The traditional performing arts of Japan (the various Gaku, Noh, Bunraku, and Kabuki) are built on a set of contrasts between understatement and exaggeration; between distance and immediacy. Both setting and performance exploit such negatives as stillness, distance, absence and separation, but these occur against a background of opulence ranging from the elaborate Noh costumes to the technical magic of the Kabuki stage, and the lifelike movements of the Bunraku puppets. Although contrasts pre-dominate, mergings also occur in these theatre forms. Multiple evocations of the sacred appear in even the most secular of texts. One theatre genre evokes the others just as all the arts in Japan interpenetrate one another to a high degree. A constant feature of Japanese theatre is the consistent, if paradoxical, presence of the not-there which infuses the text and action to create a rich fabric of suggested meaning. It is this fact that connects Japanese classical theatre to modern experimental theatre in the West.

What follows is a detailed account of a single performance of topeng pajegan performed by I Nyoman Kakul In the village of Tusan, Ball, on Feb. 6, 1975. Topeng is a popular form of masked theatre in Bali, and topeng pajegan an old and particularly demanding version of that form, in which one man portrays all of the characters—dancing, telling stories, making Jokes, and performing rituals.

When we met in January 1975, Kakul checked a calendar, found it to be a particularly propitious hour to begin study, gave me my first lesson, and invited me to live in his family compound for the next several months while I studied masked dance.

Frogs flourish in the wet rlcefields of Bali. Their sounds and rhythms are mimicked with vivid comic precision by clowns in the temple dramas. Continuity between performance and everyday events is a powerful element in Balinese community life. The links are reflected in numerous forms other than dancing frogs, but it was the frogs I noticed first.

I arrived in Bali for a year of theatre research not knowing how I would proceed. Having been a circus clown in the U.S. I was attracted by the comic characters in the Balinese temple dramas. Eventually I moved into a small village, attended numerous performances, and became a regular follower of Topeng masked dancer Made Dlimat.

Although I did not know it at the time, my presence as a spectator of Balinese temple dramas was the first step along the way to my becoming part of the performance.

This is a brief account of the life thus far of I Nyoman Rajeg, a Balinese dalang, or shadow-puppeteer. Pak Rajeg, now in his early 60's, grew up and was educated under the Dutch regime, lived through the Japanese occupation, participated actively in the independence movement, and subsequently has lived through the rapid and deep changes brought on as Bali experiences modernization. And yet, for all the changes that have come to pass in his lifetime, Pak Rajeg lives a life in the traditional performing arts of his culture that is well-founded and (it would seem) secure, a life moreover that is integral with the main fabric of the society in which he lives.

Pak Rajeg is a professional dalang. He and his four musicians and two assistants form a small troupe that has its base of operations in his houseyard. From there they go forth to perform, usually in the nearby vicinity.

The idea to develop Teatr Loh came after I had already lived in Indonesia two years. For many reasons I was dissatisfied with the process of developing my previous work, Jalannya Salju, in Java. My intention was to bring the best of my tradition with me in collaboration with artists here. Teatr Loh, by Indonesian standards, was a very small group. During the first few months we were five Balinese, one Sundanese, two East Javanese, a Central Javanese, a Frenchman and two Americans. A few of the people had worked with me on the previous production. Pak Tempo was a key figure in rounding up the other Balinese members. He is a fine topeng performer from Tampaksiring, who had toured to Europe and Shiraz. It was a surprise that he joined our group because he was in his 50's, and it meant leaving behind in the village his wife, six children and numerous grandchildren.

SAHOO: I am now sixty years old; I started dancing at the age of four. I belong to the tradition. My father and grandfather were dancers. I belong to the Kansari caste, which is engaged In the practice of these dances; its main vocation is the making of household utensils. My family also made works of art in gold and other material. In our country often a particular caste or community is involved in the practice of a particular craft or a form of dance and theatre. Arts are community based and family based. The techniques are passed from father to son, from one generation to the other. Since the transmission of the techniques is oral, this pattern works more effectively than any other.

On the southwest coast of India, between the mountain rangeof the Western Ghats and the Arabian Sea, lies the South Kanara District of Karnataka State. Here, paddy fields and plantations of palm, mango, cashew and banana alternate with patches of thick jungle forest. In this lush setting, devotees of nearly three hundred cults meet in nightlong sessions offering worship to locally unique spirit deities. Some of these spirits are believed to have been sent to earth by Hindu Gods; others are considered the souls of persons who long ago died violent and untimely deaths. Yet others are recent ancestors troubling their descendants. As spirits have benevolent and malevolent aspects and are believed to possess power over human health, fertility and fortune and over the land and cattle, they must be ritually propitiated.

Each spirit has its own form, mythic history, special powers and propitiatory requirements. Therefore the worship of each spirit differs somewhat from that of all others.

Slaughtered goats are scattered everywhere, lying in pools of blood outside the temple compound. Decapitated chickens have been thrown together in large separate piles. The god Karin Camundi's mask lies discarded atop one of the mounds of carcasses, soaked with blood and feathers. The paint is soiled and the image of the god has begun to blur. There are no drums, no firecrackers. It is predawn, and the only light is a faint blue glow. Some of the sacrificial goats hanging from trees are being skinned and prepared for selling. The temple grounds are empty after the previous night's festivities, when hundreds of anxious spectators crowded together, pressing to catch a glimpse of their god gulping down blood of the sacrificial animals. The flies come with the day. This is the aftermath of one of the bloodiest performances of teyyam kettu—a highly structured ritual folk performance in the Cannanore District, Kerala State, Southwestern India.

At the start of the sixteenth century, Duarte Barbosa, one of the earliest Portugese to arrive in Kerala, a state in southwest India, provides a description of Kalarippayatt (meaning “place of exercise,” referring to the technical system of training In its entirety. Kalari by itself means gymnasium or fencing school.) which although quaint is nevertheless still an apt account of this indigenous martial art system: