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Disciples of the Pear Garden: Notes from a Chinese Opera
By Lisa Houston
Originally published in Classical Singer Magazine January, 2007
One of the benefits of living in or near a college town is the opportunity for continuing education. Recently, I soaked up all I could about a form of Chinese opera called Kunqu (pronounced kwun-chyu) when the University of California Berkeley welcomed a production of a Chinese Opera called The Peony Pavilion presented by the Suzhou Kun Opera Theatre of Jiangsu.
Kunqu is the oldest extant version of Chinese opera also known as the “Mother” or “Teacher” of Chinese Opera. It predates the more widely known and popular Beijing opera, which includes Peking and Cantonese Opera, which thrived from the Ming Dynasty to the Qing Dynasty (1570-1800). Many years earlier, Emperor Xuanzong (712-755) founded the first known opera troupe and musical academy in China called Liyuan (or The Pear Garden), which is why operatic performers are called “Disciples of the Pear Garden.”
The Peony Pavilion is considered by many to be the masterpiece of Kunqu. Written by the poet Tang Xianzu (1550-1616), a contemporary of Shakespeare, it is a story of love’s triumph over seemingly impossible adversity. One might say that it is Romeo and Juliet (two lovers siding against a strict family) meets Orfeo and Euridice (the hero’s wish to retrieve his beloved from the underworld) meets the Magic Flute (the hero falls in love with the heroine’s portrait.)
Despite these similarities to western opera, there are differences between the forms that are worth noting. The biggest hurdle a western opera lover might encounter in appreciating Chinese Opera may be the lack of predominance of the vocal line. The voice is accompanied in unison by bamboo flute and the flute actually leads the voice with its melodies, which are a bit more florid and embellished. The language is tonal, that is within a scale that will be familiar to the western ear, but the range is more limited. The orchestra is traditionally between six and ten pieces of string, wind and percussion instruments with the drummer serving as a sort of conductor but also with the musicians watching the actors for cues. The drama makes use of different role types, which are not specific stock characters as in Commedia Dell’Arte, but do have certain archetypal elements.
To depict that archetype, each role has its own vocal technique and style of movement. For the vocal training, the actors are taught movement and voice together because that is what will be asked of them as performers. Kunqu utilizes both the pentatonic (five notes per octave) major scale and heptatonic (seven notes per octave) scale. Add to that the continuous blending of voice and gesture, and you have an experience that is very, very different from western opera.
With that understanding, and never having actually seen or heard a Chinese opera, I was a bit unsure about how or if this form would resonate with me.
On Saturday of the weekend, the movement and vocal directors of this production, Wang Shiyu & Zhang Jiqing, gave a master class. It took less then a few moments watching Mr. Wang’s masterful storytelling to feel the differences between our cultures melt away. He demonstrated the nuances of the down-and-out male student, showing how someone with old shoes walks differently than someone with new shoes, and how a person from a noble family thrown into poverty might hold the shame in his body, and how the focus of the eyes can reveal any emotion. He quickly had the audience nodding, sighing and laughing at our shared humanity.
Ms. Zhang then demonstrated the cooing voice, tilted head and exaggeratedly delicate hands of the “Young Lady,” one of the five subtypes of the female characters of Kunqu. Some of her instructions sounded quite familiar. “The waist must be tight, but the muscles of the neck must be loose, relaxed.” She went on to say: “The shape of the hand is essential onstage. This (she demonstrates) suggests a blooming orchid. This is to express cold weather. This shows scorn.” If any of this seems superficial or overly stylistic, consider Mr. Wang’s further explanation: “As a performer, transformation of our bodies is the quintessential thing. Understanding the character is not enough. You must transform, and recreate your body. Without extremely hard and strenuous training, this can never, ever, be achieved.”
