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This year has been one backbreaking struggle.
As dancers and musicians, when loss happens, many of us turn to the arts to cocoon in relief or speak our pain through movement. What respite does that bring others? We did not have the answer, but our patrons definitely did. Every recent online event has quickly filled with purpose as artists, students, and viewers came back asking us for more music, more dance, more art. During this time may of us were questioning, “Why turn to arts?” especially when other pressing issues are taking precedence around the world. As the comments kept coming, we felt heartened. They crystallized for us that bringing dance and music to patrons can create impact and aid change in a way that perhaps we all know internally but struggle to articulate to others. So this year, we as American and Indian arts workers are owning our power. Drive East will manifest our voice like never before. Every conversation we have with an artist is an opportunity to dive deep, implore each other, create new understandings. Opening town halls during Drive East and listening to what patrons and artists need and want creates a space for new perspectives and considerations. Switching Drive East to an online platform brings us together in a way we never even imagined would be possible. So let’s transform collectively. Support an artist. Support each other’s voices. Tune in to change. Be part of it with us. Join Drive East and let’s do more together. Sridhar, Sahi Navatman Co-Founders
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It is a strange time in our lives. Time feels weird, simultaneously zipping by and inching by, every day seemingly the same. My brain feels fuzzy. I binge-watch, I read, I cook, I put on outlandish eye shadow and play dress-up at home. The days start to blend together. Work days start turning into work nights and work weekends. And yet, despite my time being filled endlessly with so much “stuff”, I feel a void. I am a sieve, empty and bare, life seeping through.  While the pandemic has done ample damage, it has also given me time to reflect on the value of the arts in my life. Every minute that I spent stressed or indifferent, was a minute taken away from doing something that I loved. During a dance company rehearsal, Sahi asked us to portray what losing hope would look like. This struck a chord with me. I realized that the stress of my days was taking away something that brought me solace. Dance was the one thing that allowed me to remove myself – even momentarily – from my stressors, and brought me pure joy.
When I moved to a new state at the age of ten, I struggled to make friends. Everyone in school already knew each other and cliques had been set. I felt awkward looking to fit in. But my trusty companion, Bharatanatyam, stayed with me – reminiscing about good times through nattadavus and alarippus. Even through intimidating situations like a *gulp* varnam trikala jathi, this friend showed me that we are more capable than we think. Then came college. Ivy rejections in spite of stellar GPAs and SAT scores. Heartbreaks. Organic chemistry. Again, dance came to the rescue. I rejoiced learning how to construct movements, crafting stories through adavus, creating my own narrative. I learnt to deal with life’s inevitable curveballs by drawing from deep within and aspiring for something greater. The pandemic saw me go from a healthy work-dance balance to work-work-work. It left me wanting (to eat and sleep better), exhausted (from overwork), drained (by constant pressure), hollow (from not dancing as much). When I recommitted to dance, every rehearsal restored me piece by piece. It returned me to a place of solace, onto a path for my own health and happiness. My one silver lining to the pandemic is the realization that dance is not something I will compromise on, ever. Through most of my adult life, I had been uncomfortable in my skin. Too Indian for America, too American for India. A diaspora cliché. But dance always centered me back; consistently empowering me to change, grow, heal myself. Dance is my sacred space, my refuge. Kanden, Kanden Sithayai Kanden, Raghava
Andarum kaanatha Lanka puriyile Aravinda Vedhavai tara vandha Mathavai I saw, I Saw, I saw Sita, Oh Raghava. In the city of Lanka which not even the devas have seen, I saw the mother, who was given by the Goddess Saraswathi, -Arunachala Kavi Rayar These lyrics taken from a popular Tamil krithi speak of the moment that Lord Hanuman tells Sri Rama he has found Sita. He has found her deep in the forests of Lanka. Sita has been kidnapped by Ravan, the Evil King of (modern-day Sri) Lanka, and has held her hostage. Obsessed with her beauty, even though she belongs to another man, he must have her. She wards off his constant advances and rejects his love. How terrified she must have been, already in exile in the forest with Rama and Lakshman, and now kidnapped to a far off land as a hostage. How did she endure? Where did she find peace? What was her sanctuary? We look at these characters of the Ramayana as god-like. How Rama is the ideal son and husband. How Sita is the best woman, wife. Hanuman, a dear friend. Do these characters provide a higher standard for mankind? Perhaps, but perhaps not. So many aspects of these characters in the epic are idolized yet, we must remember they are in human form. They too seek a place to find peace. Their sanctuary. Today, given the pandemic, and the revolution brewing from Black Lives Matter, so many have been isolated, far from family and friends. There is so much pain and anger from the realization of a whole race being denied basic rights. So many are in hospitals recovering from the Coronavirus. So many are struggling to make ends meet. Where do we find our Sanctuary? Does Sanctuary have to be a place? Can it be a feeling? I think that as many of us shelter in place and the numbers of Coronavirus continue to climb, the feeling of calm and peace are harder to feel. Much like Sita, nothing feels good, nothing feels right. How did Sita endure those long days? I imagine she found her sanctuary in Rama’s love for her. Regardless of where she was, the palace at Ayodhya, the forest in exile, or in Ravana’s palace, her sanctuary was always in Rama’s love. Her safety, peace, and calm resided in her heart, full of his love for her. While many of us are enduring a time like no other, where we are isolated, sad, and under attack, the meaning of sanctuary can seem complex. Sanctuary can be our homes, shelters... but Sanctuary can also be a feeling, our heart, or a hope that things will get better. With our community, family, and friends, I believe we can all rise out of these times as better humans, kinder, and compassionate. In our Sanctuary together. The past couple of weeks have been painful for us to see as events have unfolded over the death of George Floyd. It has put into perspective the countless deaths of innocent lives. It has instilled distrust with government and law enforcement. It has brought up critical questions I ask of my leaders, of myself. How did it get to this place? How did we fail so badly as a society?
