny, the young Gotama is larger, the seeker Gotama is life-sized,m the enlightened one is bigger than a tree.

The special effects make this a satisfying experience through out. Music by the astonishing duo of Laura Harada and Tim O'Keefe start us in strings of violin and other (maddeningly unnamed) stringed instruments, a variety of percussion, and the occasional glass, played for a rim-hum that gave us an unending bell-like tone at the central core of the storyline. The shadow puppetry on the scrim filled in story bits with abstract images that told specific bits of information, storytelling in pictures like a black and white stained glass window. As a produced piece of theater, this was an exquisite treat tot he eye, ear and heart.

There was one problem in staging, and one problem in plotting, both of which happen at almost the same time. As Gotama the puppet tastes the milk-rice which leads him tit he middle way, suddenly the charioteer becomes Gotama. What happens to Channa the charioteer? Why is the puppet Gotama lead off the stage as if he dies? I'd be okay with showing that he had found a middle way by becoming a more human monk, leaving behind the stick-man puppet to become the more fully enfleshed enlightened one, but the confusion of him taking on the life of Channa is confusing. I kept wondering, did Gotama leave? Did the charioteer become the Buddha?

Following this confusion is the confusion of the Enlightened One's enlightenment. We have to take their word for it. We do not get to hear the great teacher teach. We hear nothing about why everyone should be interested enough in this fellow to tell his story. It's as if we were told the story of Jesus and ending it when he was baptized, without hearing what he had to say or how he lived. Why can't we have the Buddha make an appearance? Why can't he say what he came to say? It reminded me of how Oscar Wilde described cigarettes as being the perfect luxury: "They are delicious and delightful, and leave one feeling unsatisfied." If the intent of the playwright is to leave us wanting more, it was a success. If it was to teach us about the Buddha's teaching, it fell short. I accept it as the story of his life-changing journey in a search for meaning. And that's a great gift in itself.

In the Heart of the Beast, 1500 East lake St. Minneapolis. 612=721-2535 or www.hobt.org

He Qi: Two Levels of Amazement

There is an innovative cross-cultural artist from Nanjing who has illuminated the Christian art world. Whatever it is you do, whatever you are interested in, let me say this about that: Must See. Must See. Must See. He Qi (pronounced ho chi, not Quie) does two absolutely remarkable things. I’ll tell you about them one at a time.

He Qi is a professor a Nanjing Union Theological Seminary, Nanjing, and is categorized as a Contemporary Christian artist, a rare commodity to come out of the People’s Republic of China. The paintings in this exhibit are of biblical motifs, both New Testament and the Hebrew Bible, and they are wonderful compositions that seamlessly combine many different styles. In a nativity scene with he Magi, he has traditional folk elements of peasant portraiture combined with modern avante pictures of the Wise Men, each in a style accurate to their background from Asia, Europe and Africa, as the tradition tells us. Yet the gift that is centered in the picture is a blue-and-white vase from the Chinese tradition that is rendered so accurately it might have been cut out and pasted into place. In a quasi-abstracts portrait of a story, this telling detail is the only thing painted realistically, and he chose a work of art.

The colors he chooses in his gouache pieces feature bright jewel tones and soft pastoral organic backgrounds. His effort to cast Mary as a Chinese woman, or the finding of the foundling Moses by a Chinese princess, is a conscious effort to make the Christian story less foreign and more familiar, less western and more universal. This is as it has always been; Jesus is the Greek name given Yeshua by the Greeks, a blue-eyed Jesus has been featured for many years on Scandinavian calendars; african nativities have African shepherds gathered around an African mother and child. To take this action is not new, but to pull it off in such an honest and compelling style has got to be seen as exceptional.

Qi was getting ready for his reception when I had a few short words for him. I asked about the difficulties of being a follower of the Christian faith in a communist country. “During the Cultural Revolution, all the foreign missionaries were sent out. I was put out in the country, but i couldn’t do the hard work. They needed people to make statues and paintings of Mao, to worship him. I thought, that’s a good job for me. So I got that job for my area. At night, I would paint soft pictures of the Madonna.

“I felt our people had the struggle-spirit too much. Every day, struggle. I wanted to create peaceful scenes. We need to hear the peaceful voice of heaven.”

His studies of medieval paintings in Europe have shown off well in colors like blue and green that seem as bright as stained-glass. He also draws the color palette from minority folk art traditions, which carry vibrant tones of red and yellow. Combining these with modernistic design components, he renders work that is fully Chinese and fully Christian, being of one substance, as it were.

