New Nature: New Evidence of Naturalistic Pantheism in the Contemporary Art and Culture of Japan and the Philippines

160 Panel 4 New Nature: New Evidence of Naturalistic Pantheism in the Contemporary Art and Culture of Japan and the Philippines Prabda Yoon Introduc...
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160 Panel 4

New Nature: New Evidence of Naturalistic Pantheism in the Contemporary Art and Culture of Japan and the Philippines Prabda Yoon

Introduction Before we can discuss “new nature”, we cannot avoid asking and answering the question, “What is nature?” and with this seemingly simple question, we immediately set ourselves against one of the most difficult and problematic ideas in the history of human intellect. To members of contemporary urban culture, the word “nature” may often imply holiday destinations, outdoor recreation, or something to “develop” into commerce. To “nature lovers,” it may mean a retreat from civilization, something to “return” to, something to revere and preserve. To scientists, nature is where all knowledge comes from and is, in turn, a condition to be constantly conquered by becoming more and more knowledgeable about it. Finally, to many “spiritual” persons of diverse faiths, to be “in” nature is one of the noblest ways to recognize and, possibly, connect with the Divine. Higher powers are said to “send” messages to us “through” nature. However much these perspectives differ, they all share one general outlook: they perceive nature as separate from humans. Nature is “something” or “some place” we must overcome, utilize, protect, respect, worship, study, etc. In short, nature is there for our benefit, one way or another. This outlook necessarily suggests that we have control over nature and, therefore, we are not merely a part of it, even though evidently we are in it. We have long recognized and accepted numerous sets of laws and called them “natural”; yet, when it comes to human activities, we prefer the idea that events happen according to our independent intentions, that we are driven by the mysterious and elusive “free will,” a concept that inevitably implies a separation between humans and nature. We even regard certain substances, conditions, and behaviors as “unnatural.” Logically, however, in order for something to be unnatural, it has to possess unnatural substances and the ability to exist completely detached from all that is natural. (It should at least normally exist exclusively in the environment that creates and accommodates it, for instance.) But if that were possible, it would be absurd

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for something unnatural to possess the capability to coexist with the natural, within a natural environment. Human-made plastic may be different from wood, but essentially it cannot be “unnatural.” It is created by natural substances (humans), from natural substances (chemicals found in nature), in a natural substance (the world), and by natural laws (the physical laws of our natural universe). Plastic is as natural as trees and rivers; it simply just materialized as plastic much later. The idea that something can be unnatural comes, perhaps, from our collective tendency to discriminate against diversities, against the discovery and materialization of the new, and more importantly, against the notion that what is disagreeable to us and our well-being is just as natural as the opposite. We are particularly suspicious of the new. “New”, in this context, means “new” only to our senses, but not new in nature. Because the new seems to have sprung into existence only in recent history or in our lifetime, it is easy for us to perceive the new as unnatural. But, following the logic of the natural, nothing can ever be new in that sense, since everything comes from nature and is therefore “natural” by definition, by necessity. What is even more crucial is that nothing can ever be new in the sense of having “never been before,” either. For something to be able to come into existence in nature, the possibility of its existence must already exist. Something cannot come from nothing, as some ancient Greek philosophers have proposed. Plastic, therefore, is essentially one and the same with the “possibility of plastic.” There may be countless other “possibilities” in nature that we have not yet discovered, understood, or utilized; but whatever they are they will always be natural. In the history of western philosophy, pantheism is the concept that comes closest to this way of thinking about nature. The term “pantheist” was supposedly first coined by the late 17th century Irish thinker, John Toland, even though similar ideas had long existed, at least, since ancient Greece. In Toland’s time, the definition of “pantheist” had a decidedly religious implication, as was true of anything under the Christian influence of the era. Pantheism equated God