I struggle to find my activist place. I’ve had countless conversations with my friends and artist-colleagues. The questions that keep arising are, what can we do? Activism doesn’t have one shade. There are many ways of activism that are effective. I chose to donate to the NAACP and the Color of Change organization. I chose to talk about it with my friends and family. I felt it was important to encourage and ensure that the people who are best equipped to handle finding the solution are well funded. I chose to sign my name on petitions and to write my local politicians. I feel that is making change. I feel that I am helping the movement. But I can do more. I can use my art to continue the mission. As cultural artists, we engage in the art of our heritage and strive to connect our culture with our American identity; Art that is Indian-American. How do we incorporate the context of the world outside our window into the art that we make? Where does art live? Out of the civil rights movement, some of the greatest works of art, literature, and film were created. Out of despair, hope was renewed. The Indian arts inherently teaches mindfulness, intense concentration, and focus - and with that comes clarity. We can be inspired to create and utilize our art to emote the feelings of anguish and renewal. Ultimately, to create the change that our society seeks requires that we listen and have conversations about the movement. We must be mindful. We have to continue to educate and advocate whether through or art or otherwise to create change. When you consider the fact that the vast majority of art is entirely reliant on bodies in a particular space, feeding off of energy from everything within the space from the audience to the air, everything going on in the world right now can make it seem like art cannot have impact for so long as we are at home.
It is a call for mass evolution of process, creation, and output in one swift blow, and what audiences are witnessing now is the painstaking methods by which artists are wading through what comes next. Some of it will work, some of it will be terrible, and some of it will be the stepping stone to thrilling new ideas that would not have been possible without this kind of forced adaptation. Join us as we explore for ourselves what comes next: our new "At Home with" series live stream concerts or enjoy exclusive recordings of past events of artists like Sruti Sarathy and more from Drive East, and Masterclasses with artists from all over the world. As staunch believers of energy created in spaces together, Navatman has been a firmly in person organization - until now. All of these series items that Navatman would have never made available online if not for the current circumstances, so explore with us - tell us what works, what doesn't and help us adapt for what's next. In a time when the world seems at odds with itself, ready to implode at any time, one may wonder what the purpose of art is. It can feel frivolous, the need to move and find music when there is so much at stake.
But within art is reflected our humanity: It reveals our happiness, our sadness, can in a flash embody both a memory to be cherished, or a haunted moment from years past to be healed. Art has an ability to touch, to move us, to create empathy in each other, and communicate on planes that words and facts cannot seem to penetrate. When we are barely surviving is when it is needed most. It is a way to patch through to each other, to believe in a better future, as a quiet protest, or a deep release from the unbearable realities of life. Can we, no matter how different our opinions may be, find common ground in this space, in this time? You tell us. We encourage those of you looking for a way to speak your voice and your truth to do so through art...and share it with us. We want to hear from you. The baithak is a beautiful concept that seems to be getting more and more popular around the globe - small spaces in homes, studios, and otherwise where you can catch Indian classical arts in a cozy environment.