Beyond the physical and artistic challenges, Chinese performers have shown incredible courage in preserving this art form through many periods of political oppression. During the Cultural Revolution (1966 to 1976), most opera troupes were shut down and performers and other artists prosecuted. The only performances of opera during this time were the state sanctioned “Eight Model Plays” in the style of Beijing opera. During this time, actors who were trained in Kunqu, along with other artists and intellectuals, were sent to work in rural areas. In order to retain their memory, they would sing out the melodies and recitations when no one was around to punish their act of dissidence.
As for the performance itself, in all my years of going to the theatre, I do not think that any performance, whether opera, ballet or theatre, has surpassed this one in terms of synergy and completeness. For example, there is a moment when the young lady, what we would call the ingénue, enters. There is a high tremolo of the stringed instrument. She enters slowly from upstage right. Her head is slightly tilted, as the master demonstrated earlier in the day, her hand-embroidered costume of white satin sparkles against the neutral backdrop, her sleeves (which extend two feet past her hands and are called “Water Sleeves”) drift alongside her. For a moment she makes no sound at all. It is difficult to put into words the effect of her entrance, but I could say that at that moment she became more than a character. She truly was a radiant embodiment of beauty and innocence, moving beyond the individual or culturally specific to a portrayal of the archetypal feminine. It was unlike any moment I have experienced as an audience member. I marveled throughout the evening at the unparalleled stagecraft, whether at the moving aria of the young man, the fiery gymnastics, which my companion suggested are the Chinese equivalent of coloratura, or the way the performers negotiated their water sleeves at will to reveal their delicate hands, pick something up or of serve as dramatic and flowing extensions of their gestures. Again and again, I found myself thinking: “Wow! I’ve never seen that before!” I also laughed at antics of the broadly drawn villains just as I would at any Buffo character.
In 2001, UNESCO proclaimed Kunqu a “Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.” But this weekend reminded me, when there are artists dedicated to the full realization of their craft, tradition can indeed be made tangible. Because it is a new year, I am including a resolution to get out and see what the rest of the world’s arts have to offer more often. I want to open myself to wisdom beyond that of my own western musical heritage, and find inspiration where I might not expect it, with the hope of strengthening my own artistic sensibilities as well as my sense of connection to people from other cultures on this increasingly small planet.
By Lisa Houston
Originally published in Classical Singer Magazine January, 2007
One of the benefits of living in or near a college town is the opportunity for continuing education. Recently, I soaked up all I could about a form of Chinese opera called Kunqu (pronounced kwun-chyu) when the University of California Berkeley welcomed a production of a Chinese Opera called The Peony Pavilion presented by the Suzhou Kun Opera Theatre of Jiangsu.
Kunqu is the oldest extant version of Chinese opera also known as the “Mother” or “Teacher” of Chinese Opera. It predates the more widely known and popular Beijing opera, which includes Peking and Cantonese Opera, which thrived from the Ming Dynasty to the Qing Dynasty (1570-1800). Many years earlier, Emperor Xuanzong (712-755) founded the first known opera troupe and musical academy in China called Liyuan (or The Pear Garden), which is why operatic performers are called “Disciples of the Pear Garden.”
The Peony Pavilion is considered by many to be the masterpiece of Kunqu. Written by the poet Tang Xianzu (1550-1616), a contemporary of Shakespeare, it is a story of love’s triumph over seemingly impossible adversity. One might say that it is Romeo and Juliet (two lovers siding against a strict family) meets Orfeo and Euridice (the hero’s wish to retrieve his beloved from the underworld) meets the Magic Flute (the hero falls in love with the heroine’s portrait.)
Despite these similarities to western opera, there are differences between the forms that are worth noting. The biggest hurdle a western opera lover might encounter in appreciating Chinese Opera may be the lack of predominance of the vocal line. The voice is accompanied in unison by bamboo flute and the flute actually leads the voice with its melodies, which are a bit more florid and embellished. The language is tonal, that is within a scale that will be familiar to the western ear, but the range is more limited. The orchestra is traditionally between six and ten pieces of string, wind and percussion instruments with the drummer serving as a sort of conductor but also with the musicians watching the actors for cues. The drama makes use of different role types, which are not specific stock characters as in Commedia Dell’Arte, but do have certain archetypal elements.
