A Lyrical Tribute to Pina Bausch & Anzu Furukawa

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed

In fantastic hues:

Yellow, orange, scarlet

Mauve and cobalt blue.

Buto dancing,

In this surreal light,

On the stage,

Was magnificent.

Your heart pounds higher,

Your feet become light,

Your body sways

To the rhythm

And Nordic lights

Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation

Of the planet we live in.

And here was I,

Anzu Furukawa.

Once a small ballet dancer,

Now a full grown woman:

A choreographer, performer,

Ballet and modern dancer,

Studio pianist.

The Pina Bausch of Tokyo´

Wrote a German critic

In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,

In Japan, Germany, Italy,

Finnland and Ghana:

Anzu´s Animal Atlas,

Cells of Apple,

Faust II,

Rent-a-body,

The Detective of China,

A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor

Of performing arts in Germany.

But Buto became my passion.

Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,

When students took to the streets,

With performance acts and agit props.

Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,

Cut off from the traditions

Of Japanese dance.

Ach,

The Kuopio Music et Dance festival

Praised my L´Arrache-coer,´

The Heart Snatcher.

A touching praise

To human imagination,

And the human ability

To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,

But the doctors said

I was very, very sick.

I had terminal tongue cancer.

I´d been sleeping over thirty hours,

And stopped breathing

In peace,

With my two lovely children

Holding my hands.

I´d danced

At the Freiburg New Dance Festival

Only twenty days ago.

I saw the curtain falling,

As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,

I hear your applause.

The sound of your applause

Accompanies me

Where ever my soul goes.

I´m still a little girl

In an oversized dress.

I ran through you all

In such a hurry.

Poetry and Dance (Satis Shroff)

Her images were unusual,

Shocking to some.

Dancers

Jeering and tormenting

Other dancers.

Dancers

Throwing ripe tomatoes

At each other.

Instead of the bastinado,

Lighters held on the soles

Of other dancers.

Women were women

And men were men,

In Pina´s world.

No melange

Of oestrogens and testosterons,

No X and Y

Chromosomes.

Her women wore scarlet lips,

You were tormented with ballet:

Adagio, flips and turns,

Carried out rigorously.

In the ´Rite of Spring´

The dancers were covered with soil.

In ´1980´ there was a lawn.

In ´Carnations´ the Nelken were crushed

On stage.

In ´Palermo, Palermo´

A tall wall fell apart.

That was Pina Bausch live.

We´ll miss the facial muscles

Of her performers,

Her own dance choreography,

Warning us all

To stop ruining the Umwelt

Of this precious planet.

A high priestess,

A courageous stage poet,

Who threw constantly

Challenges,

With her mute, energetic

Choreography.

The poetess is gone.

What remains are her images,

Long after the dancers

With their flailing hands,

Have vanished into oblivion.

A numbness lingers

At the Tanztheater Wuppertal.

Exit Pina Bausch

At the age of 68.