Baithaks end up being an amazing way to see Indian arts from a totally different perspective - you can actually see the delicate lift of a kathak dancer's eyebrow or feel the intensity of the musician's energy in a way that's just not possible in a large theater. Black Box Baithaks at Navatman end up combining a little bit of the theater world with a splash of warmth. Mixing lighting, black curtains, and a range of seating types including floor seating (how we personally love watching shows in our space) to benches and chairs, Navatman hopes to create an escape, if just for a moment - to a world filled with stories from artists from all around the globe in our own little corner of New York City. New Years is here, and we have all sorts of resolutions and (hopefully) the energy to make things happen for ourselves. So what will you do? How will you invest in yourself?
We at Navatman offer this small bit of advice: take a dance or music class. (We're only a little biased). Not only do numerous studies suggest the benefits of such endeavors over other types of physical activity (various studies on dance most recently showing that it combats numerous brain degenerative disorders), it is stress relief at its best. Classical arts especially can take on a meditative quality for the practitioner, so if sitting in yoga class in padasana position isn't for you, these classes may do just the trick! No clue what kind of dance or music to take, but want to find out more? Take our Intro to Indian Arts workshop and find out if it's music or dance, bharatanatyam or kathak that moves you. Feel like you're too old? Navatman firmly believes the age that you decide to sing or dance is the perfect time to start. Classes for our winter semester for adults have just started, so email us to see where you might best fit! Or, are you looking for a fun way to introduce your kids to music and dance? Our program for ages 4-6 is modeled to do just that - finding ways to incorporate game play into skill building exercises so your child is singing "sa" on shruti and falling in love with the art form at the same time. Free trial classes help you see if its the right fit - and our highly experienced teachers will help you sort out the right next steps for you and your family. I started learning Bharatanatyam when I was seven years old. My mom forced me to begin studying the art form because she had learned it when she was young. She loved it and apparently, it was necessary that I did too.
Initially, I couldn’t understand how she developed this love. To me, dance was something I simply learned once a week. As a young child, I didn’t understand the significance to the steps that I was learning and I didn’t have any particular connection to the dance. I couldn’t grasp what about it fascinated so many people. My experience with Bharatanatyam continued this way for about 9 more years. I went to class once a week at first, then twice a week as I moved up in levels. My study of the dance form grew from basic steps to more complex sequences. However, while my interest and enjoyment of the dance form admittedly increased over the years, it was never something that I felt truly connected to. My experience with Bharatanatyam continued this way for about 9 more years. I went to class once a week at first, then twice a week as I moved up in levels. My study of the dance form grew from basic steps to more complex sequences. However, while my interest and enjoyment of the dance form admittedly increased over the years, it was never something that I felt truly connected to. With this increased power, I began to develop a new relationship with Bharatanatyam. I was able to choose the pieces I was going to be presenting, personalizing the stories I was able to tell. Performing pieces that suited my personality allowed me to inject my own humor and abilities into my dance. Developing a different connection to each piece pushed me to consider them beyond just the dance movements. I needed to express what made my dancing different from everyone else’s. It was only then that I began to understand the fundamental difference between executing a piece and performing a piece. The minute corrections that go ignored in a general dance class become highlighted in an individualized arangetram rehearsal. I began to consider every movement I completed before doing a step. I had never before placed such an emphasis on the rotation of my wrists or the firmness of my fingers, yet corrections like these suddenly seemed like huge glaring errors. The personalization of Bharatanatyam that my arangetram enabled caused me to respect and care about my dancing in a way I had never done before. Through my arangetram, I came to understand the various factors of a Bharatanatyam performance. I earned a whole new appreciation for the choreography process, realizing just how difficult it is to tailor dance moves to a dancer’s abilities. I had always been concerned with dancing the pieces but I never thought about the process that went into creating them. I watched as my guru studied the music, counting out beats and pauses in the rhythm, teaching me the math behind the art form. I was introduced to a deeper level of abhinaya, one that required me to conjure emotions I hadn’t yet experienced during my seventeen years of life. I learned how to tell stories using what I understood as Sahi’s expansive mental dictionary of dance movements and gestures. I no longer identified a dance piece by its steps but through the story I was trying to tell. I came to understand my body through its specific talents and limitations. I witnessed the challenges that accompany customizing choreography, along with the creative solutions that Bharatanatyam allows. As we moved further into my arangetram process, I was exposed to the powers that an orchestra wields. I discovered how the combination of music and dance brings stories to life in a way that dancing alone simply cannot achieve. Because of my arangetram, I came to appreciate all of the factors that contributed to a Bharatanatyam performance, many of which I had never even considered. Preparation for my arangetram also allowed me to learn from those dancing around me. I danced with students of all ages. When dancing with