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with nature, proposing that they were one and the same. If God were a body, then everything in nature was a part of that body, including humans. For pantheists, we are always with God. Indeed, we are also God, in a real sense, since God and everything else cannot be separated. This view was, understandably, controversial, and considered blasphemous by the Church because it basically suggested that the Church and all of its traditions were superfluous. However, pantheists are not always atheists or secular. On the contrary, many individuals with pantheistic beliefs can be considered very religious. They are religious in the sense that they see the oneness, or nature, as highly spiritual and inspiring—something, perhaps, even with purpose. Pantheists, then, are generally not nihilistic. They have “faith” in something higher than themselves (the “totality of nature” beyond humans’ comprehension, for instance), and the notion that they all belong in this oneness enriches their lives. They “worship” the oneness of nature and therefore respect it whole. In many ways, early pantheistic sentiments made modern science possible. And in contemporary society, many hold at least some fragments of pantheistic beliefs whether they know it or not, because physics has proven some aspects of pantheistic propositions to be valid. Many of us, even those who think of themselves as spiritual or religious, are now comfortable with the idea that the conventional God may not exist, but none can perceive life without natural laws. We have been informed by science that all of us are partly made up of ancient stardust, that the DNA coding that makes us human differs only slightly from the coding in other living organisms, that, in short, everything in the universe is interdependent, related, and more similar than we previously believed. And all of these facts are, can only be, very “natural.” With modern scientific knowledge and understanding of life and the universe, pantheism can now be a spiritual belief completely detached from the concept of God. Everything can be reduced to just one word: nature. The answer to the question “What is nature?”, then, can be nothing else but “Everything.” If nature is everything, then everything is nature; and, evidently, nothing can be “new” in nature. So then what is “new nature?” “New”, in this context then, is “new” attitude, “new” outlook, “new” perspective, “new” respect, and,

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perhaps, even “new faith” toward the concept of nature. Art and Nature Art is yet another word that has different meanings to different people. The uniqueness of art in the context of nature is that it seems to exist only in humans. Several other animals can be technically regarded as toolmakers; yet none “designs,” “decorates,” “imagines,” and “interprets” the way we do. Whatever it means, art is as old as civilization itself; and even though there are people who claim to not “understand” art, humanity without art is simply unthinkable. Art is human nature. Art as a vocation, however, is a different story. The “professional artist” has gone through many phases throughout history. Because there is usually a need for art in all functions of society, artists have had a reasonably wide influence over their culture, sometimes even extending to foreign cultures. Indeed, oftentimes, the artists themselves help create a culture. The value, even the “beauty,” of art may have always been difficult to grasp in comparison to other social necessities; but there is no doubt about its profound contribution to shaping and directing the course of civilization. One may admit the inability to appreciate art; but it would be absurd to deny that art, one way or another, has influenced his or her life. The evolution of the art profession took a rather different turn around the middle of the 20th century. The intense and rapid growth of industrialization and capitalism, mostly in the west, somehow turned modern art into a serious commodity among the elite, eventually creating a hugely successful “industry” out of it. New artists whose works attracted galleries, art critics, and collectors could become millionaires overnight. Many of them, mainly in America and Europe, did indeed become very wealthy. The contents of art works also changed drastically, partly because of artistic evolution, but largely because the industry—the “art world”—demanded certain trends, trends that would generate big hype and, therefore, big business. As a result, art in modern times gradually distanced itself from the general public. Artists no longer needed the “approval” of the people. They only had to manage themselves properly within the hierarchy of the art world. Their livelihood did not depend on showing their works in public; only a few

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162 Panel 4 important pairs of eyes behind gallery walls and in auction rooms mattered. Art became a sort of island amidst society. And, as time passed, the bridges connecting this island to other areas in society were destroyed, one by one, by the islanders themselves. Ironically, this modern condition provided the lucky artists themselves with unprecedented artistic freedom, allowing them to “express themselves” in any way they wished, be it in a skillfully sublime or a shamelessly devious manner. Once famous and in demand, a modern artist could attach a price tag to anything he or she dreamed up. In fact, the artist has become the product. Even without any physical work, the modern artist can get away with selling only his or her own name. (To modern artists, it has become a matter of selling of their “ideas.”) The gap between modern art and the general public has grown wider ever since, and has continued to tear apart throughout the century, up to the present. The later generations of modern artists are often attracted to the theme of alienation, as they feel that the general public fails to understand them and their works; but they rarely, if ever, take into account the influence that the “system” of the commercialized art world has on their thinking. The general public is in no way obliged to take notice of art or artists, since art is natural to them. As a result, the place of Contemporary Art in contemporary cultures is ambiguous. Even when the art community attempts to participate in social issues, it usually fails to make much impact on anything beyond itself. Many artists who commit themselves to the industry can still become very successful and wealthy; yet, the general public is oblivious of them and their arts. It would make little sense for contemporary artists to try to please the public, of course. Since art is a natural human activity, there should be no restriction as to what art is for. However, just as it is possible for humans to perceive nature afresh by having a “new” attitude toward it, a new attitude toward nature in Contemporary Art could offer inspiration beyond itself, as it occasionally did throughout the course of history, especially before the Industrial Age. And, through this attitude, a new kind of connection between art and the general public could occur—not necessarily a connection to promote better understanding of art, but a connection to suggest and reveal the oneness, the “naturalness,” the pantheistic principle of the known universe.

