Konno Hachimangu Shrine in Shibuya, Tokyo.

BUTOH - THE DANCE OF UTTER DARKNESS

Butoh rose from Japan's ruins in 1959, a raw expression born in the shadows of post-war desolation. The collaboration of Tatsumi Hijikata and Kazuo Ohno ignited the movement, rejecting Western mimicry and traditional Japanese forms like Noh. Hijikata sought something primal—a connection to the squat, grounded movements of the common people. From this yearning emerged "ankoku butō," or "dance of darkness," a rebellion against refinement and elegance. It embraced the grotesque and the raw, confronting life's absurdity with twisted gestures and unflinching presence. Butoh became more than dance; it was a haunting, visceral declaration of freedom.

We met Taketeru Kudo on the quiet grounds of Konnoh Hachimangu Shrine. The rain had drenched the city, and neon blurred with the faces in Shibuya Crossing as we made our way to the temple. Kudo, with wild, shiny hair and the calm intensity of a samurai, swept the stage where ritual dances unfolded. His movements were precise, yet his presence radiated rebellion, a tension simmering just beneath the surface. He welcomed us with a bow, and his eyes burned with the angst of an artist who carries the weight of creation. Nearby, a bald man with round glasses and a pork-pie hat emerged, accompanied by a bounding dog. This was Joni Waka, an eccentric art dealer with stories as wild as the stormy night around us.

Later, Kudo performed on the stage, wearing one of our hand-painted shirts. His pale feet stomped against the wooden floor as his body twisted and contorted, each motion a cathartic release. The wind whipped around him, carrying the last cherry blossoms from the iconic tree nearby. The performance ended like a sudden storm, leaving the air charged and alive. We followed Kudo through the maze of Golden Gai, drinking under dim lights in bars that felt like otherworldly dens. Each stop blurred into the next—a cherry blossom tree inside a bar, the taste of chicken wings in a crowded back room, and Kudo’s stories of life and art spilling into the night. As dawn approached, we bid farewell to Tokyo and to Kudo, the master of Butoh, his rebellion still echoing in our minds.

The temple lies at the foot of the mountain, wrapped in bamboo forest. The air is cold, sharp, and clean. Sakura blossoms drift weightless, caught in the breeze. Birds fill the trees with strange, bright songs. We’ve come to this place to visit family and will stay a month. Gigi, the head monk, shows us the gardens. He walks slowly, pointing out the ancient stones and the trees that have stood longer than memory allows. His presence is calm, steady, like the mountain itself.

At dawn, the Monks guttural sutra fills the temple. It rises low and deep, rolling through the tatami floors and into our futon. The sound finds us, stirs us. It wakes us slowly, pulling us upright with the sun. The cold bites at the edges of the room, sneaking through the shoji doors. Ancient scrolls hang on the walls, their calligraphy elegant and precise. Every sound is louder here. Feet sliding on straw. Water tinkling against glass as a brush is rinsed. A stroke of ink across paper. A sip of tea swallowed. We are quiet, quieter than we’ve ever been.