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A Bhutanese Atsara mask for a ceremonial jester, pre-painting, by Yeshe Dorji, Thimphu, Bhutan. Image courtesy of Graham Shackell

Graham Shackell is trained in masked performance styles, including the Renaissance form, Commedia dell’arte, by Antonio Fava at his international school in Reggio Emilia, Italy, and in Japanese Noh performance by Kita master Matsui Akira. He is also a seasoned experimental theater performer, and he teaches stage combat. He is currently choreographing the stage combat for a timely production of George Orwell’s Animal Farm. 

Graham has a degree in Archaeology and Anthropology, specializing in the archaeology of performance. He is also a professional field archaeologist working with the leading independent heritage organization Oxford Archaeology, as well as teaching at Southampton University. He explores: “What can we learn from our ancient past and ways of representing ourselves?”

Graham is a performer, a scholar, a theorist, and a mask-maker who has crafted traditional Noh masks under the guidance of Sensei Kitasawa Hideta. He has researched the great antiquity of mask use and representation worldwide, and perhaps believes more in their ephemeral animated performance power than in their abstract study, but is trained in both. 

As a prelude to this interview, I spoke with Graham about a public mask-making course he offers to those healing from grief and trauma. I share the excerpt here as his explanation reveals much about the holism of his person and practice:

The course came about because . . . I was making a stone mask based on the 9,000-year-old “Levantine Pre-Pottery Neolithic B culture.” I was using flint tools (they weren’t really proper tools just some bits of worked flint I had found on archaeological sites that no one wanted), and they kept breaking and so did the stone. After my father died, I inherited his chisels, and tool bag—which it turns out has a much deeper family history—and while they were only carpenter’s chisels and not really for stone, they were enough to finish the mask. In the process, I found that making the mask, transforming the stone, was having a transformative effect on me also.

There is a kind of conversation between carver and source material. The material, whether wood or stone, quite often tells you what it wants to be, or in my case I can often “hear” it shouting at me: “What are you doing?! What do you want me to do?! Just tell me and I will help you!.” So we transform the material, and it transforms us—a mutual intersection and transformation, and then of course because it’s a mask, when you wear it, when you perform it, there is another transformation. 

Added to this, we participants in the mask-making course, go for walks together to look at some “Places of Significance” throughout time, and through this, the course looks at the creation of Place within a “Landscape of Places” (human interaction—or intersection—with terrain being a mnemonic database of significance), and how Place/Landscape also transforms over time. So basically whatever difficulties you are having right now, its only temporary because, as the Persian poet said, “This too shall pass.” And this personhood of Place (a particular Place that has meaning to someone) is embedded in the mask.

Anyway, the short version is that I realized mask-making was helping me in my grief, and thought it might do the same for others. . . . 

A mask in progress from the current round of “Face about the Place” mask-making project for folks living with depression, anxiety, and/or persistent grief complex. Image courtesy of Graham Shackell

BDG: You work in both practical and theoretical aspects of mask-making and mask research. How do these complement each other in your study of masks?

Graham Shackell: I spoke with a group of digital future artists. That was in the evening, and in the daytime I’d been excavating a Saxon cemetery. So I’d come back from being covered in bone dust to talk about masks, and in a very theoretical way. It’s quite an interesting kind of dichotomy, really: you have this very practical aspect, literally people’s DNA under my fingertips; and then talking about the theory of masks and how that might relate to people’s performances in the past and even in the present. 

For me, it’s always been about both—a dual pathway as a performance archaeologist; there are very few of us. I don’t know if we have an advantage or a disadvantage, but we have something different to other people: we have an understanding of performance on a practical level as well as a theoretical level. 

Putting the two together is quite a difficult path to tread in some ways, because performance is ephemeral. It exists in a certain temporality and then it’s gone. So you can’t even capture performance, because even a recording or a cave painting or a soundtrack of a performance is not the performance. It’s a way of recording it, but it isn’t the thing itself. Once the thing has happened it’s gone forever, you know?

But you can try to decode a performance from its surviving materiality, such as mask. Or if you’re looking at the ground, you might be able to determine a dance platform or a dance ground, where the earth is very compressed. You can’t prove something conclusively; you’re having to use interpretation, which is all archaeology is anyway: interpretation.

Kokushiki-Jo has a sad, thoughtful moment perambulating around Hollingbury Iron Age hill fort, from The Perambulations of Kokushiki-Jo Project’. Character and mask by Graham Shakell. This is one of the oldest masks in Noh, based on one of the oldest masks in the world, emanating from Siberia. The split jaw, tied by strings, indicates great antiquity in masks.* Image courtesy of Graham Shackell

Of the different projects that I’m focusing on, one is returning to Bhutan.

There is a cultural risk in Bhutan now. It’s changing fast. And it’s going to change even faster when GMC (Gelephu Mindfulness City) comes online. That’s going to open the doors to all sorts of things. A lot of international culture coming in. Already in the rural areas there are a lot of smartphones, and so there’s a lot of young people looking at cultures from outside Bhutan.

There is a huge amount of rural migration to the city. The demographic that this mostly hits is between 15 and 65 years old. This is partly for training, partly for work. But it impacts the primary group of participants in the rural festivals and dance rituals.

They’re losing the rituals by losing the ritual participants. They’re losing the numbers. Some villages are already unable to put on dances because they don’t have enough people to do so. People were losing interest a bit, you know?

Levantine Pre-Pottery Neolithic B Stone Mask 1; practical performance test. Image courtesy of Graham Shackell

BDG: I had this time-transcending medieval experience in Bhutan, before it was a democracy, start to finish. Bhutan was always held up as a pristine environment of cultural expression, and this was when Core of Culture worked there from 2003–08. Few roads, and bad ones at that. 

I believe this is why the Fourth King wanted a dance survey and documentation conducted during the final five years of the monarchy, while dance was still comfortably ensconced in villages all over the kingdom—a theocracy and true kingdom. 

Now, you would say that Bhutan’s social and, therefore, ritual cohesion is really under threat?

GS: Yes. Although they are working hard; I think the government and the king are quite keen to protect their identity. But they are also keen to give a lot of opportunity to international ways of doing business, let’s say. So I think there will be social and cultural fallout.

Opportunities are coming up and I think there are going to be a lot of people going abroad, encountering other cultures and bringing that back, and it’s also coming in through smartphones. So, yes, I think that rural traditions are seriously at risk.

Some villages can’t put on dances anymore. And at the moment, they are storing the masks; they’re still keeping the masks, but it’s tenuous. This depends on individual village leaders, and monks, and villagers.

A mask from the Fighting with Ghosts Project, embodying the personhood of place of Hollingbury Woods, Brighton, UK—specifically Elm disease, Ash dieback, and graffiti carved over many years onto Hollingbury Woods trees. Image courtesy of Graham Shackell

BDG: In the countryside, really every village has a set of masks. Very often in the countryside, the dancers are not monks, they’re gomchen—farmers who take on the roles of monks—and they’re often very good dancers. 

As you’ve said, this is the precise age group that either goes to school or doesn’t, goes to college or doesn’t, wants a job as a farmer or doesn’t, upholds rituals or doesn’t, moves to the city or doesn’t. But as far as masks go, almost every little village will have a set of dance masks, often very old.

GS: Yes, and I think that’s what’s at risk. That’s my concern.

BDG: Of being sold, or being taken away, or being stolen and put on the art market . . . ?

GS: Or just lost, mislaid, if they’re not being used. It depends on the locals. If they have an interest in maintaining the masks, then they’re fine. But otherwise, there’s potential for them to be lost one way or another.

Unlike Core of Culture’s Bhutan dance survey and dance database, the masks are not registered or recorded in any kind a countrywide system of analyzing the masks. There is no data on these masks. And I think there must be at least, probably, 25,000 masks in Bhutan.

BDG: I would agree, and hearing that from a mask specialist, an expert, is interesting. Adding it up, there are more than 200 dance festivals in monasteries and village temples in Bhutan. You noted between 32–80 masks at each village, and the large state monasteries have hundreds of masks, so 25,000 masks is a good estimate for the total number in Bhutan.

GS: And then there is variation in masks, different lineages, and also very individual masks, such as local deities. About those masks, there is nothing—there is no detail. No one is looking at them, no one is making records. 

BDG: Do you want to do that?

GS: Yes, I’m trying to secure the funding to do it.

It will be gone, you know? And some of these masks, like the local deity masks, we will have no idea. If we don’t act now, the people that danced in those masks will also be gone—they’re all moving away, or, if they’re older, they’re dying. So it feels like in the next five years or so, things will be really different for dancers and masks in Bhutan.

Levantine Pre-Pottery Neolithic B Stone Mask 2; practical performance test. Image courtesy of Graham Shackell

The Zhabdrung unified Bhutan in 1616, going back more than 400 years, with much of the dance and mask culture older, some going back to the eighth century. That’s a long time for a performative code to be more or less intact. As a performance archaeologist, that is really interesting, and rare, and coupled with a parallel mask tradition that can be studied and possibly decoded.

Masks enable us to look backwards in time, into the past, through looking at an object in the present. And there’s a generation after another that goes into the masks, and then suddenly, there isn’t a generation that goes into the masks. Then there’s no longer the integration of the mask with the person who’s part of it, who animates it, who is shaped by it, who uses it a vehicle of metamorphosis. This is one example of a process where culture becomes extinct.

BDG: Thank you, Graham, for your illuminating and urgent observations on vanishing Buddhist culture, seen through the lens of masks. Your words are a call to action.

A treasure dance or tercham. Bhutanese cham and protector deity mask, from Buddhist Dances, Movement & Mind by Joseph Houseal. Motilal Banarsidass, 2025, Delhi. Image courtesy of the author

* See: Okina, an Endless Blessing from Long Ago (BDG) and The Very Long Life of Bugaku (BDG)

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The post 25,000 Bhutanese Masks: A Conversation with Graham Shackell appeared first on Buddhistdoor Global.