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The Philippines Among Southeast Asian countries, the Philippines differs from the rest in many ways. The Spanish, Catholic, and American influences are obvious, and, in the early 20th century, art and culture in the Philippines flourished faster and more intensely than in its neighboring countries. Because of its European and American connections—let alone the impressive fact that many of its historical national revolutionaries were writers and artists—modern art reached the Philippines very early, producing an impressive number of artists and intellectuals of highly sophisticated works in all mediums. Many of them were regarded with great respect internationally. However, the devastating political and economic conflicts in later decades of the century affected the artistic directions profoundly, and led Filipino artists to look inward rather than continue exploring foreign influences. At present, trends of “international” Contemporary Art can certainly be detected in several Philippine artistic communities; but they are not nearly as prominent and as influential as domestic sensibilities. The facts that the Philippines is an archipelago of more than 7,000 islands and that many of them were once inhabited by different ethnic groups give “domestic sensibilities” a complex meaning. Yet, Contemporary Art in the Philippines seems to have a genuine and increasing interest in combining pre-colonial and indigenous traditions, with modern, western-inspired elements. It is precisely this condition that allows pantheistic concepts to seep into many contemporary artistic practices. The most modest, but arguably most influential, kind of artist is perhaps the art teacher. Ric Obenza, a teacher at Calinan High School in Davao City, has for many years been devoting himself to the difficult task of teaching children about ecology and the importance of the environment through art. A calm, quiet, simple man with a determined yet generous character, Ric Obenza’s love of nature is in fact his true profession. As painter, he is self-taught, and, his work, usually images of natural landscapes painted in oil or pastels, clearly displays an “Outsider Art” sensibility. Technically, he might be limited and unsophisticated; but his genuine desire to capture nature’s beauty, together with his unpretentious eyes, manages to create vivid, clean, and touching images that perfectly reflect his passion. His art would be considered

PEOPLE IN THE MARGINS, SUSTAINABLE DEVELOPMENT, AND OUR RELATIONSHIP WITH NATURE

“amateurish” no doubt, if propped against the galleryfriendly works of “contemporary artists”; but the fact that he is not “professional” does not have any effect on his artistic intention. He does not make art to impress the art community. He makes art in order to show children and, hopefully, everyone else, that art and nature are related; that art is not about making it as an artist in the art world; but that it is about understanding our place in the planet and our connection with it. Obenza takes children into the wild and provides them with simple art supplies. He asks them to draw the landscape and teaches them about seeds, then together they plant real trees. Afterward, the children return to their trees regularly to record the progress by drawing them, until the trees are strong enough and sure to survive. This is an activity Obenza has been doing regularly for many years, with several generations of children. His intention is not only to plant trees but also to “plant” the sense of connection between humans and the external world into the conscience of the children themselves. By starting to experience other kinds of life in nature from an early age, Ric Obenza’s students often grow up with a deeper awareness of ecological issues, than children whose daily routines have offered them only urbanized versions of nature. Obenza feels that his art succeeds not when his paintings are bought or hung on gallery walls, but when former students have grown up and returned to thank him for teaching them the value of the environment. The children, after having drawn their own trees from the first day of planting, each end up not only with drawings of a growing life, but also with memories of their participation in a life-giving process. The lesson, says Obenza, is not how to best capture nature by drawing it, but how to realize the humans’ place in nature better. And how to be responsible for that place. Needless to say, a figure like Ric Obenza does not belong to the Contemporary Art scene; but, his concerns, especially with regard to environmental issues, are indeed very contemporary. Fortunately, several “official” contemporary artists seem to share Obenza’s concerns and are fully aware of pantheistic concepts. Rishab Tibon, a Baguio-based sculptor and painter, has created works that deal specifically with the immediate problem of climate change. His sculptural installation for the 2008 Guandu International Outdoor Sculpture Festival in Taiwan, entitled “The Shield”,