The paintings are bold, deeply colored and strongly evocative of the story portrayed. “Out of the Garden” has the angel casting Adam and Eve from their secluded paradise, which is surrounded by a small wooden fence and a tiny gate. “Abraham and the Angels” has a skeptical Sarah in the back, a welcoming and hospitable Abraham as the proud householder, and three faceless, bi-gendered angelic guests, mysterious and yet casting a beautiful shimmer through the room. “Elijah and the Raven” is a countryside portrait of the prophet in hiding, being brought food by God’s raven. Elijah looks at peace, in comfort, amazed and grateful by this inexplicably miraculous act of generosity from the God he is serving. The colors are more muted and flat in this one to convey a more realistic tone, a more landscape texture to the still modernized figurative creatures portrayed. Any one of these pieces would grace any wall.

Oh, and the second amazing thing? There’s another dozen pieces that are as beautiful, as amazing in their color and composition, and thematic content, and they are made from silk, woven into tapestry. This is the part that has to be seen to be believed. It’s one thing to experience a great artist doing moving, profound work; it’s quite another when that same level of excellence is run through a process one has never encountered before, never even heard of. Each silk strand is dyed carefully by silk artists who have been building the skills of the craft for many thousands of years (the country’s name was originally silk)

and under the watchful eye of He Qi, they take about a month constructing these pieces. The light changes and jumps as you move past each peace; some landscape backgrounds are done in several shades of green, and as you walk by they shift in emphasis; the magnificent jewel tones and the classic modern compositions stay true tot he artist’s forms in his paintings. There is no way to do this work justice in words; Go See. Go See. Go See. It’s a brand new thing to me.

Ruth and Naomi are done is a swirling abstract of rounding forms, feminine yet undefined as people, a merger of two souls. The Song of Solomon has a collection of motifs drawn from the book of erotic love poetry ( the best-kept secret in the Old Testament) that pairs the gorgeous half naked lovers with he metaphors they use to describe each other in lingering, hot-breathed longing. Sleeping Elijah is a symphony of green silk, a cascade of wandering colors that glitter and murmur with each passing. The effect is stunning.

The silk pieces range in price from $1,800 to $4,900. and the paintings go from $4900 to $12,000, with most around $9500.

Premier Gallery, 141 South 11th Street, Downtown Minneapolis. 612-338-4541

Kevin Kling and Interact: Seeds of the Guthrie Show

Kevin Kling’s work for NPR and his book, The Dog Says How, have all been high-profile. But his work with Interact Center’s Performing Arts have been more Down Under the Radar. The work with Jeannie Calvit that went from Australia to the Frozen North ended up on the Dowling Stage at the Guthrie as "Northern Lights, Southern Cross." This is how they got there.

Jeannie Calvit is the Artistic Director of Interact, which has an art studio and theater company that develops the skills of people with disabilities. Calvit is an innovator and revolutionary in the field. The performing arts wing has produced memorable shows that have toured to London, Norway, Sweden, British Columbia, and Australia.

Kling was asked to join forces by Calvit, who had corralled allies in Australia. Pat Rix runs a similar theater company called Tutti, and Pat brought aboriginal performers together with some Native Americans gathered by Calvit. Kling had worked with Calvit and Company before his near-fatal motorcycle accident, and his recovery had made for a significant re-direction in his work.

Through Calvit’s ministrations and Kling’s inspirations they recently did a show, Northern Lights, Southern Cross, which played at the Adelaide Fringe Festival. It examines the underlying spirituality that encompasses people who have survived trauma, whether it is personal, tribal, or global.

In a conversation, over tuna burgers and malts at Joe’s Garage, we plumbed the depths of this topic. Here are excerpts from that luncheon.

Seal: Tell me about the show. Did it come out of your hospital experience?

Kling: You know what? No. It began long before this. For me, the jump off point was when the Australians came to Minnesota, and we went dog sledding. There was, like, 11 performers with disabilities, and staff from Tutti came and we went up North. That was amazing, and we went ice fishing, and that's where we met Al Baker (Native American medicine man), and got tied into the Native community here. Then, all of a sudden, that started to become the idea: how do indigenous cultures tie in with cultures with people with disabilities and with survival? And then Sindebad (Minneapolis artist) and I went to Australia last year, and they kinda did to us what we did to them. They took us to the Outback, and we really got to know the members of their indigenous community. Jeannie and Pat Rix, they brought these two forces together; and then we started working on the sending of ideas back to Pat, who did the music.