Scattering cherry blossom petals, Japan.  Image courtesy of the author

A Zen question was once posed to Zeami Motokiyo, the 14th-century founder of Noh, playwright, poet, actor, and theorist:

“What is the essence of transience?”He answered, “Scattering petals, falling leaves.”Then he was asked, “What is the essence of eternity?”He replied, “Scattering petals, falling leaves.”

This Zen exchange distills something essential in Japanese aesthetics. Spring is not merely a season. It is a revelation of time itself. The falling cherry blossom is both the most fragile and the most enduring image in Japanese culture. In its falling, it embodies impermanence; in its annual return, it suggests continuity beyond the human span. Nowhere is this paradox more fully realized than in the classical arts of Noh, poetry, and seasonal ritual, where beauty and sadness unite nature and emotion.

Yuya in her blossom-viewing carriage, woodblock print. Image courtesy the National Noh Theater

Among the most refined treatments of spring in Noh is the play Yuya. The story is simple, almost delicate in its emotional architecture. Yuya, a courtesan dancer in the service of Taira no Munemori, a samurai of the Heike clan, is summoned to attend a cherry-blossom viewing at Kiyomizu Temple in Kyoto, and be carried about and along the way in a beautiful carriage. Yet she has received news that her mother is gravely ill. Duty compels her toward the cherry blossoms, a natural spectacle of impermanence. The entrancing scenery along the way reflects Yuya’s changing emotions. Filial love pulls her toward an impermanence of a more intimate kind.

This parallel of nature’s impermanence with human life itself, enriches the seemingly simply story and poetry to become a profound expression of the human condition. In many traditional Japanese performing arts, there is no “technical training” apart from learning the art itself. The beginner student begins with a simple dance, a simple chant—an actual Noh play, not practicing steps and singing scales. Yuya is often the first Noh dance a student learns. Yuya is fundamental as formal art and essential to the rarified character of Noh. This play is so popular it is said that the play Yuya, the play Matzukaze, and cooked rice are the same: you never grow tired of them.*

The tension of the play is not dramatic in a modern sense. There is no outburst, no confrontation. Instead, we celebrate beauty and sadness, witness the refinement of feeling—what the Japanese call kokoro, heart-mind—under seasonal pressure, this time, the briefness of the season of cherry blossom viewing, an art in itself, called hanami.

Sitting with her samurai, as the blossoms scatter, Yuya composes a poem:

If I must leaveThe blossoms at their height,Let them scatter—For in this worldNothing remains.

Noh performance, Yuya. Here Yuya reads her poem to Taira no Munemori. Photo by Moita Toshiro. From the-noh.com

The blossoms become mirror and measure. Their falling reflects the mother’s impending death, Yuya’s own sorrow, and the evanescence of worldly attractions. Yet the scene is not tragic. It is luminous, cosmic, inviting wisdom, and in its subtlety speaks to her warrior lord, as compassion carries the day and he releases her to go to her mother. Yuya travels to her mother in a blossom-viewing carriage. It is a beautiful scene, and the beauty is quietly powerful. Loss does not break the spirit, loss awakens it. Wisdom tempers, beauty emerges.

Noh mask, ko-omote, young woman, often used for Yuya, as well as masks of women who are beautiful and older, such as Zo-Onna. This mask is a faithful early Edo period (1600s) copy of a famous mask from the late Momoyama period. (early 1500s). From wikimedia.org  

In Noh, movement is minimal but charged. Yuya is the simplest of dances. A slow turn beneath imagined blossoms; a sleeve lifted as if catching falling petals; a step that traces the arc of descent; a hand that catches shedding tears in the face of nature’s cascade. The body does not imitate nature—it becomes a vessel for its rhythm. Scattering petals are not props; they become a temporal atmosphere. This is Zen aesthetics at work; Buddhism transforming art forms. Emotion as poetry couched in nature. Spring here is not youthfulness or rebirth; It is poignancy, an awareness of transience, mono no aware. Spring is the scenery for compassion.

Noh performance, Yuya. Here Yuya is in her blossom-viewing carriage on a Noh stage under blooming cherry trees. Photo by Morita Toshiro. From the-noh.com

Hanami, the custom of viewing cherry blossoms, is both festive and philosophical. Families and colleagues gather beneath blooming trees; sake flows; laughter rises. Yet everyone knows the blossoms will last only days. Wind or rain may strip them overnight. Some cherry trees are very old and are revered as kami, nature divinities.

This fleeting nature is not accidental to the pleasure—it is the source of it. The Heian court poets, whose sensibilities shaped classical aesthetics, wrote of spring not as an object but as a visitation. Blossoms are guests. One receives them fully, knowing they will depart. This cultivated awareness matured into the aesthetic principle called mono no aware—the sadness of things, the suchness of things. The Heian poet Ki no Tsurayuki (872–945 CE) wrote a poem found in a great anthology, the Kokinshu: 

In the tranquil lightOf a spring day—Why do blossomsScatter so restlessly?

Later, the term mono no aware was famously re-articulated by Edo period scholar Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801), who saw in classical literature that a deep emotional connection to the ephemeral was the highest refinement of feeling. Aware is not sadness alone. It is the pure recognition that beauty and loss are inseparable. To sit beneath falling blossoms in a park or temple is to experience that collectively. The petals brush one’s sleeve; they gather in the hair; they drift across sake cups, they cover the ground. Yuya is aware that soon, petals will cover her mother in the ground. Sometimes the falling petals are so many they are called haru no yuki, or spring snow, causing a flurry, then vanishing as quickly as snowflakes.

Zeami’s double answer—that transience and eternity are both revealed in scattering petals—echoes through his treatises. In works such as the actor’s notebook Fushikaden, he speaks of the “flower” (hana) of performance: the fleeting moment of beauty and awareness that appears and disappears in the actor’s art. Hana is the essence of Noh, the creation and bringing-to-be of a distilled and expanded moment: transience as form; eternity as pattern. The flower cannot be held. It is not technique alone. It arises when timing, season, audience, and performer align. It is experiential and vanishing, particular to a moment in time, unrepeatable. But Zeami also writes of cultivating “true flower” that deepens with age. Youthful beauty—waka no hana—fades; mature beauty ripens. The performer, like the cherry tree, participates in cycles.

Here the Japanese sense of time differs from linear Western tragedy. In Noh, death often leads not to annihilation but to transformation. Spirits linger; memories condense into presence. The past becomes audible. Spring, then, is not naïve renewal. It carries winter within it. Blossoms emerge from bare branches. Ancient stories are recalled to mind with each year’s blooms. The beauty is intensified because it follows austerity. Yuya’s poem about the transience of life and nature, becomes time-transcending, immortal. 

In Yuya, the samurai, Taira no Munemori, ultimately releases her from her duty so that she can visit her dying mother. The granting of permission is as important as the sorrow itself. Buddhist compassion enters the social order, as transience takes on a more subtle and spiritual context. The blossoms scatter as Yuya departs. The stage image is spare: the pine backdrop, the bridge-way, the rhythm of drum and flute. Yet in that restraint lies profundity. The audience completes the scene inwardly. Petals fall in the imagination. In Noh, sorrow is not painted on the face. It resides in the angle of a mask; the perception of the audience, the inner reality of the Noh actor; the abstraction of the forms.

The pine tree backdrop painting of a Noh stage, evoking the great Yogo pine tree at Kasuga Shine in Nara, where Noh’s first performances took place. It symbolizes the eternal evergreen nature of the art of Noh. Image courtesy of the author

What we witness in Yuya is not simply a woman torn between obligations. We witness spring as an ethical atmosphere. The awareness of impermanence softens authority. It couches death. It tempers command with mercy. This may be why cherry blossoms have also served martial and samurai symbolism in Japan.  Impermanence—death—was always around the corner for samurai, and hence the “Chrysanthemum Warrior” was an ideal. Noh was popular among samurai, who studied and performed it. Yet in the earlier classical arts, the meaning of mono no aware is gentler. It reminds rulers and dancers alike that grace and power, too, will scatter.

For those who work with dance traditions, spring in Noh offers something especially subtle. The scattering petal is a kinetic idea. It is a downward spiral, a wavering descent. It is asymmetrical. It is light yet irrevocable. In Noh choreography, sleeves trace arcs that suggest drifting. Steps are measured but not rigid. The tempo breathes. Silence is active; pregnant. If eternity is present here, it is not permanence of form but recurrence and animation of pattern. Petals fall; leaves fall; generations of people fall. The cyclic pattern continues. The abstract dances of Noh are proper structures to contain and convey this realization of the transience of life.

To feel mono no aware is not to despair. It is to awaken. It is an enlightenment. In Buddhist thought, impermanence is a fundamental mark of existence. But in Japanese aesthetics, this insight is not presented intellectually. It is embodied in seasonal phenomena, as well embodied in the performing Noh actor. The falling blossoms teach without speaking, and the Noh play Yuya, through poetry and dancing, presents spring as a contemplative practice. This is the genius, the high art, of Zeami and Noh.

Cherry blossoms in bloom along Kyoto’s famous Philosopher’s Path. Image courtesy of the author

* Matsukaze: Wind in the Pines (BDG)

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The post Scattering Petals, Falling Leaves: Spring in Noh and the Japanese Sense of Transience appeared first on Buddhistdoor Global.

This article is adapted from a talk I will give at the Third International Academic Conference on the Buddhist Heritage of Pakistan, in Peshawar and Islamabad, on 27–31 March 2026, where I will present as the Chief Dance Advisor to Dr. Ijlal Hussain, Director of the Silk Road Centre in Islamabad.

Image courtesy of the author

Dionysian Bacchanalia, Gandhara, first century CE. Schist. Image courtesy of the Cleveland Museum of Art

Histories of Buddhism are usually written with texts, monuments, and philosophies. Movement, despite being ubiquitous in Buddhist life, has rarely been granted the same status. Dance, when it appears at all, is often treated as ornament, performance, or cultural byproduct rather than as a source of knowledge.

Yet, what if dance is not a mere embellishment of Buddhist history, but one of its most precise forms of evidence?

