Materiality in Performance

In anthropology and archeology, materiality discourses speak to the creative relationships between humans, nature, and things. Material properties mean more than just the physical or functional; they reflect a series of dialectical relationships between objects and memory, dreams, self-identity, and cultural structures. Placed within their broader contexts, objects can also offer insight into distinct cultural moments, reflecting relationships between humans and the world at a given point in time.

In past Pulima productions, we have emphasized elements that often differentiate Indigenous performing arts from the mainstream, such as cultural heritage and unique pathways of knowledge transmission. Many of the creators we work with also explore themes such as national history, mythology, social issues, and self-identity, influenced in part by the contemporary art world . And while last year’s winners of Pulima Art Award’s Performing Art Competition were no exception, it was the objects featured in their performances that really captured my attention. More than just inert things, these were living artifacts connected with the flows of time and space. Each performance contained a microcosm of material history, raising questions (debates?) around the place and possibilities of materiality in contemporary performing arts.

Silvergrass is a common plant in Taiwan. It is monoecious, with both male and female reproductive systems, and has sharp leaves and an edible heart. Each stalk blooms out into five blades that change color over time, shifting from a vibrant purple to yellow-brown, and finally an ash grey. Every fall fields of blooming silvergrass ripple outwards like silver waves, drawing the attention of passers-by. But silvergrass does more than just catch the eye, particularly for many Indigenous cultures across Taiwan. It is tied to trees along hunting trails to mark the way, used as building material for houses, and brought in to protect against evil spirits during ceremonies. In Bunun communities silvergrass is called padan, and has both sacred and everyday uses. During ceremonies padan forms a material connection with spirits. More commonly, dried padan can be used to cover the roof and walls of a house as both insulation and ventilation. Such uses offer a glimpse into human and non-human relationships, as well as extensive Indigenous knowledge of Taiwan’s plant life. But while padan still grows today, it is rarely integrated into contemporary architecture, and ritual culture is declining.

Dahu is a young Bunun creator from Yanping Township, Taitung. He grew up in the city and trained in dance while at university. He uses padan as the theme of his performance to explore the possibilities of return to Bunun culture. An elder once told him, “Only through padan can we connect with our ancestors. The leaves are like the road home. By shaking them, you can walk a path of return.” Dahu brings this idea into his performance, scattering dried silvergrass across the stage. Sometimes he walks on the silvergrass, other times he picks up a stalk and beats it on the floor. At this point in the performance, it remains unclear what the grass represents. Later on, Dahu invites several audience members on stage. He positions the participants in a circle around him and hands each person a stalk of silvergrass to beat on the ground, just as he had. The collective motion and sound of the grass striking the stage appears to hit Dahu’s body, making him fall down again and again. Offstage the spectators can feel his suffering, as if they can sense some of Dahu’s struggle to return to his culture. Here silvergrass takes on non-traditional meanings, reflecting Dahu’s personal experiences. At the same time, it returns to the idea of padan as a medium, a vessel. Through padan Dahu conveys to his ancestors both his emptiness and his hope, and he waits for some form of answer.

Panay opens her performance by walking slowly on stage, gently cradling an atomo (clay pot, Pangcah language) against her stomach. As she places the atomo in the center of the stage, vines, feathers, and flowers appear from all directions, gathering around the vessel. Pottery is a significant marker of human development, and the atomo is a testament to Amis and Pangcah peoples’ long history of artistic creativity, sophisticated social systems, and cultural depth. In the past these pots were used as containers for rice or water. Panay continues her performance, slowly unraveling a spiral of red threads around the atomo. It reminded me of a Paiwan story about ancestors who were born in clay pots. The red thread symbolizes kawas, the connection between humans and spirits, as well as an umbilical cord, a carrier of energy and life. Panay also plays with the relation between light and dark, juxtaposing the sun, Ina, which brings warmth and illumination, with adingu, the Pangcah word for both shadow and soul. In a single scene, objects, persons, light, shadow, and spirit all flow together, drawing strength from each other and overflowing with possibility.

The title of Panay's performance comes from the Pangcah idea of calay, an invisible thread that links sikawasay (spiritual leaders/priests), kawas (spirit), and adadaay (those suffering). Only sikawasay can usher in the gifts of the spirits, using calay to enter the spirit realm. In her performance, Panay develops her own version of calay: “There are many kinds of invisible connections that we cannot see, linking people with each other, humans with nature, body with spirit… When the passage is opened, it’s as if the other end of the thread is in dialogue with your inner soul.” The atomo and thread serve as metaphors for Panay’s rearticulation of her relationship with her community and the Pangcah people. As a solo performer she is at once an actor and a medium, conveying messages for various objects. When she opens a window near the end of her performance she returns to herself and her own reality. And in this moment, the objects also transition into a different scene, advancing further into new narratives.

《Karawakan－clearingthe past, composing new life》is a four-person performance choreographed and directed by Pinuyumayan creator Ansyang．Makakazuwan. Unlike Dahu and Panay's incorporation of object memories through padan and atomo, Ansyang centers his performance around sounds, opening with a juxtaposition of footsteps and computer keyboard taps to represent today’s multifaceted online world. The three themes of the performance are misa'ur, Pinuyumayan women's farming work; 'emaya'ayam, a bird’s song sung during farming; and Muhamut, a work completion ceremony. Everyday objects and tools are scattered across the stage, evoking a quotidian aesthetic. karawakan refers to the Pinuyumayan harvest festival, but as Ansyang explains, "its real meaning is to clear away the dirt and remove any bad things that happened during the year." As the world struggles with the COVID pandemic, Ansyang hopes his work will take on new meaning: only after the haze is cleared can we see a new hope.

Ansyang is a lead singer for the Paliulius band and a dancer at TAI Body Theater. He is well-versed in ancient melodies and folksongs, and has also spent several years collecting tribal plant stories, which he then turned into musical picture books. The props and objects used in this performance have opened up new possibilities in Ansyang's musical theater. Onstage, the performers sound a tawlriyulr instrument and use farm tools and kitchen utensils, such as hoes, sieves, nets, grindstones, knives, and cutting boards, as musical instruments. Ansyang then mixes in keyboard, flute, guitar, and voice, interweaving traditional and contemporary sounds throughout the arrangement. The composition and choreography create a cheerful atmosphere and a tacit rhythm, much like women busily immersed in farm work, reveling in the unique joy that can only be found in Muhamut.

Finally, the dancers conclude by singing trilratrilraw, an ancient ballad of parting, while wearing Virtual Reality glasses. The earlier revelry now seems like a dream, and the sudden shift made me feel the shock and rupture of capitalist forces on Indigenous life. Ansyang addresses heavy themes with brisk, upbeat music and a hint of regret, leaving the spectators to form their own conclusions.