Of Masks and Macaques and Swords and Noses

On a recent week off from the circus I took the opportunity to go to Bali, rent a scooter and bop around the villages of Ubud, Mas and the Padangtegal Sacred Monkey Forest.

(Mandala Wisata Wenara Wana)

Mas Mask Mecca.

I also used the time to ramp up my Iaido training since I would be testing for shodan upon my return. Though this has the distinct quality of something the Japanese call Tsukeyakiba. (literally: added tempered edge)

The hamon of the Japanese sword is the temper line, the pattern of the hardened, martensite steel as it shows on the side of the blade including the transition zone habuchi to the softer pearlite steel.

The sword maker, who is also an ordained Shinto priest in most cases, can manipulate the appearance of the hamon as an artistic expression.

Waves, clouds, mountains, even sunrises can be depicted along the length of this deadly tool depending on the skill of these holy artisans.

Tsukeyakiba refers to the modern practice of adding a fake hamon using chemicals or polishing techniques without actual tempering. It has become a metaphor for last minute study that is of no real long term benefit. In other words you can't cram for your Iaido test.

A blister won't help me.

A callous might.

Sieza before Hidari.

The Town of Mas(ks)

Mas is the town dedicated to mask carving and I was able to meet the top carvers in the country with ease. Unlike Japan where I was only able to meet with the artist after a series of introductions, lunch meetings and an email trail yards of scrolling long, in Bali I just knocked on the door.

Every place is really it's people and Bali is filled with happy, smiling, sloooow moving, spiritual ones.

The women have skin the color of polished teak, eyes like I imagine Mata Hari's must have been (Is smoldering a color?) and teeth like Louis Armstrong.

The men are all named either Wayan or Ida and all apparently own taxis.

Beware of women with knives.

If you want to teach someone how to kick back show them a Balinese person.

They have basically turned lounging into an art form.

They have refined their reclining skills to a very high level.

It's like their ancestors did nothing but build temples for thousands of years and now their just resting for the next couple thou.

Oddly, I found that though they are heavily reliant on tourist rupi, money takes a backseat to... Wait for it... Stories.

They seemed to love to talk and if you can tell a story they open their doors. Literally.

After sharing mine with a restaurant owner (and of course taxi driver) named (unusually) Royan, he took me to see his father, a Brahman artist at his temple/home to tell it again.

There seemed to be no ulterior motive but to laugh!

(I was probably the source of some amusement for the locals at the Villa Sonia who I'm sure wondered who that crazy farang tourist is who gets up at dawn every morning and swings a sword around on his veranda.)

And the masks.

I bought 13 of them from four different artists.

Masks carved by I.B. Sutarja


Masks carved by Wayan Dawig.

Unfinished Masks carved by Ida Bagus Anom Suryawan

Finding Myself (wanting)

Bali is a place people come to find themselves.

The same is true for me.

Apparently I am an ugly, ugly American.

I like my air conditioned, my drinks brimming with ice (a luke warm pina colada does not cut it) and my prices exactly what it says on the sign.

Haggling, though de rigeur here, is somehow embarrassing for me, especially when it is for something- say a hand carved, one of a kind mask, a piece of art, of cultural history and a valuable tool for my future work- that I would gladly pay a hundred dollars for but found myself threatening to leave the store if the price didn't come down from the original 50,000 rupis (about fifty bucks) to the finally settled on price of less than half that.

And I know, from talking to the artists, that these babies take a lot of time to make. Besides the carving, done on the floor, like the Japanese but with the mask held by the feet for quick repositioning, there are literally hundreds of coats of paint on each one.

But I guess time is less of a factor when your belief in reincarnation is so thorough.

The great thing about believing in reincarnation: no deadlines.

Although many of the masks themselves feature prominent features, the inside of the masks are not carved to accommodate my ample proboscis.

I pointed this out to master carver Ida Bagus Anom Suryawan in the temple like grounds of his home/workshop.

He handed me his mallet and chisel and sat me down to chip out the space.

I was tentative at first, lightly tapping the chisel in the fear I would crack the mask I had already purchased and uncomfortable in the Balinese mask carver's pose with the mask held between my feet for quick repositioning.

Ida suggested, laughing, to "take a whack at it" and I finally did and within minutes my western snozz could live comfortably under the mask forever more.

The Nose

Carving the inside of a mask

Held on the floor between my feet.

Mallet hits chisel.

A curlicue of Hibiscus wood

Flies in a delicate arc

And lands

Like a dragonfly

On my splayed knee cap.

Making space for where my nose will go.*

Leaf me alone

Time Peace

Bali time is as elastic as the natural rubber straps that each mask comes equipped with. I felt time bend around me as I scooted from village to village in utter contrast to the way time seemed to hang in the drenched heat of the jungle trails with their vine choked carved idols and macaque infested banyans.

Despite this, and knowing it was only a matter of time before I would be back in Japan with a demanding schedule, I did buy a new watch while there.