This question arises with particular force in Gandhara, the ancient cultural region centered in what is now northern Pakistan and eastern Afghanistan. Gandhara is perhaps best known for its striking Buddhist sculpture, its monastic complexes, and its role as a cultural and commercial crossroads for South and Central Asia. It is also the homeland of two major Buddhist thinkers—Asanga (fl. fourth century CE) and his half brother Vasubandhu (4th–5th century CE)—whose work would shape Buddhism across Asia for centuries. Gandhara also contains Swat, home of the legendary dancing wizard, Padmasambhava, who established Tantric Buddhism in Tibet.  

Yet Gandhara was not only a landscape of texts and stone. It was a region alive with disciplined movement: ritual walking, formal postures, hand gestures (mudra), processions, circumambulation, warrior dances, and sophisticated theatrical forms, all shaped by centuries of cultural exchange across vast distances. When we look at Gandhara through the lens of movement, a different history begins to come into focus

Buddhism as a practice of the body

A helpful way to approach this is to set aside, for a moment, the idea of Buddhism as a “religion” in the Western sense. As the scholar and classical dancer Vena Ramphal has observed: “Buddhism is more accessible when understood as a practice of mind and body—as a movement practice—than as a system of belief; religion is probably the wrong word.”

This perspective aligns closely with the Yogacara school of Buddhism, developed in the fourth and fifth centuries by Asanga and Vasubandhu. Yogacara—often translated as “mind-only” or “practice of yoga”—is deeply concerned with how perception is formed, conditioned, and transformed. Reality, in this view, is not passively received but actively constructed through habitual patterns of structured cognition.

What is often overlooked is that Yogacara’s insights are inseparable from embodied discipline. Sitting postures, controlled breathing, walking meditation, circumambulation around stupas, and the precise use of gesture were not peripheral to Buddhist life; they were foundational. The body was trained so that perception itself could change.

In this sense, Yogacara does not give us dance manuals or choreographic notation. Instead, it gives us something more fundamental: a grammar of metaphysical movement. It establishes that liberation—understood here not as salvation, but as a transformation of how reality is apprehended—is procedural, conditioned, and enacted through practice. Once that is recognized, ritualized movement becomes not optional but inevitable. It is interesting to consider the mind-only teachings of the Yogacara school as the inner condition for later Vajrayana Buddhism’s outward tantric expressions, such as cham. The inner dance is primary, generative, and remains as an outer dance takes shape in a vortex.

Young men continue to perform the Attan today. Peshawar. Photo from Core of Culture

Gandhara as a culture of movement

Gandhara was uniquely positioned for such developments. From at least the fourth century BCE onward, the region absorbed Hellenistic influences following the campaigns of Alexander the Great and the subsequent Indo-Greek kingdoms. Greek artistic and theatrical traditions did not vanish quickly; they persisted, adapted, and mingled with local forms for centuries.

Greek culture, often mischaracterized as purely intellectual, was in fact deeply somatic. The Greek exaltation of the human form in art is unparalleled. Philosophy was paired with bodily discipline (Gr: askesis), ethics with habituation (Gr: hexis), and metaphysical insight with ritual enactment. The Greek gymnasium was where the body was trained, cleaned, fed; and where the mind was exercised through philosophical debate, and where teachers taught. The human form was a manifestation and embodiment of Greek ideals and virtues. Famously, the Greeks exercised naked in the same place where they debated philosophy. 

Greek tragedy relied on the chorus: a collective body with no individual identities moving rhythmically through space and mythic history to make cosmology, ethics, and human suffering intelligible; to deliver moral teaching. They danced to chanted poetry. The first great tragic poet, Aeschylus (c. 524–456 BCE), was a general in the army. The annual performances of tragedy was a contest in honor of Dionysus. The Greek god Dionysus appears in multiple art forms and places within Gandhara. The ancient ritual Dithyramb, upon which tragedy was developed, was practiced and depicted in stone reliefs in Gandhara. Dancing Bacchic ecstatic rites, called Bacchanalia, are depicted in multiple places in Gandhara. 

These Greek ideas of the mind-body complex did not arrive in Gandhara as abstract doctrines. They arrived as ritualized drama. These ideas arrived in the bodies of trained performers—as ways of standing, walking, gesturing, dancing, and occupying architectural space; ways of chanting, singing, shouting, and acting. Gandharan Buddhist sculpture bears this out: contrapposto stances, flowing drapery, rhythmic groupings of figures, and processional compositions all reveal a visual logic rooted in Greek ritual movement, and notions of the body. The Buddha is a muscular hero in Gandharan sculpture.

At the same time, the region was home to indigenous traditions of martial and ecstatic dance, including Pashtun warrior dances such as the Attan, characterized by rhythmic stamping, circling, spinning, and collective intensity. These Afghan dances were not entertainment; they trained martial skills—endurance, focus, cohesion, courage—and the experience of moving powerfully with an elevated consciousness. The Attan is still performed today. It is nearly 3,000 years old. It is a culturally foundational movement expression that has not lost its relevance or power. The longevity of certain ancient dances is worth investgating. 

In Gandhara, then, indigenous ancient mountain dance traditions, Buddhist monastic practice, and Greek theatrical embodiment of myth coexisted within the same cultural milieu. The story is not simply influence in one direction, but convergence: a shared understanding among different cultural traditions that the body is a primary instrument of knowledge. This is a story of ongoing cultural interaction and integration among movement practices over a long period.

Standing Boddhisattva, Gandhara, 2nd–3rd century CE. Schist. Private Collection. Image courtesy pf the author

Reading Gandharan art as a movement archive

When viewed through this lens, Gandharan art reveals new dimensions. A standing Buddha image with a raised hand is not merely an icon; it preserves a repeatable bodily configuration—balanced weight, upright spine, deliberate gesture—designed to organize attention in both practitioner and viewer. A seated Buddha in meditation depicts choreography reduced to stillness, where internal movement replaces external motion. It has been claimed that the image of the Buddha seated with crossed-legs in meditation—showing his calm body as vessel of enlightenment—originated in Gandhara.

Narrative panels showing devotees circumambulating stupas capture cognition in motion: structured walking, rhythmic repetition, cosmic parallels, and spatialized thought. Even Buddhist guardian figures such as the Boddhisattva Vajrapaṇi—often modeled on the Greek Herakles (Hercules) in Gandharan sculptures—display coiled energy and controlled force, anticipating later ritual dynamism. The interaction of these separate movement cultures developed mind-body training to endow the body to mean; to take on and embody profound meaning. 

Cham dancer, protective deity, Punakha, Bhutan, 2005. Photo by Gerard Houghton. From Core of Culture

From Yogacara to Vajrayana to cham

Seen this way, the later emergence of Vajrayana Buddhism appears not as a rupture, but as an intensification; a material manifestation of inner reality. The eighth-century master Padmasambhava, traditionally associated with the Swat region of Gandhara, brought together Yogacara’s analysis of perception with explicit ritual technologies of embodiment taken from traditions of dance, magic, tantra, and wizardry from throughout Central Asia and the Himalayas. Greek ritual dance and cosmology were integrated with local artistic patterns. It was a cosmopolitan milieu of mind-body techniques.

Visualization practices became performative. Gestures and postures became empowered. Movement itself became a means of transforming reality—not symbolically, but operationally, for both the dancer and the devoted observer. 

The masked ritual dances known as cham—attributed to Padmasambhava and which flourish in Tibetan and Himalayan Buddhist cultures—represent the completion of this arc. Cham makes cosmology visible, ethics kinetic, and metaphysics communal. Doctrine is no longer only studied or contemplated; it is enacted, remembered through the body, and renewed in public space. 

Nepal’s Kathmandu Valley offers a later and still-living example of such a milieu: an urban pilgrimage landscape where ancient yogic ritual, Tantric Buddhism, and daily embodied practice have long been interwoven. Read alongside Gandhara, it suggests that the transmission of Buddhist thought has often depended less on linear dissemination than on the emergence of fertile social ecologies of practice. From this dance perspective, figures such as Padmasambhava appear not as solitary innovators moving through empty space, but as catalysts working within—and between—places already primed for yogic and ritual synthesis.

Padmasambhava did not invent movement in Buddhism. He completes a long historical process in which the body—in its true power—gradually comes fully into view. Padmasambhava’s historical significance lies not only in what he taught but where he taught. It helps sometimes to think of Padmasambhava not as an historical person embarked on mythic wanderings, but as a connective intelligence, a situational intelligence at thresholds of creativity. Moving from Gandhara to Kathmandu and then to Samye in Tibet, is Padmasambhava moving among hotbeds of yogic evolution. Nothing random; self-selecting perhaps. Dance is a manifestation of that evolution, from Swat to Kathmandu to Samye. Miracle of miracles: these dances still exist. 

Curatorial ethics and the present moment

Treating dance as evidence carries responsibilities. When living traditions are presented to the public—whether on festival stages, in museums, or in scholarly writing—choices must be made about naming, framing, and alteration.

Calling dances by their proper names, resisting the urge to simplify or aestheticize them for international audiences, and allowing forms to speak on their own terms are not political gestures. Dances should be shown for what they are, not as mascots for globalist tropes like “world peace.” For example, call the dance Attan, not Pakistani folk dance. Don’t change the way the Attan is performed when showing it to foreigners to try to suit their taste. Show the Attan for what it is. Rearrange the audience, not the dancers. These are methodological commitments. If movement is a historical source, it deserves the same care we give to texts or artifacts. We don’t change them to make them simpler; we learn how to read and appreciate them. This approach might be called curatorial ethics: an awareness that how we present embodied knowledge shapes what can be known about it.

Recognizing dance as evidence does more than add a new topic to Buddhist studies. It shifts the ground of inquiry. It reminds us that history is not only written—it is walked, gestured, rehearsed, and remembered through the body as dance. For Gandhara, this perspective restores a missing dimension. It allows us to see the region not only as a crossroads of ideas, but to see Gandhara as a laboratory of embodied knowledge, the influence of which continues to move—quite literally—across Asia. Dance, in this sense, is not an accessory to history. It is one of its most articulate witnesses.