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for instance, is a good example of art “for and about” nature. The “shield” is “a dome-like structure made of bamboo, reed grass, natural fiber robe, twine, and rattan strips,” with openings all around for visitors to enter and exit freely and randomly. The interactive structure is “symbolic of the damaged ozone” where, because of the many holes, the protective function fails completely. Tibon’s sculpture looks attractive and friendly, and the openings are clearly inviting. However, once inside, one realizes that the structure, while still pleasant to the senses, cannot shelter one from sunlight, rain, wind, dust, or predators. Its beauty is ultimately useless. Tibon’s intentions are to create awareness of our place in the environment, and to suggest that, perhaps, our ongoing civilization that sees itself as a conqueror of nature may eventually end up being the very cause of its, our, own demise. Even in a more accessible art form such as pop music, there seems be a handful of people trying to create serious dialogues about how humans can see our connection with nature more clearly. Joey Ayala is an acclaimed musician who has been recognized in the Philippine music industry as a modern composer who successfully utilizes ethnic musical instruments in his pop song arrangements. He is also at the forefront of artists who devote much of their time to social and educational causes. Many of his songs are about nature, featured in albums with titles such as “Songs of the Earth-Guardian” (“Mga Awit ng Tanod-lupa”), “Song of the Seafarer” (“Awit ng Magdaragat”), and “As Long As There’s Bananas” (“Basta May Saging”). Ayala says that he does not consider himself an environmentalist; that his songs, though most of them refer to nature in some ways, are metaphorical. But, because his music uses nature as metaphors, the message of his music can be interpreted both as an environmental message and as a message about the human condition in the natural world. Furthermore, he does not like to bombard his listeners with righteous or didactic contents. Ayala prefers questions to answers; he thinks questions live longer and create deeper “resonances.” As for the human-nature relationship, Ayala has the habit of mapping out surprisingly detailed and systematic diagrams to use in his workshop tours around the country. The diagrams attempt to illustrate the connections between everything. One of his wellknown songs written in the late eighties and entitled “Magkaugnay” has a clear pantheistic message: We all come from one place, one tribe, and we are all journeying in the same direction. Everything is interrelated, beings of the earth, the sky, the water. Ayala says that when he

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164 Panel 4 wrote the song, he wrote it with the intention of communicating with children, to pass on to them the “scientific facts” about life. Japan In contrast with the Philippines, contemporary Japan generally regards itself as a secular society. Though perceived by foreigners as one of the most fascinating hubs for Buddhism in the world, the modern Japanese rarely call themselves Buddhists. This is usually surprising to visitors, since most of the important and popular tourist attractions in the country are Buddhist temples and customs inspired by Buddhism. To make matters even more confusing, the typical Japanese family continues to follow Buddhist rituals, and occasionally organizes or participates in ceremonies of Buddhist origin. But these are done mostly as tradition, without a proper understanding of historical connections to religion. (This behavior, of course, is true in many contemporary Buddhist countries.) Even Zen, the Buddhist sect of the Mahayana school made fashionable in western cultures by modern Japanese monks, is of little interest to contemporary Japanese people. However, the same Japanese individual who proudly announces the absence of religion in his or her life, may well be offended if thought of as being without spiritual ideals. The Japanese people’s collective belief in spirits, particularly spirits in nature, comes not from Buddhism, but from another, homegrown faith: Shinto. Even though it shares similarities with the folk and indigenous features of other cultures, especially in its animism, Shinto is unique. It is perhaps the only faith of indigenous origins still active and immensely influential in the everyday life of modern society. Each Japanese individual may interpret the meaning of the Shinto concept “kami” (god or spirit) differently; but most seem to hold the same view that “the world” is a complex community of related, interdependent “energies,” estimating, in a traditional expression, that there are “eight million gods” in all, meaning there are a lot of gods and they are everywhere. Shinto in Japanese culture is so deeply ingrained that most Japanese people grow up with at least some pantheistic outlooks, without realizing that such outlooks come from the influence of Shinto. Most Japanese may dismiss the concept of an all-powerful, all-knowing God; but many will say that they believe everything possesses a spirit, that in everything there is a “god”.