Calvit: Pat's the main collaborator, and she's a composer. She's the mover and shaker over there, and she and I wanted to do it Obijwe wanted to do a real co-production, that involved our two companies.

I was thinking about things we have in common as two cultures, and it is that we were (countries) settled by white people, who almost destroyed our indigenous people, and I feel that there is some underlying spirituality that's still left over from them . I think that, if you really look into the New Age Stuff, the same stuff I was learning at my New Age church was exactly what Al's teachings are about, and so I felt like that sad aspect of our two cultures was interesting.

Seal: When did you add the idea of the global and personal trauma?

Kling: That was after. I was looking for what connected these communities together. What do the indigenous have, because they're born into it, and then what people with disabilities have, either born into it, or acquire it. The story starts from my motorcycle accident; so it's acquiring a trauma, and then when you're in a coma or you're trying to come out, you end up going epic to survive.

Calvit: I remember the light bulb. Al started talking about the Haioka, Hai-yo-ka. who were contrary - in the Native American culture, they are like spiritual teachers; they do things backwards. They're annoying; they press your buttons. And suddenly the concept of the Haioka, if you look at the origins of the clown - the clowning, the kind of clowning I did at Jacque LeCoque school was about that because he's a little bit different, that's why he gets away with it because he's a little bit crazy.

Kling: Like Lear's Fool.

Seal: He's got license. Like the court jester who can say the unsayable and not get his head cut off.

Calvit: And so, that was just like, "O.K., I know what I'm gonna do! I'm going to create a clown chorus with these disabled artists.”

Kling: Acknowledging both that you are a contrary, and that there are contraries that you can learn – whether it’s Haioka, or Fool, or whatever you want to call it – there is the idea of learning from people who have a foot in two worlds, and you are looking at this world through a prism; and by doing that, you can turn and look at the world you live in. Without that, you are in the world, but if you go through a prism, you can turn and then look. That’s one of the things that Haiokas, contraries, or people with disabilities – one of the things they have to offer is the ability to turn and look at a parallel universe.

Calvit: In the play, There’s a woman who met him (Kling) when she came over to the states. She got caught in a snowstorm. And then she’s telling him, “Don’t ride your motorcycle!” Of course he rides his motorcycle, has the accident, and goes into the coma. That’s when he’s over in the other world, where he meets up with all these Aboriginal and Native American guides, and all these things happen to him.

Kling: I think what the main part of the show was not that we are in trauma; but how you heal from trauma. It did deal with trauma on a cultural, global and personal levels. And How Do You Heal? And the fact that the two ways I found that you heal: Sense of humor, and knowledge of self. Knowledge of self comes from tradition, and stories, of where you come from. That concerns me a bit about America, because I think our kids are born into trauma, now, from 9/11. And the two things they’re going to need; a sense of humor- when you talk about the indigenous culture, the survivors are all hilarious. And the other thing is, knowledge of self; many are also still steeped in the traditional methods. I think storytelling is so important in this day and age because we need to find out who we are so we can survive. And so I think that’s why we’re turning to the indigenous cultures, at this time.

Seal: There’s another thing that you said, that’s this healing thing – in my Chaplaincy training, one of the things they talk about is that Doctors are about Curing, Nurses are about Curing and Healing, and Chaplains are about Healing. Healing can happen even as someone is dying – you can heal relationships, heal your soul…

Calvit: That was a big thing about his play – you can’t cure a disability, but you can heal it – you can’t cure trauma, but you can heal it!

Seal: ….but healing takes on a whole, new meaning when you’re not talking about curing.

Kling: It’s not about that!

Calvit: There’s this beautiful bit at the end of the play – Kevin had gone into coma, has a fever, and the doctor doesn’t think he’s going to live. And there’s a metaphor for the Windigo (the Windigo is an Ojibwe mythical figure that devoured everything), and the mystical thing is that the Windigo came and took Kevin away when he was in a fever, but then we did an incantation with Larry Yazie, the fancy dancer, who got rid of the Windigo. The Windigo left and Kevin was sent back to Minnesota, and at the very end of the play, he’s standing there, and we have Northern Lights, and heavenly music, and then the clown chorus, the leader of the clowns. When Kling came out, he had this hat on…this little guy comes out, and there’s this beautiful aria happening, and the little guy tips his clown hat to Kevin and goes back, and Kevin says, “I came back, but I’m not the same person that left; I’m a Haioka, now.” And then all of the clown chorus comes over and puts their arms around him….so hugely moving. (pause) It was hard coming back to reality, to work

Kling: It was crazy to let it go!