A dancing maenad, in a trance, in a Dionysian ecstatic ritual, c. 325 BCE, at Paestan, Greece. From wikimedia.org

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The post Dance Is Evidence: Rethinking History Through the Moving Body – Gandhara, Buddhism, and The Greeks appeared first on Buddhistdoor Global.

Screenshot from A Shaker Worship Service by Salli Terri. From youtube.com

Who will bow and bend like a willowWho will turn and twist and reelIn the gale of simple freedom . . .— Shaker spiritual

From the Shaker religious community in the United States, founded in the mid- to late 18th century, emerged an extraordinarily transformative ritual dance tradition. Shaker dance is an original and powerful form of sacred movement, bearing uncanny parallels to tantric ritual dances, Sufi whirling, and other ecstatic devotional traditions around the world.

Officially known as the United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing, the Shakers held beliefs that were radically progressive for their time. Among their most controversial teachings was the conviction that Christ could reappear in female form—that a woman could serve as a religious and ritual leader. Many Shakers believed that their founder, Ann Lee, embodied this second appearance of Christ, although Lee herself never explicitly made such a claim.

For those of us working to understand Buddhist ritual dance—particularly cham—Shaker dance offers a surprising and illuminating parallel. To see this clearly, however, we must recognize how sacred dance traditions evolve over time. What most people encounter today in Buddhist dance is its late form: disciplined, meditative, carefully structured. What often goes unrecognized is that such traditions frequently emerge from earlier, more spontaneous and ecstatic phases.

Shaker practice followed this same arc. The earliest Shaker worship was marked by trembling, shaking, crying out, and spontaneous movement—the very behavior that earned them their name. This was not “dance” in a formal sense but a somatic response, structuring a religious intensity into way of life. Over time, however, Shaker movement evolved into a replicable and disciplined system of communal ritual.

Engraving, c.1840, Shaker dance worship service. From Getty Images

This later form of Shaker dance was guided by revealed manuscripts known as “Gift Sheets”—spiritual gifts believed to come from divine sources rather than human authorship. These sheets are not choreographic instructions in the modern sense. Instead, they encode an implicit choreography: sacred geometry, spatial symmetry, and moral injunctions that shape how bodies move together without prescribing specific steps.

When I first encountered these Gift Sheets, I was struck by their deep resemblance to the mandalas of Tantric Buddhism. They function in much the same way. In Buddhist dance traditions, especially those guided by Cham Yig manuscripts, movement is not recorded as step-by-step choreography. A Cham Yig may include mandalas, rhythmic structures, mantra texts, musical cues, and ritual notes—together forming a kind of “danced theology.” In both Shaker and Buddhist contexts, geometry and symbolism govern the movement. The dance emerges not from personal expression but from submission to a sacred order; a multi-dimensional architecture. This is very similar to Buddhism and its material record.

A dance “Gift Sheet,” holding the communal dance’s guidance in geometric and natural forms. Choreography is not by steps, but collective spiritual transport through repetition of form and song. The dances, also the music, are relayed and recorded as Dance Gift Sheets, and Later Music Gift Sheets. The “treasure dances” of Tantric Buddhism are similar, both performing and transmitting dances with mystical origins. In Buddhism, those who discover such otherworldly artifacts as mystical, unwritten dance manuscripts, are called treasure-revealers. The Shakers say with admirable simplicity that the Gifts are dances and songs given by the Spirit. Image courtesy of the author

Dance Gift Sheets, mystical representations of a Shaker dance used as instruction. Image courtesy of the author

For the Shakers, dance was never ornamental—little in their culture was. It was an embodied form of belief, a disciplined technology of alignment with Spirit, community, and daily life. Shaker Dance was not expressive in the modern sense: it was not about individuals displaying emotion or personality. It was about dissolving the self into a collective pattern of devotion.

The Shakers are better known today for their exquisitely simple furniture and utilitarian design than for their ritual movement. Only one living Shaker community remains, in Maine, with just three members. Other historic Shaker sites survive as museums. Because the Shakers are celibate, the question of fragile continuity has always existed.

Historically, the Shakers emerged from a milieu of radical Protestant experimentation. In 17th-century England, Quakers—now known for silent worship—were once derisively called “Quaking Shakers.” From this environment, an eight-person group led by Mother Ann Lee broke away and eventually emigrated from Liverpool to North America. What they carried with them was a form of worship that included shaking, trembling, and spontaneous movement.

“Shaking” reveals a state of consciousness recognized worldwide: ecstatic religious experience expressed through the body—visions, vocalizations, dancing, and song. Over time, however, this raw ecstasy was transformed into disciplined, ordered ritual movement. In this evolution we see a familiar pattern: revelation giving way to form; spontaneity yielding to transmission.

Shaker dance at its mature stage is a ritual communal movement without individual display; music designed to align the body with belief, and a contemplative visual logic guiding space and timing. Where have we seen this before? In cham, in mandala practice, in other forms of embodied sacred discipline. Shaker dance can be understood as embodied theology—a communal practice that aligns movement with ethical and spiritual order. Shaker dance is not folk dance.

Religious exercises at the Meeting House, Becker, New York. From the New York State Museum

Like the dances of Isadora Duncan or Vaslav Nijinsky, Shaker dance exists today without any filmed documentation and minimal photographic record. There are only engravings, drawings, paintings, and the remarkable Gift Sheets themselves—visual documents that encode movement through geometry rather than notation. This makes Shaker dance a rare example of dance knowledge preserved not through steps, but through symbolic form.

To appreciate how easily such practices can be misunderstood, we can look to another well-known example of ecstatic worship: Black Gospel Church dance in the United States. This form of movement is communal, repetitive, emotionally charged, and unchoreographed—and yet it is safe, disciplined by shared belief, and deeply meaningful to practitioners. Without cultural context, however, outsiders often misinterpret what they see.

Storefront Holy Ghost Praise Break. From youtube.com

The same dynamic played out with the Shakers. Many hostile accounts of their dances came from outsiders peering through windows, projecting fear onto what they did not understand. Shakers were accused of witchcraft, heresy, and moral corruption—especially because they insisted on the spiritual equality of men and women and elevated women as ritual leaders.

These attacks echo Western responses to Buddhist cham, which was long derided as “Devil Dance” or “Demon Dance.” The 19th-century Tibetologist Laurence Waddell dismissed cham as “wanton mummery,” reflecting a colonial mindset that misunderstood embodied religious practice. Shakers, too, were vilified—some of their communal houses were burned and members were violently attacked. Ann Lee herself ultimately died from brutal injuries sustained during such persecution.

Today, Shaker culture and dance are finally being reconsidered with respect. Yet with only three living Shakers remaining, no community can now perform a full traditional dance. There are no historical films or photographs, just material culture, manuscripts, and a legacy of implicit choreography.

One remarkable reconstruction deserves mention. From 1979–93, the Choristers of the University of Kentucky performed annually in a Shaker communal house, presenting a carefully researched and reverent reconstruction of a Shaker worship service, arranged by Terri Valli with Shaker advisers. This was not invention, but restoration—bringing together song, geometry, architecture, and movement in a way that honored Shaker discipline. A filmed version of this work remains one of the most accurate windows into what Shaker dance may have been. 

Beautiful in every way. I encourage you to spend the 20 minutes watching this dance film. This annual performance lasted 14 years, becoming a tradition on its own.

Screenshot from A Shaker Worship Service by Salli Terri. From youtube.com

Watching it, one understands how repetition, song, and simple movement can induce a quiet form of ritual absorption. It is not unlike walking the labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral or performing the Stations of the Cross: no special training is required, no intention to meditate is necessary. You walk the labyrinth, the labyrinth walks you. You dance the mandala, the mandala dances you.

This is the genius of implicit choreography. Whether in Shaker Gift Sheets or Buddhist Cham Yig mandalas, movement is shaped by structure rather than self. Dance becomes not expression, but practice; not display, but devotion. 

It’s a gift to be simple.

Image courtesy of the author

A new feature film about the founder of the Shakers, The Testament of Ann Lee, has recently been released worldwide. I encourage you see this rapturous and savage film if you can. It is rare document that treats a religious dance tradition with respect and insight. 

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Merce Cunningham in Changeling, 1958. Image courtesy of the Merce Cunningham Trust and the Jerome Robbins Dance Division of the New York Public Library

My backstory with Merce Cunningham

I was fortunate to meet the world-famous modern dance choreographer Merce Cunningham (b. 1919), in Kyoto in 1988, and to spend an entire day together among the beautiful shrines and temples of Higashiyama, the eastern hills of Kyoto. We remained friends and kept up an occasional correspondence with written letters, until his death in 2009. I saw and spoke with him several weeks before his death, and we reminisced about our happy time together in Kyoto.

It so happened in 1988 that I was living in Kyoto and working as artistic director of Parnassus Dancetheatre, a company I founded with expert dance artists from traditions East and West. We’d been preparing our debut show, Mid-Hell Smoke, an English Noh play by poet Michael Fournier, based on a scene from Dante’s Inferno. After a year’s work, we’d used all our available funds and secured an excellent theater, the Kyoto Geijitsu Bunka Kaikan, for the opening night of a three-night run, hoping to entice and invite the dance audience of the Kyoto and Osaka area. Three weeks before our debut, posters appeared all over Kyoto: “Merce Cunningham Dance Company in Kyoto, One Night Only!” Guess which night? Yes, the same date as our debut performance.

So, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek letter to Merce in New York City, asking, “How far does a choreographer have to be from New York City to get a chance to show their work without being overshadowed by one of the Greats?” To my astonishment, Merce wrote back with a beautiful and witty three-page letter, saying if he could, he’d change the date. He asked if we could please spend a day together in Kyoto, enjoying the sites related to Zen and Noh, in which he had a keen interest. I was delighted and agreed in the letter that I mailed back to him.

When the day came, I met Merce at his hotel. He was beaming and friendly, and obviously arthritic. He walked without a cane, but with some difficulty. He wanted to walk in places where you could only walk—no cars, no bikes. I asked him what he wanted to see? He answered, “Nothing. Isn’t that what Japan is famous for?” So, we went to a rock garden with no rocks and to a Shinto Shrine on the top of Yoshida Mountain, where stood an outdoor Noh stage, more than 500 years old. It was there I performed a Noh dance for Merce Cunningham.