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Zen Buddhism is considered a “creative” and artistic tradition by those who pay serious attention to its legacy and cultural offspring. Indeed, Zen philosophy and practices have inspired many modern artists and intellectuals worldwide, especially in America and Europe of the mid-20th century. Countless books have been published on the art of Zen, and there will certainly be many more to come; but few, if at all, have in the past attempted to connect Shinto with contemporary art and culture. Hara Kenya, the prominent and influential contemporary Japanese designer, is, perhaps, the only famous personality in the artistic industry who has deliberately established links between contemporary Japanese design and Shinto aesthetics in his lectures and writings. “Shiro” (“White”), his passionate 2008 essay about “whiteness” and “emptiness” in Japanese culture, is also a casual but informative study on the design of the Shinto shrine. Hara points out that a Shinto shrine is called “shiro” or “yashiro”, which suggests the “embracement” of emptiness; meanwhile, “whiteness” in Shinto is a symbol of this principle. In the “Emptiness” section of his essay, Hara chooses the Ise shrine, Shinto’s most sacred site, and one of the oldest in the country, to demonstrate the Shinto sense of emptiness. The Ise shrine is unique among other Shinto shrines in that the shrine itself gets rebuilt every 20 years. This custom, called “shikinen zotai”, has been in practice for many years. It means that the physical shrine is essentially never the original, ancient shrine. What is considered sacred about Ise, then, is the concept of Shinto itself, the embraced emptiness, the spirit of the space. Hara elaborates that this emptiness does not mean “nothingness” in the negative sense; rather, it describes “becoming” and “transformation.” Things cannot have movement if there is no “empty” space for it to move. The 20-year cycle, the symbolic “renewal” of the Ise shrine, sounds almost like a work of Conceptual Art or Installation Art. Yet, the reason behind it is beyond art for art’s sake. Because nature is considered sacred, especially the nature surrounding the shrines, Shinto sites also function as conservational spaces. Ancient forests still survive throughout Japan today, because of Shinto. And, whereas all famous Buddhist temples require entrance fees, Shinto shrines are generally open to the public with no admission charge; thus, Shinto shrines also function much like public parks. The “emptiness” in Shinto, then, has the positive implication of “letting free,” of “no restriction,” of “natural power and

PEOPLE IN THE MARGINS, SUSTAINABLE DEVELOPMENT, AND OUR RELATIONSHIP WITH NATURE

freedom,” and of the exchange between entities, living or inanimate, in nature. Shinto is perhaps the most eco-friendly, most pantheistic faith still in practice in the world today. But another crucial point of pantheism is that since everything is natural, it is not necessary to talk only about nature. It is almost more to the point to “experience” nature in all of its forms. And a “fascination” with nature has a great and rewarding pantheistical quality in itself. One of the most successful, most sought-after, and most promising artists in the Japanese art world of late is the Kansai-based sculptor and professor, Nawa Kohei. At just 35, it is safe to say that Nawa represents, at least, several aspects of what contemporary art means in Japan today. A former student of Nomura Hiroshi, a prominent conceptual artist whose work deals with science, Nawa shares his mentor’s fascination with scientific experiments. However, while Nomura’s art is highly conceptual and unconventional, Nawa’s sculptural outputs are almost traditional, even conservative. He creates objects and puts them on display in a white, clean space. What makes Nawa’s art surprising is the unpredictability of his process and his subtle, at times elusive, allusions to nature. To be sure, Nawa is a contemporary artist flowing along willingly with contemporary trends and lifestyles. He belongs to SCAI, a successful contemporary gallery in Tokyo. His sculptures are popular among foreign buyers, making him one of the gallery’s biggest young stars. He is as much interested and is sometimes inspired by high-tech gadgets, as he is obsessively seeking out new ways to experiment with natural textures and spaces. He, like Hara Kenya, also takes inspiration from Shinto’s philosophy of nature; but his way of showing this spiritual inspiration is not by addressing it, but by attempting to create dialogue about it through the “surfaces” and “textures” of things. Before we can understand the “essence” of something, we always have to deal with its skin first— that is Nawa’s basic theme. Nawa deliberately creates, or manipulates, surfaces in order to provoke inquiries from the spectator. And once the spectator starts to pay attention and inspects the surface for him or herself, a sense of connection, of knowledge, even of emotions, begins to blur the separation between the object and the spectator. This process is precisely how pantheistic perception can be most rewarding as a way to appreciate art.