younger students, I was able to relearn and rethink the movements that I considered basic to dance. The children I danced with taught me the importance of keeping an open mind. Their excitement and fascination when learning new dance steps reminded me of just how lucky I was to be able to study a classical form of dance so intently. When dancing with older students, I realized the importance of refining my technique. The deeper study of dance that occurred with these groups demonstrated how much learning I still had to do. The lessons I was able to learn from my gurus (Sridhar Shanmugam and Sahasra Sambamoorthi) extended far beyond dance. They taught me the results of determination and hard work, along with the value of respect and discipline. As I spent more time with then, my reverence for their talents only increased. From them, I learned the meaning of true passion. Their unwavering support and patience demonstrated their love for Bharatanatyam. My journey with this dance form has been a long one, and now, after my arangetram, I am certain it is not over. It has evolved from an activity I was forced into to a true part of my identity. From this process, I was able to make Bharatanatyam my own. I did not realize my appreciation for the dance until immediately after I had completed my arangetram, when still standing on stage I burst into tears. Overcome by emotion, I finally grasped what compelled others to truly love this dance form. Bharatanatyam has the power to transport both the dancer and the audience to another world. It has the ability to tell the most detailed of stories with just a few gestures. It is a dance form that is centuries old, yet never ceases to seem relevant. Through my extended practice of the dance, I was able to develop the capacity to truly feel the spirituality and mythology with every step I completed. My arangetram allowed me to establish a personal connection with Bharatanatyam. The relationship that I have built with Bharatanatyam is a direct result of my arangetram and something that I will always cherish. As a member of Navatman for the past two years, I’ve had a chance to observe first-hand the idea of art that seems to underlie the Navatman community’s diverse activities. To put it simply, people at Navatman don’t see performance as the end-all and be-all of art. While the concert hall is certainly important, art’s power to touch and transform us is felt as much in the act of performing as in the process of teaching and learning, as much on stage as in the company of one’s friends or the privacy of one’s home.
At Navatman, the word “artist” would apply just as well to a four-year-old starting dance lessons as to a music teacher who has been training for several years. Now, recent events have pressed many of us to ask ourselves what it is we do in life and why we do it. I wanted to address these questions to my fellow artists, understood in the more inclusive sense that Navatman gives this word: as teachers, learners, and performers of art, what do we do, and what does art do for us? For those of us who can afford to indulge in it, art can offer much consolation when life is unsettling. For an entire week after the election, a friend of mine and an aunt drowned themselves in music. While music affirmed my friend’s sense of kinship with others, it helped my aunt confront thoughts for which she felt language did not have the strength. As for me, I turned to the poetry of Whitman, which I hoped would assure me that democracy is still possible. But apart from consolation, what else does art give? What concrete solutions can it offer to the problems of the times? For is it not precisely at moments like this, when the stakes are so high, that art begins to seem superfluous, an elite preoccupation which insulates us from the issues rather than calling our attention to them? Art once again finds itself in the position of having to defend itself, and once again the task of defending it falls to reason. We trust reason to decide what is or is not worth pursuing. For example, I have reasonably proposed that art can offer us solace. Others like to emphasize other uses of art, for example, its capacity to refine our emotions, enhance our creativity, or train our sympathetic impulse. Art may well do all of these things. Still, we may wonder why it is that we should trust reason to judge the value of art. Where does reason derive its authority to judge one way or another? Why do we measure art by the standards of reason, and not rather look at reason, as Nietzsche once proposed, “through the prism of art?” The news seems no less tolerable today than it did before the election. In place of a series of reports on the most recent scandal or outrageous remark, we now hear the latest of a hundred well-reasoned analyses of “what went wrong.” Such explanations no doubt have their place in deciding where to go from here. But when a flood of them overwhelms us, it can become easy for us to start tuning out the noise. It’s always astonishing when something that moved us just weeks ago can be met with increasing indifference, so that no matter how hard we think about a goal, we cannot seem to recover the sense of urgency that first inspired in us the motivation to pursue it. In thinking about these important relations between reason and art, art and decision-making, breathing offers an important lesson. Inhale and exhale have the rhythm of an ebb and flow: in each pair, one marks the other’s limit. The sea’s releasing clasp upon the shore is none other than the earth’s respiration. However much land the sea has covered, it can go no farther without returning to itself for a moment. That moment is when the water takes in a breath, literally inspires, gathering the strength to wash the earth anew. However deep is our analysis, however, powerful our explanation, all of it expires without a corresponding inspiration. Art might be none other than this: a returning to ourselves, a reminder of what and where we are, a gathering of strength before folding back upon the world with a surer and vaster embrace. Not at all an escape, then, but a thing most needful in uncertain times. |
AuthorsPriya Narayan Archives
October 2023
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