Performing a Noh dance for Merce Cunningham

On that fateful day in Kyoto, 1988, when I met Merce Cunningham and spent the day with him, he made it clear he not only wanted to see a Noh dance but knowing that I was studying Noh with a great master, Udaka Michishige, he wanted to see me perform a Noh dance. So I packed a Noh folding fan, the only prop needed for a basic dance, and carried it with me as we went through our day.

When I noticed that he walked with some difficulty, I offered to modify the plans. My intention, after visiting Zen and Shinto gardens, was to ascend to the top of Mount Yoshida, a small mountain within Kyoto itself offering splendid views. At the top, after passing through 100 vermillion gates that adorned a cobbled path, was the hushed Munetada Shrine, an ancient Shinto shrine with a simple raked gravel garden and, remarkably, an archaic outdoor Noh stage on the pinnacle of the peak. The priests knew me well as my home was nearby, and they allowed me to practice on the stage. I was always impeccably respectful. In any case, I’d hoped to take Merce there and perform a Noh dance for him. He thought it was a great idea, and the ascent and performance were the core of our day together.

Walking with care, our slow hike uphill became a pilgrimage, as sunlight darted through the many orange-red gates. Ascending through all the gates was performance art in itself, a transformed walkway of shimmering light, in which we talked about Noh, moving from the belly (Jp: tanden), floating by sliding, and painting with energy.

Vermillion torii gates ascending a mountain. Image courtesy Core of Culture

Once we arrived, Merce took a seat on the stairs of the mountain shrine, as I explained that I would dance Kokaji, about a sword-smith and the Fox god Inari, who comes to assist him in making a sword of divine protection. I was a bit concerned—not that Merce would be unable to take in the dance, but concerned because Noh, in all its inner and outer techniques, is very slow form of movement, too slow for most people. I took out my Noh fan, did the preliminary chanting, and went on to perform a 10-minute dance atop the lovely old Noh stage among the pine trees for an audience of one. I knew he was observing it carefully, taking in everything.

My performance was slow and dignified. I did a fine Noh dance for Merce. When I finished, he said, “I thought it seemed fast?” I explained that I was not wearing an inhibiting mask or large costume, and that I was probably a bit nervous, and that this ancient stage is in fact a bit smaller than a standard Noh stage today. He understood.

Then he asked me, “Would you do it again for me? Three times slower?” And so, I did. The 10-minute dance dilated into a 30-minute shared dance experience with Merce Cunningham, as we together explored the form and energy in a most quiet, intense, open, intimate, artistic way.  He was sage. He was friendly. Just as the audience at a Noh play is essential to its moments of meaning and insight, so Merce was completely a part of my performance, the object of his concentration. When the dance was over, half an hour later, neither of us said anything.

Joseph Houseal performing Kokaji on the Gion Shrine Noh stage, 1986. Image courtesy Core of Culture

This article is an excerpt from Buddhist Dances, Movement & Mind, by Joseph Houseal, Motilal Banarsidass, 2025.

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Itsukushima Shrine Gate, Miyajima Island, Japan. From miyajima.or.jp  

“Ma,” the Japanese concept of “space,” is much more than mere physical distance. It’s a nuanced and multifaceted idea that profoundly influences various cultural disciplines in Japan, shaping aesthetics, the sense of time, communication and expectation, even social interactions. When the late singer David Bowie saw—and heard—a Japanese Noh play for the first time, he couldn’t quite sense the rhythms of the music. He called it “variable time flow” and “found rhythm.” After asking the musicians what the rhythm was, they told him it was in eight counts, Bowie looked puzzled. Then they told him, “It’s eight counts . . . with holes in it.”  The holes in the rhythm, stretching out the silences between drum strikes, creating distended and dilated theatrical moments, are ma. Emptiness at work, creating an open gateway to embracing deeper thinking and personal experience for the performer and the audience alike.

Zen meditation rock garden, Kyoto. Image from Core of Culture

Ma is an ordinary word too. Anyone familiar with the London Underground will know the common announcement when a subway car stops at a station: “MIND THE GAP between the train and the platform.” The gap is ma: space, interval, active emptiness. The Japanese aesthetic term ma often refers to the intentional creation of space or emptiness as an active element in artistic performance and audience perception. A Shinto shrine in Japan, very much like a Noh stage, is little more than framed space. A Noh stage is essentially an empty cube, elevated and roofed. What is sacred at a Shinto shrine is the space, not the wooden beams. In a Zen rock garden, considered an expression of Buddhist  philosophy and aesthetics, the stones are placed to create ma, space, into which the meditating observer can pour their own mind and spirit, traversing transcendent realms of inner meaning by means of the activated ma—emptiness, nothing-ness—as a tool and technique of consciousness cultivation. Pure gestalt: ma within ma, encountering ma; emptiness flowing and stillness active.

Nashiki Shrine, Japan, looking from the shrine stage toward inner shrine.  Image courtesy of the author

Ma connects deeply to notions of minimalism and the artistic function of clean lines, whether in architecture or performing arts such as Japanese Noh. There is no real “set” on a Noh stage, rather the main performer, in an elaborate costume and wearing a mask, is the locus and focus: the moving center of the whole. A pine tree, representing the site of the earliest Noh plays, is painted on the back wall. The stage is essentially a box of empty space, filled not only by the physical actor but with vital space, volume, energy, atmosphere, and nothing but the spiritual reality of the main character. And so, the space of a Noh stage is full of memory, poetry, spiritual crisis, and the openness of the aesthetics of emptiness. This allows the perceptions and sensations of the audience to join the performers in the emptiness out of which a Noh play arises, which in fact is intended to be that same emptiness at the core of being—the same emptiness experienced by a Zen monk in meditation or a miko, a Shinto priestess, tracing the abstract patterns of her accumulated spiritual possession.

Noh play Izutsu, from Arthur Waley, The Noh Plays of Japan, 1922, Alfred A. Knopf, New York. Image courtesy of the author

In the Noh play, Izutsu, the ghost of a lover of the poet Narihira, wearing his clothes, peers into a well where they met as children. The decrepit well is a mirror of memories, heartbreak, and madness. Alone in the empty space of a Noh stage, the actor looks into an empty, framed space, and the climax of the drama is emptiness upon emptiness, the very nature of reality. There is space for the audience to participate in the creation of meaning. Ma—the empty space, its framing, and its artistic manipulation create the dynamic interplay of flow and stillness, enabling fluid transitions into non-material dimensions of existence. Physical, rhythmic, and aural space are the essence of Noh performance and of Shinto Miko Mai dances. The dancer glides, turns, and pauses, allowing the empty spaces to become integral parts of the choreography. These pauses aren’t mere breaks or stops. Rather, they are empowered energetic emanations created to amplify the grace and precision of the movements, inviting contemplation and connection with deities, characters, and inner realities.

Ma becomes a canvas for interpretation. The late ballet dancer Rudolph Nureyev observed: “If you want to make something more beautiful, do it more slowly.” This aptly describes Japanese Noh’s very slow manner of performing, featuring its beauty. Instead of becoming boring, the slowness highlights the figure in space, trance-like, inviting the audience into a calm, concentrated artistic experience. 

This manner of highlighting movement, slowly, in empty space is a universal quality of ma applied to performing arts. Please enjoy here a remarkable short film from the National Ballet of Canada, featuring choreographer-dancer Guillaume Côte, and the cinematography of Jeremy Benning. Emptiness and slowness are used to great effect, finally opening to a new and different emptiness; a quantum flow of open spaces, not negative spaces, defined by the dancer in the dimension of nothing. Dance itself is rarely so well displayed.

Lost in Motion, directed by Ben Shrinian, choreography and dancing by Guillaum Cǒte, director of photography Jeremy Benning. Image courtesy of the National Ballet of Canada

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Vast Desert, Solitary Smoke Rises Straight by Liu Feng Shueh, 2000, Taipei. Image courtesy of the Neo-Classic Dance Company 

The oracle bone script (甲骨文) is the earliest attested form of Chinese writing, dated to the Late Shang dynasty in the second millennium BCE. The inscriptions were carved on the underside of turtle and tortoise shells called plastrons, or on ox scapulae as part of divination rituals that were a kind of scapulimancy or blade-bone reading. After heating, the cracks were “read” and divined. The inscriptions recorded both the query and the diviner’s interpretation. These ritual objects of divination, collected, are known in China as oracle bones. As such, the oracle bone script is one of the earliest known forms of written language, a ritual use for language, where an image—a pictograph of a person dancing—is language itself. We see a dancer holding feathers or branches in a ritual to communicate with the divine: another dimension of reality. There is a shamanic aspect to this glyph.

The oracle bone script for dance. Image courtesy of the author

The petroglyph that forms the basis for the Core of Culture logo is Indian and, much older than any written script, nevertheless uses dancers as drawn language. In the oracle bone script for dance, the evolution from picture drawing to abstract use as language-symbol is evident. How fascinating that at this earliest phase of language-making, the very image of the body dancing in a ritual is present, bringing notions of mental transformation and the sacredness of dance as a communicating medium.

Petroglyph, Chalcolithic period, Central India. Image from Newberry Library Cartography Collection. This glyph is the basis for the Core of Culture logo

Over time, those pictographic forms developed into bronze script, seal script, clerical and regular script, and so on. Many oracle characters began as pictographs or simple ideographs, but by the Late Shang period they had already become partially conventionalized and abbreviated into use as written characters. So when we talk in artistic terms about an “oracle-bone form” of dance, we are often reconstructing from variant graphs found in excavated bones, on bronzes, and in early manuscripts. Today there is a calligraphy style called “Oracle Bone.”