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Probably, Nawa’s most recognizable works—they are certainly his bestsellers—are the sculptures in the “PixCell” series. Objects of all kinds and sizes, from outdoor statues to found cigarette buds, get completely covered with clear glass beads of slightly different diameters, creating an optical effect that hides, distorts, and transforms the true surfaces of the objects. Usually, the objects still retain their identities but do not look quite like themselves. They make the spectator slightly uncomfortable about and uncertain of what they are seeing. The “PixCell” objects that seem to get the most attention are the stuffed animals, most of them deer and elks. This is perhaps telling. People are often fascinated by their own manipulation of nature, of animals. Nawa’s strange, yet attractive, stuffed animals, entirely covered in crystal beads, inspire at first a kind of blank reaction; perhaps, the same kind of “emptiness” in Japanese design suggested by Hara Kenya. The method doesn’t seem to express anything in particular, yet it provokes curiosity. For animal lovers, it might even provoke anger. This is one of Nawa’s ways of inviting the spectator to cross the boundary between his or her internal world—the self—and the external world: in other words, to start thinking about peeling off the dividing skins. It is perhaps we, not the artist’s animals, that are always covered in something, protecting ourselves from nature, from seeing it clearly. Perhaps, it is we who are being manipulated. Dance is sometimes thought of as the manipulation of regular, natural movements; but is it also not natural to dance, even for animals? Contemporary dancer Tanaka Min is a unique character in the Japanese art community. Professionally, he is one of the country’s most respected theatrical performers, having successfully crossed boundaries from Butoh-inspired, avant-garde theater, to film and TV dramas. In 1985, he founded a small farming community in a rural area in the Yamanashi prefecture, where he now lives. He called this communal project “Body Weather”, with the curious intention of tracing the origin of Japanese dance through agricultural activities. Also, Tanaka and his colleagues in the artistic and intellectual community started an unconventional summer festival called “Dance Hakushu,” and an annual camp for children and their parents called “Art Camp”—both of them in Hakushu, another rural part of Yamanashi. Both events offer parents and their children, mostly in their teens, the chance to meet established artists of diverse disciplines, watch their performances, see their work process, learn from them, and even participate in their workshops. The campers spend three to four days

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166 Panel 4 together in an outdoor site, amidst a breathtaking natural setting, surrounded by rice paddies, animal farms, mountains, and forests. There are few, if any, modern facilities. Apart from the artistic activities, Tanaka Min and his staff also provide the campers with real, hands-on farming experiences. For Tanaka, working in the field and practicing dance moves are related activities. They are systematic body movements with forms and rhythms that are not only interesting to the eyes of the spectators, but also “teach” and “discipline” the bodies of the famers/dancers themselves. Being in a rural environment is, for Tanaka—who was born and raised in Tokyo—equivalent to taking lessons at a pace much slower than that followed in a big city. In this “slowness” there is much inspiration to be discovered. As a dancer, Tanaka is interested not in perfecting dance moves or creating attractive dance “styles.” He feels, for example, that to call himself a “Butoh dancer” means nothing, because there is no such thing as “Butoh.” It is only a name, a word created by someone, he asserts. Even though Butoh is sometimes understood as referring to an experimental dance that takes inspiration directly from nature, such as animal movements, tree branches, etc., there is no reason to assume that the dancers intend to make the connections. Tanaka thinks that if there is no “interaction with the external” on the dancer’s part, then the performance is devoid of true value. It is the interaction, especially with the natural flow, that counts. Nature, with its particular pacing and perpetual movements, is the best teacher. Like Ric Obenza in Davao City, Tanaka Min is not only an artist, but also a passionate educator whose textbook is nature. The two may seem worlds—the former, an unknown high school teacher in the Philippines; the latter an internationally acclaimed Japanese actor. Yet, their deep respect for nature and their “belief” in the value of realizing the connectedness of everything put them on the same path. Interestingly, many contemporary artists who have strong pantheistic principles tend to work also in education, both officially and independently; as if they feel that there is a deep necessity for contemporary society to “understand” nature—which includes ourselves—better, or at least in a fresh way. Perhaps it is the isolated condition of the Contemporary Art industry that compels the art form to seek out causes

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beyond the art world. By doing so, they may not be able to change, transform, or improve anything, if all is already “natural.” But pantheism is never about change or improvement, in the first place. It is about accepting our role as a part of the whole. Even more importantly, it is about learning, and particularly about our special ability, as humans, to learn. Through this teaching and learning process, this pantheistic “emptiness,” art could inspire society to become more aware of our actions and their consequences. Far from being a pessimistic philosophy, pantheism perceives that which we call “beauty” to be our source of virtue; and that which we call “tragic” to be our source of knowledge.

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