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A historical perspective from musician Mara Purl: Watermill is as unusual a piece from renowned choreographer Jerome Robbins as we are ever likely to see. Jerry created it in 1971 for (or "on," as the term is used in dance) Edward Villella, and from opening night through its revival in 1990, Watermill was Jerry's dance — and Eddie's dance.... It's impossible to understand this ballet without understanding a little about each of its original participants. From the perspective of twenty-plus years later it is interesting to contemplate. Much has been written about Jerry Robbins' reasons for creating Watermill. On June 3, 1990, The New York Times (again) pointed out what a stir the piece caused when it premiered in 1972. It was always critically acclaimed. And it was always controversial with the audience. Particularly among the regular annual subscribers to the ballet, there was consternation. Some stood on the velvet seats in the New York State Theater and yelled "Boo." Feeling just as strongly about the ballet, others stood up and yelled "Bravo!" On opening night Jerry came back from his first curtain call, and looked at me and said "You hear those boos? Dig it!!" He loved the controversy. He loved the fact that he had struck a nerve. "Watermill" is the name of a town in Long Island, where Jerry had a country home, and he often went there to reflect, to contemplate, to regroup. He was fascinated with the stillness, with the tall grasses, the quiet sand. On opening night in '72 Jerry presented small gifts to the Watermill musicians. We were given stones gathered from the Watermill beach, rubbed and polished smooth for us in a polisher he had. Mine is still on my desk. It was these ideas which attracted Teiji (our composer and original musical director) so strongly, and which formed such a bond among the musicians and the dancers. The ideas are simple, but large, archetypal ideas, which recur in all good art. Jerry is an exceedingly well-informed and well-prepared artist. He knows a great deal intellectually. And he knows even more (I think) intuitively. I think it was no accident that he chose Teiji to create the music for this piece. I really don't believe any other composer could have completed Watermill as Teiji did, or elevated it to its present point of clarity. Jerry and Teiji had worked together once before, years earlier. When Jerry called Teiji to ask him to compose Watermill, he called an old phone number, the only one he had. In the intervening years Teiji had divorced, remarried, divorced atgain, spent three years in Tokyo, moved back to New York and started the band we called Mokurai. He and his ex-wife Gail, the mother of his daughter Tavia, and he had remained friends, and Teiji was at her apartment when the phone rang. It was the kind of synchronization which was to punctuate the experience of Watermill then, as it still does now. It was Jerry callling, as though nothing had happened in all that time, asking if he wanted to compose something for the New York City Ballet. Teiji accepted immediately, but on the condition that he could hire his own musicians. Jerry first asked to meet us, and then agreed. He was intrigued by our instruments, ranging from my koto to a whole group of eclectic items which Teiji seemed to be able to pull from an infinite hat. Since the ballet was based on cycles — years, moons, ages and seasons — it was there that Teiji and I began the work. We examined the seasons from many different cultural perspectives, and put together a chart which grouped like elements with like into their respective categories. Drawing from Chinese, Japanese, Tibetan, African, Native American and other studies and ceremonies, we found that for summer there was a certain shape, a color, a texture, a rhythm, which had come to be associated with summer throughout the world, and throughout history. And so it was for each season. Jerry in his own way had done the same work: as the dance begins, the lead dancer salutes each of the cardinal directions, as does virtually every tribal dancer in every culture. As our chart grew more and more complete, we had put, for example, phases of the moon as one of our categories. When rehearsals moved to the stage, the set included a gorgeous moon, which changed throughout the piece. Some of the sounds are taken from nature very specifically. In the summer section, the little whistles represent crickets or cicadas, and are used in the Kabuki theatre to suggest just such a sound. I've seen audience members actually get hot during the summer section, and hearing those warm summer sounds is a part of what they feel. In the winter section, while Genji is playing shakuhachi and I am singing, the others are making three distinct sounds — a sharp crack, a crisp bell, and a dull thud on the drum. These sounds are: a bamboo branch full of snow which finally cracks under the weight; the falling of the branch; the landing of the branch in the snow. Some of the music is taken from classical Japanese theatre, such as the Gagaku piece we play while the young men are running, or the temple piece of shakuhachi and gong which is played as the piece opens and closes. Some of it is completely original, such as the koto and zither duet Teiji and I wrote played while the women are harvesting, or the shakuhachi and flute duet in winter. Each musician who originally played in Watermill became one of its composers as well, in that Watermill was created "on" us, just as the dance was created "on" Edward Villella. Teiji knew exactly what was the right thing to play, and when and how. But he also had an absolute trust in the certainty that each of us would also know what to play, and how. Perhaps because he knew that about us, we did. Teiji passed away several years ago, and it has been a particular challenge to play the piece without him, and to teach it to new members of the group. One of our new musicians is Tavia, Teiji's daughter, who remembers all of us so clearly from Watermill's inception. This is a very special experience for her, and for us, and it is very right that she is with us. She is playing percussion. Another new member is the accomplished Japanese musician Yukio Tsuji who has played other pieces of Teiji's before, and who performs regularly for New York theatrical productions, among them M Butterfly on Broadway. It is very right for him to be with us too. A third new member is the gifted Steve Gorn, a world musician in his own right, a virtuoso on flute of every description, both Western and Eastern. And we are fortunate that Teiji's talented brother Genji, one of the original group, a long-time collaborator with Teiji, and an established international composerin his own right, is now our musical director. Still, when you hear and see us, I know you will also hear Teiji himself, whose insights and whose gifts reside and resound in his music. And perhaps if you look closely, you will see him too. Watermill is too rich to absorb it all in one performance. For some, this will be a second or third viewing, and so the piece will open further. Whether it is new or old for you, drink in the moments of the piece, and travel through it as though it were a body of water, with each of its metaphors offering you a stepping stone. Sometimes the water will be a seething sea; sometimes a still pond in a Japanese garden. The symbols will guide you, and you will be richer for the journey that is Watermill. Teiji Ito (1935-1982) composed music for Broadway and Hollywood, avant-garde films, drama, and dance. He studied West Indian and Oriental music, especially their percussion rhythms. He won an Obie for theater music in the 1960-61 season, and composed the score for the original Broadway production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest in 1963. The music for Watermill originates in the religious ceremonial and theater music of the Orient. It is quiet, the sounds of ancient flutes and percussion instruments interspersed with the sounds of nature, and full of pauses. Ito said of the music: "We try to present a feeling — intense, very slow, precise, with many important silences — silent sounds."
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