Actual oracle bone from the late Shang dynasty, with script. From wikimedia.org

Doctoral work conducted by the late Taiwanese choreographer-scholar Liu Feng Shueh (1925–2023) in London at the Laban Centre for Movement and Dance, and at Cambridge University, examined the frequency and contextual range of the oracle bone script for dance, and its significance as a marker of the magical profundity of communication at ever-deeper levels of existence. This is similar to the Newar Buddhist understanding in Kathmandu, where the word dance means meditation. What is so valuable that it is to be divined, to be interpreted, to be inscribed, and recorded as words? What action is this? It is the divine action of expression at the core of one’s essence; one’s purpose and action in the world. 

Mme. Liu Feng Shueh with the author, in Taipei. 2012. Photo by Gerard Houghton for Core of Culture

I was fortunate to know Mme. Liu Feng Shueh from my own studies at the Laban Centre of Movement and Dance, to read her thesis, and to see her choreographies performed. I was shown many reconstructions from the Tang dynasty in her studio theater in Taipei, and also even earlier Confucian dances, noble and geomantic. Madame Liu believed that the rigor and nobility of Chinese dance emanate from the oracle bone script for dance. Without the truth of the meaning of the glyph being alive in a danced performance, something critical is missing. Whether modern dance, the dances of Taiwanese indigenous people, or bringing to new life the dances of archaic times, Liu Feng Shueh taught and created a connection to the oldest expression of dance. She is considered one of the pioneers of Chinese modern dance.

Liquid Ambar by Liu Feng Shueh, a Tang dynasty dance reconstruction. Image courtesy of the author

What a delight to see recently for sale a most unusual scroll, dating probably to the 1970s. I purchased it and it hangs in my study. It is in the standard literary form of four characters. Modern script and the artist’s Buddhist name appear smaller on the left side. The scroll is as much poetic and philosophical as it is rhetorical and imagistic. It is meant to hold much meaning, beyond words, elusive and poetic. It evokes the spirit and time the Oracle Bone period, and in that, it carries a ritual weight, a seriousness of action. This modern calligraphic scroll written in oracle-bone script declares: Dance is the complete practice.

What at first looks archaic, paleographic, and indecipherable becomes a living statement of ritual, spirituality, and art—reminding us that dance is not mere performance, but the fulfillment of wholeness; a practical way to become what Daoists call “a real human.” Dance is moving in more than one world at once, gracefully gamboling between them all, the consummate picture of self-awareness even as selflessness is the end state of the ritual dance. According to a 12th century Drikung Kagyu Buddhist dance treatise, The Snow Lion’s Attributes, “Dance is the apotheosis of mystical attainment.” This meaning is not far from the scroll we are examining.

Bone oracle dance scroll. Image courtesy of the author

This is my reading of the scroll, although there are others, as with any translation, and surely regarding any symbolic divinatory image. Oracle bone script was the language of ritual and communication with the divine. The emphasis of dance as the first character on this scroll and using the oldest known written glyph for dance underscores the spiritual sobriety and the awesome magical power of dance, summoned and extolled anew. Plain, powerful, unfancy. And a bit postmodern, relying on bold classical forms for a modern anachronistic effect. 

This scroll was offered to me by an art dealer whom I know. What caught my attention immediately was the character for dance, written in oracle-bone script. I knew that glyph, with its raised arms and feathers, a remnant of the earliest ritual dances carved on turtle plastrons more than 3,000 years ago. I bought the scroll not knowing what the other characters meant, drawn only by the presence of dance in its archaic form.

The inscription turned out to be four characters: 舞之全業. At first glance one might translate this as, “All dance,” or, “The complete art of dance.” But in English that phrase sounds more like a survey—a book cataloguing styles and histories; or an introductory book for dance students. The scroll, however, is saying something very different. A more faithful and serious rendering would be: “Dance is the complete practice.” In other words, dance is not fragment, not entertainment, not even just art, but a wholeness—a practice that encompasses body, mind, offering, and discipline. The dance image used is that of a ritual dancer—the original purpose of dance.

The scroll is modern, written in a revivalist oracle-bone style by a calligrapher signing as Yiru (One Suchness), a pen name drawn from Buddhist thought. It is not a relic of antiquity but a personal creation, a high-minded, poetic, and mystical self-invention, placed in the great tradition of Chinese calligraphy. The brushstrokes themselves move like some ancient pace: bold, archaic, enigmatic, embodying the mystery of what they declare, while the artist’s anonymity is shrouded in a spiritual and poetic name. Ink painting and calligraphy are sometimes discussed as dance. 

To Western readers, this idea is unusual. Dance is usually thought of as performance or entertainment, sometimes as art, but rarely as spiritual practice. In many Asian and ancient traditions, however, dance is never merely symbolic—it is effective and purposeful. Monks, wizards, and shamans danced to consecrate space, to invite deities, to protect the community, or to transmit teaching.

In Tibetan Buddhism, the great cham dances are not merely spectacles but ritual offerings. The dancers embody protective deities, and the steps themselves renew time and purify the environment. In Daoist ritual, meditation, and martial practice, the Pace of Yu is a sacred choreography taught to align the practitioner with cosmic order. In Japan, Zeami wrote of the dance in Noh as “writing calligraphy in the air,” a striking reminder that movement can be both art and experiential revelation. Across these traditions, dance was understood as complete practice: effective, transformative, and integral, embodying all aspects. Alive and so expressing life; elemental and so, universal.

Dance. Image courtesy of the author

Putting a foot forward, “of”. Image courtesy of the author

Person under a roof, wholeness. Image courtesy of the author

Rows of plants, cultivated practice, karma, vocation. Image courtesy of the author

The calligraphy on this scroll does not describe dance, it declares it. Dance is the complete practice—whole, capable of carrying body, mind, and spirit together. The character for dance itself shows this: hands holding feathers, feet in motion, a figure dancing in embodied ritual presence. When written in oracle script, the ancient meaning is visible again: dance as invocation, as communication with the unseen.

What is remarkable is the simplicity of the inscription. Four characters, written in an archaic style, yet carrying a truth that entire treatises struggle to express. This is in the spirit of the literati: to take brush and ink and make of them not only art but a way of living. The boldness here is in its clarity. It does not embellish or argue. It simply says: dance is the complete practice.

In this way the striking scroll is more than decoration. It is a living statement of ancient ethics and philosophy in our own time, a reminder that art can still be a vessel of truth. The calligraphy itself finds its flow, moving between ancient oracle script and a modern hand, holding a mystery while speaking clearly. It stands as a small but profound example of how artistic tradition and personal spirituality meet, how practice can be inscribed in the simplest of forms.

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Following is a transcript of the author’s address for Buddhistdoor Global’s 30th Anniversary Symposium in Vancouver, Canada, held on 3–4 September 2025.

Stag dancer, tsam dance, Ulaan Baatar, 1967.  Photo by Werner Forman. Used with permission from the Werner Forman Archive

This month marks the 10th anniversary of Ancient Dances, my monthly column for Buddhistdoor Global.  I’ve never missed a month, always considering it an honor and an edifying discipline to produce this column for BDG. It has become a personal yoga. Through these 120 monthly essays, over a decade, my column has attracted a steady international readership. This is not because all the readers are dancers, although there are a solid number of dancers who read my work. It’s because people enjoy good writing about things that they don’t know, or never had a chance to explore. 

I was a contributor to Ballet Review in New York, for 34 years. It featured excellent writers. Many subscribers did so because the writing was good, whether or not they had a passion for the dance. They had a desire for good writing. A fine arts journal in classic B5 size, Ballet Review ceased publishing in 2020, after 55 years. Those 34 years of quarterly accumulation contain some of my best writing. I have had similar good fortune with BDG: like with Ballet Review, I have a very good editor. I’m a team player. I bring the best I’ve got and allow it to speak a language of shared values. Journalism is a perilous enterprise and I admire the editorial and production teams at Buddhistdoor Global for continuing to bring forth good writing, provocative topics, and intelligent perspectives. I am grateful for the platform from which I advocate for endangered ancient dances and movement forms in the healing, meditation, and martial arts. Buddhist practices uphold much ancient knowledge; Buddhist dances are repositories of knowledge.

I view my professional life, working with dancers from all parts of the world, as a kind of social contract: because I am afforded the opportunity to work in a way not open to most, I have a responsibility to share my experiences, discoveries,  and research with others, as much as to assist the practitioners with whom I work. I am here to uphold the art of dance and the community of dancers; as well as the practice of exploration and the community of explorers. Writing is a basic way I share my work and experiences. But in fact, it is as an artist that I experience most things, and it is my dance-based skills in producing, directing , rehearsing, and documenting that make me useful to practitioners of ancient dances who negotiate their own continuity as a way of life: a constant re-alignment with tradition and modernity, as generations pass, and generational knowledge reveals its repositories for a role in future generations, or not. Writing facilitates my usefulness as a dance professional.

In my earliest encounters with Tantric Buddhism, I was struck by the initiatory story of Guru Rinpoche subduing malevolent energies with a dance at Samye monastery, thereby establishing Tantric Buddhism in Tibet in the eighth century. I wondered ardently for years: “Why did Guru Rinpoche use dance as the first act of Tantric Buddhism in Tibet?” I asked many people, lamas, dancers, scholars. Finally, the Je Khenpo, patriarch of Buddhism in Bhutan, answered plainly to me, “Because people like dancing.” I agree. My column for BDG treats the subject of dance, in its broadest sense, and people like dance. Dance draws people in and demonstrates an order beyond a mundane reality, beyond words, a whole-body response and engagement. Buddhism has an amazing legacy of dances connected to mystical visions, as well as dance as an advanced tantric yoga. Buddhist dances are remarkably resilient, many lasting centuries without serious disruption, others evolving in ways that sustained the thread of dance.  Buddhist dance is philosophy in motion, mental cultivation in action. My writing intends to invite people to see and know more about dance, connect it to their own lives, and be welcomed as they encounter new ideas and expressions in form. Buddhist dance is embodied metaphysical cosmology, and can be viewed in many different ways. I like to bring the practicalities of dance and dancers into the story.

A Chinese daoist diagram, instructing both the inner and outer visionary dance, Walking the Big Dipper. Image courtesy of Core of Culture.