Calvit: And we weren’t the only ones who felt it. Like the people in the choir, who wrote little notes when we left – everybody felt it, I think the audience felt it!

Narrative Text in Color: Lisa Fifield, Storyteller in Gouache

There was a choice collection of Native American Art at the Ancient Trader’s Gallery in Minneapolis. Lisa Fifield takes dream imagery out of folk tales and brings them to vivid life on canvas.

Her work draws from many sources. The stories may be ones we know of, as in work inspired by Louise Erdrich. “Manitou” is a piece that shows the merging identity of the human, the elk, and the tree in a naturalistic, alert merging of the souls. With human clothes, a half-human face, a hoof for a hand, a branch that an owl is poised on, this mythic creation on a grey winter backdrop makes the unity of soul and nature a reality, the imagination made solid. Some translations of Manitou relate its definition as defining the Great Spirit, as “The Uncreated.” In this piece, we see a manifestation of the creator god that poses a oneness of life, nature as sentient, creation as a living thing. A shared kinship is evident; a potential harmony of life forms is realized.

Another piece “Dancing of the Elk Clan Women” shows a troupe of women in a tribal gathering of joy, dancing in an expression of togetherness that transforms them into leaping, flying elk. They are shape-shifting from earthbound humans to gravity free creatures of ecstasy. The earthtone colors of a mild watercolor backdrop and vivid gouache colors make the figures threaten to leap off the canvas.

Another piece, “Pretty Voice Hawk Woman” is a tribute tot he people killed at Wounded Knee, with the birds representing the living souls of the departed. The ten birds are drawn with patient attention to detail, and their centerpiece human looks out with both the hard knowledge of loss and the fierce determination of survival.

Fifield (Oneida, Black Bear Clan) had classical training at the Atelier LeSuer School of Art in Wayzata, and taught herself watercolor techniques. Some of her work was chosen for the opening of the Museum of the American Indian, which the Smithsonian opened in New York City in 1994. Her work is exhibited nationwide.

Much of her inspiration comes from the stories of the Oneida, one of the five Iroquois nations in the Northeast. Storytellers have a tradition of tales in which women have a special relationship with animals, learning from them or teaching, comforting and communicating. The Iroquois and other Native cultures understood early on the importance of storytelling, and it has always been central to the culture of American Indians.

Ancient Traders is at 1113 East Franklin Ave. in Minneapolis. For hours and information, call 612=870-7555.

Mikael Rudolph: A Memorial Tribute

Mikael Rudolph: A Memorial statement

March 26th, 2010 Social Dance Hall gathering,

South Minneapolis

I’ve never agreed with someone so strongly, and disagreed with someone so strongly, as I did with Mikael. I always felt like we were on the same team, but there was hardly a time when we could not find something to argue about, and in fact I had to restrain myself from baiting him, because I knew I could get him going with, like, one line.

For tonight, I asked some of his pals for stuff that comes to mind when you think of him.

One friend told of a time in Washington. Michael’s gal pal was staying at the house of this friend’s parents. Mikael went over to pick her up, they sat around for a while in the living room talking. The coffee table had a bowl of fake fruit on it. Several days later, they noticed the banana was gone. It remained a mystery, until this friend saw him at the Renaissance Fair, using the banana as a fake gun; especially to make people leave the stage. He was confronted: “So you’re the guy who stole my mom’s fake banana!” and Mikael’s eloquent, immediate defensewas: “I needed it!”

Another friend: “One thing Mikael got was that you can be a creature of habit- and still live in the moment. When he was performing he fully inhabited every moment of his show---even when things were tough, or he didn't feel well- he could walk into that crowd with his squeaker and meet whatever met him there--as though it were new, every day. While he was a creature of habit-- he could also change his mind. He used to vote Republican--then he organized to impeach George Bush. He was open to change in the moment. That's a gift. And it's a gift I think Mikael gave himself.He lived on his own terms. While he gave himself what he needed--he also found time to give to others. Time, energy, support, excitement, acceptance, entertainment, revolution---these were things he gave us.”

