Modern look of China

In a bare room with no air conditioning, baby-faced dancers stand in the muggy heat with their eyes closed and palms up, as Tibetan chants play on a dusty stereo and bulky fans hum in a corner. Swaying to the music, they extend their arms across their torsos and over their heads, trying to shed years of technical education at the urging of their teacher.

“Your hands are holding candles. Feel the heat in your palm and the weight in your fingers,” directs Gao Yanjinzi, founding member and creative director of the Beijing Modern Dance Company. “I have no interest in your dance moves. You have to do it with real heart. Don’t lie to yourself.”

Like these tyros, modern dance in China is searching for its heart, and its identity, as it emerges from a tradition of collectivism that viewed all artists as cheerleaders for the Communist Party. With the government loosening its grip, practitioners of the art form are finding opportunities to experiment and grow. But while its star rises abroad, Chinese modern dance also finds itself confronting commercial pressures and more subtle forms of government entanglement, as well as a struggle to build a quality audience at home.

Modern dance made its debut in China in 1987 as an experimental collaboration with American artists at the Guangdong Dance Academy in the southeastern city of Guangzhou (formerly Canton). Initially, the country had only two modern dance companies, both state-sponsored, making it easy for officials to inspect every performance and control every purse string. During the 1990s, in line with liberalization in the society and the economy, state-run arts groups gradually gained more freedom.

Then, in 2005, a watershed occurred when the Ministry of Culture granted state arts groups permission to become independent companies. Not only did this open the door for the formation of new companies, but it also allowed older ones to evolve -- led by Beijing Modern, which in 2006 became China’s first nonprofit dance organization.

As with much else in China, however, the state never fully releases its grip. Overt censorship is less a concern these days, but artists still internalize certain “red lines” in keeping with the government’s “Three No’s”: no nudity, no self-mutilation and no outright criticism of the political system.

Party cadres, for their part, view the arts as a useful tool in the emergence of China on the world stage. “They see contemporary arts as an important development in showing China as a modern power,” says Willy Tsao, artistic director of three modern companies -- in Guangdong, Hong Kong and Beijing.

On the one hand, this state support gives China’s modern dance world the sort of exposure and financial backing that many companies abroad can only dream of. Government-financed annual festivals showcase hundreds of modern companies, both local and foreign.

CCTV Channel 1’s National Dance Competition exposes a billion Chinese at a time to their first taste of modern dance. “Just think of the power,” says Aly Rose, a professor at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, and the Beijing Dance Academy’s first and only foreign graduate. Indeed, President Hu Jintao had Beijing Modern accompany him on a 2004 visit to Santiago, Chile, for a regional economic summit.

Government support, however, can be a double-edged sword. Although the exposure is great, the “American Idol”-like atmosphere of CCTV programs is not exactly what modern dance pioneers had in mind. “Modern dance and competitions are not compatible,” Tsao says. “If you compete, dance will very quickly become codified.”

That’s not the only problem. “The president doesn’t give a [toss] about modern dance,” says Jin Xing, artistic director of the Jin Xing Dance Theater, who caused a media frenzy when she underwent a sex change operation in 1992. “Their support is just another color of propaganda.”

FORGING IDENTITIES

China’s modern dance companies don’t want to sell out or sell themselves short as they consciously distance themselves from the death-defying acrobatics, propaganda ballets and backup entertainers that define dance for many average Chinese.

“I refuse to play that game,” says Beijing Modern director Zhang Changcheng, who abandoned a successful business career to revamp the company a decade ago. Zhang says he rejects any government invitation requiring restrictions on the troupe’s dances.

But as the various companies forge their identities, the small community is not without its ego battles, complete with legal disputes and accusations of corruption. Tsao, who worked with Zhang at Beijing Modern for six years, left in 2005 over what he terms a “power struggle.” Ten of Beijing Modern’s dancers also left with Tsao to form the Beijing LDTX Dance Company.

“Zhang tried to put me in jail,” Tsao contends. “He called me a liar and said I stole money from the company.”

Zhang stands by his accusations, maintaining that Tsao embezzled more than 90% of Beijing Modern’s tour earnings, created LDTX while still working for Beijing Modern and pressured the dancers to leave with him. “Willy Tsao promotes himself as the godfather of modern dance in China,” Zhang says.

Zhang eventually dropped the charges. But he says he changed the company into a nonprofit organization the following year to prevent further corruption.

“Tsao opens dance companies like a McDonald’s chain,” says Jin, who was Beijing Modern’s first artistic director, before Tsao. She left the company in 1999 to form her own troupe in Shanghai.

Another challenge for the nascent field is finding a cultured, sophisticated audience whose loyalty will extend beyond one-hour TV programs. Despite the widespread media attention, few Chinese are willing to pay to see a modern dance performance.

Modern companies struggle to break even, and there’s no history in China of donating to the arts. None of the companies earns money in their own country, although they perform anyway. They stay afloat by touring internationally and using the proceeds to subsidize their work back home. Student tickets for local performances are about $6.50, cheaper than a movie ticket.

Companies also try to develop a long-term following by offering free open classes, presenting demonstrations in rural areas, lecturing at universities and meeting with audiences after every performance. Some performances are held outdoors without charge.

On a recent hot afternoon in the Chaoyang Theater here, Beijing Modern put on four new works -- featuring pulleys, pacifiers and stuffed pink pigs -- that touched on themes including suicide and coming of age. The pieces were well-danced, memorable and more than a little wacky.

After the two-hour performance, the choreographers dragged folding chairs to the front of the stage to elicit audience reaction.

A teenager dissected every piece in detail, addressing each choreographer in turn about what she liked and disliked. A college professor sobbed, moved by the last piece, “Jump!” -- a surprisingly tender work about jumping off a building. A third audience member, a young man, expressed his patriotic concerns: “These dances seem so Westernized. They don’t reflect a Chinese society. Where is the Chinese aspect?”

All spoke with passion and endearing naiveté. “Maybe because I’m from a different generation, I didn’t understand it,” said a middle-aged man, to a ripple of applause. “However, I felt something, and I can’t explain it. It was wonderful.”

Experts say such outreach is slowly paying off. NYU’s Rose, who has lived and danced in China for more than 10 years, sees an encouraging growth in audience members who support the arts even without connections to the professional dance world.

A YOUTH MOVEMENT

Much of modern dance’s vitality comes from China’s youth, as both creators and supporters of the movement. “Individualism grows in young people’s hearts, and they want an art form to match that,” says Jin.

The young dancers also bring different traditions to concert dance than their Western counterparts, highlighting the fusion of styles that makes up Chinese modern dance. Many young performers have impeccable training in martial arts, folk dancing and traditional Chinese dancing but are drawn to modern dance’s sense of freedom.

“With folk dancing, there is no individual style,” says Cao Peizhong, a newcomer at Beijing Modern. “But in modern, you can find it yourself.”

What’s more, by touring overseas and collaborating with foreign artists, China’s modern dancers can combine the discipline and diversity of their Chinese dance education with established Western modern techniques.

This synthesis has been well received in America. Beijing Modern made its U.S. debut in Los Angeles in 2003 at the California Plaza and has been back several times. Every October, the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., holds a popular Festival of China featuring more than 800 performers, including many modern dancers. Last March, New York’s Joyce Theater launched a two-week fundraising trip to Beijing to search for more talent.

For keen observers, China’s modern dancers have much in common with modern China: an eagerness to blend national traditions with foreign influences; a rawness at the edges combined with ambition; and, above all, great potential.

“Modern dance allows them to color outside the lines,” says Alison Friedman, Beijing Modern’s international coordinator. “It’s only going to get more exciting.”