Another reason this column has attracted readers is that people are keen to see how dance is a vehicle for Buddhist principles, and other driving creative forces. We have witnessed over more than 2,000 years, that dance succeeds in its malleability. Dance—this performed and embodied alchemy of person, being, shape, and inner disposition—exhibits endless variation, each exemplary, and usually, deeply human in endeavor. That is what I have tried to show in these essays—in particular, that creative artists of all ages have taken principles, cosmologies, techniques of mental cultivation, along with techniques of choreographic innovation, and created epochs of cultural importance. Driven by an essential intention toward the truth of danced expression of a transformed state of mind, ancient sacred dances reveal characteristics not found elsewhere. This is how Guru Rinpoche established a radically empowered dance—cham—as a central characteristic of Tibetan Buddhism in the eighth century, and also how the recently deceased avant-garde theater director, the visionary Robert Wilson, transformed what opera, dance, and theater could be in a tapestry of art forms each re-invigorated by an Eastern principle, often robed and adorned in light. 

Robert Wilson’s avant-garde masterpiece, Einstein on the Beach, in 1976, was an “abstract opera” composed by Phillip Glass, also a Buddhist, and a practicing Jew, with interests in Daoism and Hinduism. This production, choreographed by Lucinda Childs, revolutionized theater internationally, and became a touchstone of the global avant-garde, ushering in what would become one of the great ages of international avant-garde performance. 

Robert Wilson explained his aesthetic approach when producing a museum show of Chinese imperial masterpieces. “In order to see this work, we need to empty our heads. Get the daily life and activities out of our minds so we can focus on something else. John Cage had a great influence on my thinking. He was one of the Western people that brought us closer to Eastern ideas. After having read Cage’s book on silence, my life was forever changed.”

Einstein on the Beach, composed by Phillip Glass, choreographed by Lucinda Childs, and directed by Robert Wilson. Screenshot from the below video

In my column for Buddhistdoor Global, it is about the transformative power of Buddhist, Daoist, and Confucian ideals on each other, and as understood by groundbreaking dance artists who experimented with the application of Buddhist principles in their own work, and in their own lives. Antony Tudor, one of the greatest Ballet choreographers of the 20th century, lived as a practicing Zen Buddhist all his life, dying where he lived; at the first Zen Institute of America in New York, the Buddhist community to which he belonged. His epoch-making ballet Jardin aux lilas, (The Lilac Garden), was the world’s first “Zen ballet” by design. Maude Lloyd Gosling, the South African ballerina who debuted the lead role in this ballet in 1936, described her artistic goal as “expressing the Zen of unspoken heartbreak.”

Learning these astonishing facts and statements of artistry fuel my sense of exploration and discovery, because the application of spirit, self, and principle always creates something new, something worth noticing for the evolution it portends. A master artist can uplift this newness into transformations that impact art forms, dance forms, whole cultural epochs. Sharing compelling examples of artists and explorers, practitioners and dancers resonates over time and the mind’s eye. Each with profound individual understandings, the application of higher principles to their lives and art, results in something new, revitalizing the human spirit. Inviting people into ancient and esoteric dances and the states of being they engender will remain the purpose of this column, Ancient Dances, for more years to come. Thank you for reading my column.

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“Some actors in the mystic play,” from L. A. Wadell, Lamaism, 1895. Image courtesy of the author

The early explorers treated in this three-part article represent a wide range of expertise, from painting to linguistics, dance to cartography. The 15 explorers evoked here—Giuseppe Tucci, Sven Hedin, Alexandra David-Neel, Ted Shawn, Tyra Kleen, G. I. Gurdjieff, Beryl de Zoete, Arthur Waley, Rolf De Mare, Claire Holt, Ernest Fenollosa, Rene de Nebesky-Wojkowitz, Michael Aris, Lam Anagarika Govinda, and Nicholas Roerich—can be easily referenced in my previous article “Messengers of Mind, Cultural Explorers and the Encounter with Buddhism, Part One: A Gallery of Explorers,” which can also serve as a kind of glossary.

Ted Shawn in The Cosmic Dance of Shiva, Shiva Temple Mahabalipuram, India. 1926. Taken from Shawn The Dancer. J.M. Dent & Sons, London,1933. Image courtesy of the author

Among these, regarding dance, they fall into two groups: those who misrepresented it as ghoulish and pagan, and those who saw that dance was embodied consciousness: a gateway to knowledge, ritual, and meditative function, and a basis for cultural continuity. The early explorers included botanists, surveyors, military commanders, soldiers, doctors, and missionaries. There is much to learn from those who got it wrong. The best early descriptions of Buddhist cham dance come from L. A. Waddell, who condemned it entirely as “wanton mummery.”  There is a British engraving of Hemis Monastery cham, in which nearly every aspect of the dance is incorrect. I gave it to the Hemis Monastery Museum, where it now hangs.

Engraving of the Hemis Monastery cham festival, produced from a pencil drawing of the live event. England, 19th century. Artist of the Younghusband campaign in Ladakh, c. 1889. Nearly every aspect of the dance is incorrectly recorded; that the cham is circular is correct

It is a bit of a thrill, therefore, to encounter an early explorer who not only got it right, but asked provocative questions about the nature of dance as depicted in ritual Buddhist paintings. Giuseppe Tucci saw the dance as essential to understanding Tantric Buddhist art and the deities and characters depicted. Not only does he point out that a class of dakinis dance with wrathful deities, but he goes to lengths to describe and define the rarified nature of the creatures who are dancing. It explains, in part, the role of dance in meditation techniques to know exactly who the dancing beings are in a meditation; and when, in the process of meditating, they appear.

Protector of the Dharmakaya, 17th century, Tsaparang, Tibet. From Tucci, Indo-Tibetica lll.2, Reale Accademia d’Italia, 1935. Rome. Plate IV. Image courtesy of the author

Cartographer and explorer Sven Hedin was also a skillful painter and draftsman. In high contrast to the fantastical demons of the British etching, above, Hedin produced excellent renderings of the costume and movements of cham dance, genuine documentations of choreography, mudra, and mask 

Cham dancer, pencil drawing, Sven Hedin. Image courtesy of the Sven Hedin Foundation.

Ted Shawn documented, on film and in photographs, Tibetan Buddhist cham dances in Darjeeling in 1926. In his book Gods Who Dance—which accompanied his two years of documentations in 1925 and 1926, providing an unprecedented baseline of ancient Asian dance—Shawn wrote insightfully about dance in Buddhism: “It is an ironic fact that there is more actual dance connected with Buddhism itself than almost any other religion . . . Buddhism did not destroy or supplant the religion of the people previous to its coming, but it adjusted itself and fitted in with the gods that were already worshipped. Perhaps this explains it? For in Burma, Ceylon, and Tibet, three of the countries for which Buddhism is the official religion of the country and where it is most powerful, I have seen dancing in connection with Buddhist temples and Buddhist religious festivals. This then means that the primitive people of Tibet, of Burma, and of Ceylon, had gods who danced, and that Buddhism slowly absorbed both the gods and the dancing, rejecting neither the one nor the other.” 

Shawn’s influence on early modern dancers was tremendous, counting Martha Graham, Charles Wiedman and Doris Humphrey as his students.

Nicholas Roerich, the celebrated painter and researcher of initiate dance traditions, also influenced Western dance in the early 20th century. Drawing on his years of explorations in Asia and Siberia, Roerich created the scenario, sets, and costumes for Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rite of Spring) composed by Igor Stravinsky and choreographed by Vaslav Nijinsky. Sacre is considered one of the most important creations in 20th century dance and music, utterly transforming the notions of what dance and music could do. 

Le Sacre Du Printemps, 1913. Scenario, set, and costumes by Nicolas Roerich. Choreography by Vaslav Nijinsky. Music by Igor Stravinsky. Image courtesy of the Dance Division, New York Public Library

These two early explorers, Shawn and Roerich, inspired by their researches into Asian sacred dances, through their direct influence helped to cultivate and raise up Matha Graham and Vaslav Nijinsky, two of the most significant pioneers of 20th century dance invention. The art of dance has its own transmissions, not comparably initiate, but fundamentally driven by an understanding derived from ancient dances: that dance is an enactment and embodiment of spiritual and emotional realities, not merely a representation or performance of it. These are profound insights into the nature of dance itself. 

Writer Beryl de Zoete, working in India and Indonesia, and anthropologist Claire Holt, who worked in Java and Bali and the Indonesian islands, recognized dance as a form of knowing, and a means of transmitting spiritual and cosmological truths. De Zoete saw that gesture, rhythm, and spatial structures mirrored metaphysical systems. She understood the dances as living ritual texts, “the body as scripture.” Holt, more concretely, argued that dance was an historical archive in motion, capable of preserving mythic narrative, political ideologies, and religious worldviews, long after texts and historical figures were gone. 

Tyra Kleen’s astonishing art nouveau illustrations documenting the mudra, or ritual hand movements, of priests in Bali and Java, were inspired in part by her observation that the continuity of sustained importance of dance within Balinese society was itself a form of resistance against colonizing powers. Her remarkably exact and accurate documentations of mudra were exhibited at the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, recognized for their scientific value as well as their almost subversive arch style.

Four distinct mudras, by Tyra Kleen for Mudras, The Ritual Hand-poses of the Buddha Priests and Shiva Priests of Bali (1924). From Core of Culture

Lam Govinda writes about tantric ritual and visualization, addressing the double techniques of inner meditation and outer bodily form: that the inner mudra and outer movement create an essential alignment of subtle and gross energies. Gurdjieff, who established his own set of dances for his followers, based their construction on ancient sacred dance prototypes that he studied in Central Asia and the Middle East. He was not trying to portray metaphysical ideas, rather seeking to invoke and embody inner transformation through precise movement and breath control. He taught that gesture, posture, and rhythm could reshape consciousness. The dances are still performed today, and although they can appear unusual and counterintuitive, their continued use as a form of mental cultivation is noteworthy. He taught: “What you cannot discover in your own body, you will not discover in any place in the world.” 