Myself? I got to know Mikael when we talked about the show that became Cancer My Ass. It was about his sister having a stroke, and then Mikael getting cancer, and then his sister getting cancer, and then Mikael getting cured, and his sister dying- and the dreams and visions and visitations he had about all that. How he dealt with her death.

He had made a journal of the whole experience, and I said, “You know, that’s a one person show right there, if you can get it down to 60 minutes.” He thought it was too big, too long. So I said “Cutting that down to size could be a great way for you to work though and process the death of your sister.” Then I said, “I’d love to see a mime do a whole show of talking.” I always thought, here’s one of the fastest, funniest people I’ve ever met, and he’s got a show where he doesn’t ever talk. What a waste!

Cancer My Ass was a beautiful show, and a powerful experience for everyone who came. It wasn’t preachy or churchy, but it was clear and honest and amazing and true and deeply, powerfully spiritual, and redemptive, and healing. Cancer patients and family members came and were helped in their healing. He knew it was a challenge, he knew it would hurt to work on it, and he knew better than anyone how it could help others. I knew it would be good, but I had no idea it would be that good.

Then the ironic second act happened. His cancer came back, and he was getting clobbered. I came to the hospital to visit once, with his squad of pals keeping an eye on him. He fought, and then he gave up, and he fought, and then he gave up. That discipline that made him a great mime, dance teacher, and close-up magic guy, that discipline can also be described as Being a Control Freak, and the process of dealing with something so beyond his control was frustrating, unjust, and his anger was painful to witness. It was hard not to be hurt by some shrapnel in his explosions of rage. I saw more than one terrified nurse scuttling out of there in a hurry.

Soon after, I came back to the ICU as a patient, and I was put into a bed in a room next to his. I was in an induced coma after cardio-respitory arrest. We were both konked out on propolol. After three weeks I came home. It took him longer to come home. And when he did, it was in a hospice setting.

So now my question is one that many of you might have. Why am I at his memorial service instead of him at mine? It’s the same question Mikael had when his sister died.

And the answer is, we don’t know. We don’t know how long we have. I might live to be 85 and I might trip on a curb tomorrow and that would be it. In the meanwhile, I want to do what Mikael did. Eat pizza, hang with friends, talk baseball, try and make people smile, knowing we will eventually have to close down the party.

Here’s how I will remember him best. I brought my 12 year old over to his house for a barbecue, and I asked him to do the two-coin trick. He thought and said, Okay. He dug it out of his truck, made us turn our backs for prep, and when we turned back he started. “I have an English Penny and a Kennedy half dollar in my hand. I take the English Penny, and put it in my pocket, and how many coins do I have in my hand? (One). No you’re not listening.” He’d open his hand and there were two coins. “I have an English Penny and a Kennedy half dollar in my hand... (okay, he did this four times, and the fourth one the result was was “I have No coins in my hand.” The more irritation he showed my kid, the funnier it was. And it seemed like he had as much fun as if he was doing it for 50 people, or a hundred. He did it just for me and my kid, and it was hilarious. That moment will always be alive for me.

So if you feel like there is a Mikael-shaped hole in your life, think about that pain in your heart as a way to keep in touch with him. to keep his memory alive in your life, to bring that smiling devilish gleam in his eye into your eye, and when you see some kid or some adult as gullible as me, take the licence to do what Mikael did, and mess with us.

Now. Mikael had a deep commitment to his faith. It is appropriate to take a moment for a prayer in his tradition at this point. As we pray, please know you don’t have to believe what Mikael believed to be a part of this meditation. Please listen for a word of comfort in this hour which marks our loss.

Let us pray.

God our creator,

We acknowledge the uncertainty of our life on earth.

We are given a mere handful of days,

and our span of life is like the blink of an eye,

and seems to be as nothing.

But the eye that blinks, that is something.

The grass withers, the flower fades,

but your truth will stand forever.

In you is our hope. Even in the valley of the shadow of death, you are with us.

Turn your ear to our cry, and hear our prayer.

Look graciously on those who mourn, and bless them,

for they will be comforted, by you and by each other.

And that casting all their care on you, they will know

the consolation of your love, and the love of each other.

God above us and within us,

God support us all the day long,

Until our shadows lengthen,

and the evening comes,

and the busy world is hushed,

the fever of life is over,

and our work is done.

Then in your mercy, grant us a holy rest,

and peace at the last.

We ask this in your name, Amein