To depict that archetype, each role has its own vocal technique and style of movement. For the vocal training, the actors are taught movement and voice together because that is what will be asked of them as performers. Kunqu utilizes both the pentatonic (five notes per octave) major scale and heptatonic (seven notes per octave) scale. Add to that the continuous blending of voice and gesture, and you have an experience that is very, very different from western opera.
With that understanding, and never having actually seen or heard a Chinese opera, I was a bit unsure about how or if this form would resonate with me.
On Saturday of the weekend, the movement and vocal directors of this production, Wang Shiyu & Zhang Jiqing, gave a master class. It took less then a few moments watching Mr. Wang’s masterful storytelling to feel the differences between our cultures melt away. He demonstrated the nuances of the down-and-out male student, showing how someone with old shoes walks differently than someone with new shoes, and how a person from a noble family thrown into poverty might hold the shame in his body, and how the focus of the eyes can reveal any emotion. He quickly had the audience nodding, sighing and laughing at our shared humanity.
Ms. Zhang then demonstrated the cooing voice, tilted head and exaggeratedly delicate hands of the “Young Lady,” one of the five subtypes of the female characters of Kunqu. Some of her instructions sounded quite familiar. “The waist must be tight, but the muscles of the neck must be loose, relaxed.” She went on to say: “The shape of the hand is essential onstage. This (she demonstrates) suggests a blooming orchid. This is to express cold weather. This shows scorn.” If any of this seems superficial or overly stylistic, consider Mr. Wang’s further explanation: “As a performer, transformation of our bodies is the quintessential thing. Understanding the character is not enough. You must transform, and recreate your body. Without extremely hard and strenuous training, this can never, ever, be achieved.”
Beyond the physical and artistic challenges, Chinese performers have shown incredible courage in preserving this art form through many periods of political oppression. During the Cultural Revolution (1966 to 1976), most opera troupes were shut down and performers and other artists prosecuted. The only performances of opera during this time were the state sanctioned “Eight Model Plays” in the style of Beijing opera. During this time, actors who were trained in Kunqu, along with other artists and intellectuals, were sent to work in rural areas. In order to retain their memory, they would sing out the melodies and recitations when no one was around to punish their act of dissidence.
As for the performance itself, in all my years of going to the theatre, I do not think that any performance, whether opera, ballet or theatre, has surpassed this one in terms of synergy and completeness. For example, there is a moment when the young lady, what we would call the ingénue, enters. There is a high tremolo of the stringed instrument. She enters slowly from upstage right. Her head is slightly tilted, as the master demonstrated earlier in the day, her hand-embroidered costume of white satin sparkles against the neutral backdrop, her sleeves (which extend two feet past her hands and are called “Water Sleeves”) drift alongside her. For a moment she makes no sound at all. It is difficult to put into words the effect of her entrance, but I could say that at that moment she became more than a character. She truly was a radiant embodiment of beauty and innocence, moving beyond the individual or culturally specific to a portrayal of the archetypal feminine. It was unlike any moment I have experienced as an audience member. I marveled throughout the evening at the unparalleled stagecraft, whether at the moving aria of the young man, the fiery gymnastics, which my companion suggested are the Chinese equivalent of coloratura, or the way the performers negotiated their water sleeves at will to reveal their delicate hands, pick something up or of serve as dramatic and flowing extensions of their gestures. Again and again, I found myself thinking: “Wow! I’ve never seen that before!” I also laughed at antics of the broadly drawn villains just as I would at any Buffo character.
In 2001, UNESCO proclaimed Kunqu a “Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.” But this weekend reminded me, when there are artists dedicated to the full realization of their craft, tradition can indeed be made tangible. Because it is a new year, I am including a resolution to get out and see what the rest of the world’s arts have to offer more often. I want to open myself to wisdom beyond that of my own western musical heritage, and find inspiration where I might not expect it, with the hope of strengthening my own artistic sensibilities as well as my sense of connection to people from other cultures on this increasingly small planet.
©Lisa Houston 2022