Gurdjieff dances. From Gurdjieff-dances.com

In a remarkable example of modern sacred dance traditions grafting, transplanting, and transmitting through one another, the leader of the Gurdjieff Community of Conway, Massachusetts, Paul Anderson, handed over the site and the followers of Gurdjieff’s Fourth Way there, to Dzogchen teacher Namkhai Norbu, who consequently established his own Vajra dances on the same spot, with the Gurdjieff students becoming Vajrayana Buddhist students under Namkhai Norbu. There are still dancers alive today whose spiritual practice includes both the movements of Gurdjieff dances, as well as the Vajra dances of Namkhai Norbu. 

These insights into dance by early explorers are connected in the awareness that  Asia’s ancient sacred dances, including Buddhist dances, are ontological: they deal with the essence of being itself and how it emerges. Dance does something to the self and to the world; things are produced and transformed by it. Dance is an agent of mental cultivation and spiritual liberation. Dance changes the experience of inner reality. Where early explorers encountered these realizations and characteristics of sacred dance, we now have dancers and dance researchers enriched by these concepts who find a new recognition today in the practices of embodied, authentic, and somatic movement. In fact, it is often dancers focusing on authentic movement in contemporary practice who most relate and connect with the consciousness-altering dances of Buddhism and their embodied explorations of inner reality. 

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Taklamakan by Nicholas Roerich, 1924. From wikiart.org

When I began to introduce through this column a set of 15 Western pioneers and early explorers who encountered Buddhism, it was an innocent affair: to remind readers of some exceptional characters, the legacies they’ve left us, and my desire to show that cultural curiosity and personal, even spiritual, motivations mattered more to many of them than acceptance by the academy, or fame. These 15 can be easily referenced in my previous article “Messengers of Mind, Cultural Explorers and the Encounter with Buddhism, Part One: A Gallery of Explorers,” which can be used as a kind of glossary as I discuss this group generally and severally in this part two. Calling their lives complex is an understatement. What struck me was that most of them acted and lived in liminal spaces and places, even within themselves. 

The list, which can easily be added to and subtracted from, includes dancers and artists because that is my interest and profession. To recap from part one: Giuseppe Tucci, Sven Hedin, Alexandra David-Neel, Ted Shawn, Tyra Kleen, G. I. Gurdjieff, Beryl de Zoete, Arthur Waley, Rolf De Mare, Claire Holt, Ernest Fenollosa, Rene de Nebesky-Wojkowitz, Michael Aris, Lam Anagarika Govinda, and Nicholas Roerich. Each of these people is worth exploring individually on your own, through their own writings, writings about them, their art, their dances, and their lingering reputations.

Writing an article about them and their qualities can’t help but be general. One scholar pointed out that translator Arthur Waley, for all the paths he opened to China and Japan with his honorable translations of lofty literature, never went anywhere. He even refused invitations to visit; but preferred the Japan and China he had in his mind that served his still radiant translations. His translations of Japanese Noh plays are incredibly beautiful, as is Noh itself. Waley was an explorer of the mind, as indeed all of them were. 

Courage, discipline, an openness to be changed by the unknown, and a respect for unknown religions characterizes much of their work. They were not there to conquer but to integrate. What is difficult for modern readers to appreciate is that the encounters were very often mutually uplifting. I could never figure out how exotic became a pejorative word. It simply means “from far away.” Indonesian dance was indeed exotic to Dutch travelers in the early 20th century and vice versa: Dutch people were exotic to Indonesians. These were times when anthropology didn’t exist: World Fairs did.

Partial map of Tibet by Dr. Sven Hedin, 1906–08. From loc.gov

When reviewing Ted Shawn’s choreography for the 2,000 dancers in the 1912 D. W. Griffiths film Intolerance, in which the fall of Babylon is shown with nine different ritual dances, it is at once absurd and also, actually, not so off the mark. Roerich, the Russian painter, saw spiritualized landscapes and that is what he painted. He used color to imply spirituality in ways similar to how the modern painter Rothko did. It’s not well known, but Roerich created the sets and costumes and scenario for the groundbreaking ballet Le Sacre Du Printemps (The Rite of Spring) for Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe in 1913, working with composer Igor Stravinsky and dancer-choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky. This ballet shook the ballet and art worlds to their foundations, depicting onstage an ancient ritual so powerful, archaic, and undeniable that Western assumptions, philosophies, and power structures truly met their match. The ballet is a symbol of how dynamic—even cataclysmic—a meeting of worlds can be. In fact, much of the work of these explorers boldly confronted the philosophical materialism of the West and challenged its supposed superiority.

Scene from the fall of Babylon in D. W. Griffiths Intolerance, 1916, choreographed by Ted Shawn with Ruth St Denis. From wikimedia.org

The in-between is where these explorers worked. Michel Aris, a refined British scholar who worked in Bhutan and married into Southeast Asian royalty, had to navigate monastic secrecy, government suspicion, and royal patronage. He’s the epitome of a liminal life. 

Academic scholarship is not the touchstone of these explorers’ authenticity. These people took real risks. Alexandra David-Neel was a criminal, illegally entering Lhasa, disguised as a male monk when it was forbidden. She sometimes dressed as a beggar to avoid being discovered. Her writing is dramatic like she was, and it was empathetic, respectful, in awe of what she witnessed. She popularized Buddhism with respect and admiration, not as something less than Western religions. Like other explorers who funded their work through speaking tours in between, they had to deliver captivating accounts.

There was usually financial uncertainty and institutional rejection. Some mortgaged their homes; Roerich sold paintings; and some gave talks. They were often poor. Others were funded by governments, and a long shadow of fascism follows two of my personal favorite writers, Guiseppe Tucci and Sven Hedin. They were explorer-scholars above all, whose brilliant work was later overshadowed by political affiliations with Mussolini and Hitler. But their contributions to knowledge—especially in fields such as ritual, art, dance, monasticism, metaphysics, cartography, and cultural contact—are significant and their works worth reading. It would require much more than this short article can manage to begin to explain the complexities and controversies of it all. No doubt their explorer legacies are compromised by their political behavior.

I am aware of how the dance world has attacked Ted Shawn in favor of trendy concepts, without at all understanding him, the age in which he lived, or what it meant to create dance documentations during the twilight of the Asian kingdoms. His exuberant approach is noted, but not the courage and philosophical insights he provided dance as an art. This has given me a sympathy for others who have been similarly and wrongly disparaged. Shawn was a visionary. The dance festival he founded in the Berkshires, Jacob’s Pillow, is the oldest dance festival in the world. It is considered an honor to perform there. Happily, I was research fellow at Jacob’s Pillow one year and had access to all of Shawn’s work. His life is like 10 lives, for all the wacky outfits he wore in Asia, or, perhaps because of them.

Beryl de Zoete’s book on South Indian dance, The Other Mind, 1953. From abebooks.com

Beryl de Zoete, Tyra Kleen, and even Claire Holt were dismissed by academia, their work being called “feminine,” unworthy of anthropology, dabbling in mysticism (an unfit subject), and primitive art. Gurdjieff and Roerich, who was an artist, were spiritual seekers, lovers of metaphysics and philosophy, and sought for paths and practices of wisdom, particularly initiate traditions. These men each characterized their journeys as inner journeys, metaphysical searches. Both have been called charlatans, something I can’t understand. One was a painter whose work speaks clearly on its own and has stood the test of time; the other was a spiritual teacher looking for better techniques than the West could offer. Neither was trying to be something they weren’t. Their modalities of work were mostly in artistic forms. Spiritual quest is personal; guided more by ineffable experiences than by logic. How can it be anything other? 

Ernest Fenollosa, Rene Nebesky-Wojkowitz, Arthur Waley, and Michael Aris weretranslators and literary bridge builders. These men were great scholars, but Waley never had a “real job” and it was often pointed out. He worked for the British Museum and then for himself, living in Bloomsbury, unmarried to his life partner, Beryl de Zoete. Nevertheless, he changed the global literary establishment by presenting Japanese and Chinese literature as noble, wise, and beautiful—not backward, as most of the West considered Asia at that time. Waley never doubted the importance of de Zoete’s work. Fenollosa, a poet at heart, art historian, and scholar, wrote the monumental Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art, proposing an entirely original way of understanding and classifying art through “cultural epochs.” It was a brilliant, original, and embracing theory. He was one of the first to use a universal theory—cultural epochs—to discuss Asian art.

Ernest Fenollosa’s monumental Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art, 1913. From goodreads.com

Ted Shawn, Beryl de Zoete, Clair Holt, and Rolf De Mare were dancers who understood and explored form as embodied philosophy, living scripture, and danced repositories of spiritual and historical thought. In retrospect, we see these artist-explorers as ahead of their time in pursuing embodied knowledge as essential to Asian cultures, a topic gaining more attention these days. Alexandra David-Neel, Tyra Kleen, Beryl de Zoete were radically independent women. These women, even the wealthy Tyra Kleen, were risk-takers in every sense because they had a sense of themselves. Breaking conventions, respectably, was what they did. 

This short article cannot do justice to even one of these amazing individuals. It would be a fool’s errand to try. There are many different views of these pioneers beyond mine—some admiring, some highly critical. I encourage you to explore those among them who speak to you. Let me leave you with the thought that beyond what they might have misunderstood, done wrong, or illegally, they were courageous risk-taking pioneers, driven by a profound curiosity of what they did not know. And they paid a price to learn what they learned, to become what they became. They were changed by their explorations. Whatever else, Guiseppe Tucci was a pioneer among Westerner scholars suffering from altitude sickness that nearly killed him a couple times. Brave and big, Sven Hedin confessed that the one time he thought he would die was when he was attacked by a pack of wild dogs. Alexandra David-Neel wrote that one reason she learned the ways of Tibetan mystics was so that she would not die of cold and hunger, living off barley paste and yak-butter tea. 

To my mind, they are eccentrics, well out of the ordinary, busy on their own paths of personal searching. They were rootless except within themselves, liminal, between worlds, even changing worlds, and in that space where uncertainty brings creativity and insight, they were right at home. The world would be poorer without them and their lives should not be forgotten, nor their work disparaged. They believed in a world of wonder and connection, attributes that would serve us well in today’s fragmented world.

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