Unfortunately I was only able to get the price down to 30 dollars.

For a Breitling.

(Pearl Navitimer)

The most amazing part?

Two weeks later, it still works!

Ancient Dragon

Modern Dragon

Lounging

All puppet Kooza.

Don't look.

Dear Diarrhea

My return flight was an overnight affair that got me into Tokyo at 10 am.

By 13:00 I was in full regalia for my last Iaido practice at Kita Matsudo with the various Esaka dojo Sensei before my testing the following day.

Halfway through class something I ate in Indonesia caught up with me in the form of sinister rumblings down below.

I finished class in a chilled nauseous puddle and got on the train for home.

I will spare readers the details of that evening's frantic hunched scurry from the station to my toilet and the subsequent commode ballistics but suffice it to say that night was a sweaty, cramp ridden, miserable battle with frequent migrations from bed to couch to toilet.

Dawn finally came and I left the sweat soaked Ron-print on my bed and pale and shaky, started the hour long commute to the Iaido testing site.

Before


During

After

Three hours later I received my 3rd Dan in Iaido, the art of Japanese swordsmanship.

(I actually received a public commendation for my technique from the head judge.)

That evening my fellow iaidoka celebrated with lots of beer.

I had a yogurt shake.

And a smile.

*"Nose" reprinted from Scrutinies and Tangentia
Iaido pictures by Pierre Ginet

Falstaff From The Inside or, The Teachings of the Puppet

Since before the first humans regailed their tribes with tales of the hunt,
Before the first storytellers began to tell their sagas around the sacred circle of the fire,
Before the first kokopellis and griots and troubadors began ennacting the miriad cycles of stories and dreams, lessons and fantasies, all embellished with details and woven into myth, actors have been trying to figure out the same question:
How Do You Get In Character?
Here in the rehearsal hall of the California Shakespeare Theatre in the year 2006, we are still trying to figure out that one.

As an operator of a 9 foot body puppet with 6 foot arms and and a two foot lip-span, getting into character is simply the quite prosaic act of climbing under the belly, getting a stool under me so I can secure the shoulder and waist harnesses and then getting our ever vigilant assistant stage manager Keely to unclip me from a pulley system hanging from a crossbar near the cieling. Now I am, indeed, In Character.
Or Am I?

Choices

I had a bit of a meltdown/ epiphany the other day as I was working inside the puppet. They say acting is about choices. When you're doing Shakespeare you're not exactly originating the role. Thousands, Millions have played these roles before. A hundred actors are creating a hundred different Falstaffs as you read this. It is the choices that each artist makes within the framework of Falstaff that defines a particular version.
With Puppets, every choice is put under a microscope. I read in one of the research books our ever informative Daniel "Slutty" Venning had and it said "An actor represents a character. A puppet is the character." We just supply the choices. The puppetteer is constantly making decisions on movement, angle, speed, duration and a thousand other kinesthetic awarenesses. That's how the puppets, these inannimate objects of wood and wire are able to express different emotions. Choices.

But there's more. I don't know what to call it. Life Force is the only thing I can think of. This is the element that I find so compelling in this work: the puppeteer most pour his or her life force into the puppet to give it breath.

And I began to think of my work as an actor outside of a puppet. When I'm simply operating the puppet that is my own body. Is the character I am playing pouring its life force into me? and how can I remain susceptible to that and not get in the way of the many possibilities of that level of transformation?

Liquid

When an actor forgets his lines it is said that he "goes dry".
When the work is going well it feels like its just "flowing out of you".
I think this life force thing is liquid in nature. And like liquid it seeks its own level. It has to fill in the valleys before it can engulf the mountainous peaks. A real connection with a role comes along and you feel like he's in your blood. You see through his eyes, think his thoughts, feel his feelings.
They say an actor is a vessel. A holder of stories. A cup for the sweet elixir of this magical potion: Life.

The Puppet speaks

So how does one get into character with a 9 foot puppet resting securely on your shoulders, practically crying out for some strong, actable, playable choices?
With a little help from your friends.
When we want Falstaff to talk and make big gestures or even do something as simple as picking up a stool it takes at least three of us. The tremendously talented Max Moore takes over the left arm. Geoff "Googie" Uterhardt, an amazing actor/puppeteer takes over the right, sometimes aided by the delightfully irrepressable Lorna Howley and we all try to pour our life forces through the sieve of Falstaff into this gigantic collection of foam rubber and plastic tubing. Its really something.

Like our actor ancestors before us, we are all trying to get into character. The same character. At the same time.
Hopefully. there is enough rehearsal time ahead of us so we can get comfortable with this monster and start to listen to what Falstaff the Puppet has to say.
To hear about his choices.
To stop struggling with the mechanism and as our puppet master John Ludwig says: "To be ready to listen, for the puppet will only then reveal its secrets".

Stay Tuned...