First published in:
Habibi Magazine. Vol. 20.2, Summer 2004, p. 54-61
Introduction
The music began with a low, resonant hum- a sound so deep and permeating that I could feel its vibration penetrate to my bones. The theater lights slowly intensified, bathing the musicians and me in strong, amber colored light. I began to move within the semi-circle of musicians, with only that single deep drone and the performers’ collective energy as the foundation for the dance. –circle, circle, twist, circle, undulation, twist, slowly bending back, slowly, slowly, reaching back to the floor…breath… rise, melting into a slow, wide hip circle- The dance began to quicken, taking me with it. –undulation, circle, half turn- I traveled, tracing the semi-circle of musicians. – half turn, circle, turn, breath, circle, turn, breath, circle, turn, turn, shiver- The mood altered. The energy bent. I stood stage left, outside the semi-circle, my musicians behind me and out of view. In front of me, seated in rows, shrouded in blackness, sat my audience. Separating us was a ten foot mote of darkness and a wall of bright, amber lights. A disconcerting feeling struck me- I was acutely aware of the audience’s attention on me yet it was not the same sharing of experience that I had felt in traditional raqs sharqi venues. That inclusive, reciprocal experience between the audience members and performer did not exist in this western style theater. Instead of individuals, I faced a single entity, an audience, who watched, waiting to see if they were going to be moved or not.
The concert had been part of my Master of Fine Arts degree program in the department of World Arts and Cultures at UCLA. After the performance, I engaged one of my colleagues in the evening’s event in a conversation about the so-called “male gaze.”1 The concept was not new to me by this time, as I had read many articles in dance scholarship related to the gaze and its objectification of the performer, and had, at a few points in my time here at the university, been confronted by professors and colleagues alike on the meaning of the form of raqs sharqi. It being known at the University that I perform in Arabic nightclubs for a living, I felt that an assumption was made that my form relies on the sexual objectification of the performer, and that this is its purpose and sole intent. As I related my experience during the aforementioned performance to my colleague, she expressed surprise as well as interest that I had felt the presence of the audience’s gaze so strongly at a theater concert rather than in a nightclub setting.
Because of the experience at the concert and the subsequent conversation, I began to be more interested in the theory of the gaze and how its application as a feminist critique pertains to raqs sharqi. Mulvey’s work in this area has been highly influential, and has led to the application of the theory to performance and visual art, spanning cultures and disciplines. As Helen Thomas, professor of sociology at the University of London puts it, “Scholars in every field [have turned] to linguistic analysis and the jargon of literary criticism and French psychoanalysis in attempts to make tidy sense of the messiness of experience.”2 Indeed, the history, culture, and attitudes surrounding raqs sharqi make anything but “tidy sense.” Raqs sharqi has been the subject of negative stereotypes in the East and West alike, resulting in ambivalent attitudes across the globe. In this discussion of the gaze as it pertains to raqs sharqi, I will not attempt to inform the reader of the true intent or meaning of the form. I feel that the meaning of any given genre, indeed, any individual work, is transient and dependent upon the individual artists and audience members involved. Instead, I wish to expose the “messiness of experience” so as to bring about a more informed position from which to view, judge, and, for those of us so inclined, present specific performances of this highly individual and cultural art form.
Raqs Sharqi and Balady
Raqs sharqi is an Arabic term, which literally translates as “Eastern Dance” or more loosely, “Oriental Dance.” It is also sometimes referred to by Arabs speaking English in the Middle East as “Arabic Dance,” which underlines its roots as a regional form of dance. When I speak of raqs sharqi here, I am speaking of the stage art that has grown out of the folkloric and social dances of the Middle East, particularly Egypt.3 Movement vocabulary consists of hip, torso, and shoulder isolations with the arms held aloft, often at about shoulder height or higher. The dance is not systematized, meaning there is no standard technique. Movements may vary from region to region and dancer to dancer. It is important to note that the distinction between the stage art of raqs sharqi and the social dance (often referred to as “balady,” literally “of the country”) in terms of movement vocabulary may be only slight. Differences are more noteworthy in the aspects of presentation than in the movement itself. For example, in raqs sharqi there is often a more elevated carriage, typical patterns in the use of space, and of course the use of costuming.
Raqs sharqi is performed in many different contexts: the cabaret stage as well as weddings, saints’ days, and other festive occasions. Balady is often present at venues where raqs sharqi is performed and also in very informal contexts such as in the home. Men and women may perform balady. Men utilize many of the same hip movements as women, although arm movements tend to be more angular than the more fluid arm movements of women. Women often dance to entertain themselves and each other at informal social gatherings, or for their family members. It is important to note that even in the social dance there is an element of performance. Women (and men depending on the context and the conservatism of the family) often stand in a small circle encouraging and clapping rhythmically for one or two dancing in the middle. In this manner, small girls and often boys will entertain their families. The act of watching and participating is deeply embedded in this dance, both in a performative (raqs sharqi) as well as a social (balady) context.4
The Male Gaze
It is the act of watching that has been of central interest to scholars of the performing and visual arts in recent decades. Laura Mulvey’s seminal work Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema has been the catalyst for many discussions on the nature of female representation in art. Mulvey makes use of psychoanalysis to present a feminist interpretation of Hollywood cinema and its traditional representation of women. The main component of Mulvey’s “gaze” is scopophilia: that is, the pleasure in looking, manifested in a voyeuristic as well as narcissistic aspect, and is linked to psychosexual developmental processes put forth by Freud and Lacan.
The voyeuristic aspect of the gaze is associated with Freud’s assertion that people derive pleasure in “taking other people as objects, subjecting them to a controlling and curious gaze.”5 Of course, voyeurism also implies the anonymity of the viewer and an “unknowing and unwilling victim.” Mulvey proposes that the cinema is an ideal place to experience the pleasure in voyeurism. Through the techniques of filmmaking and narrative, the actors create the illusion of a private world that the audience is allowed to view, unnoticed by the characters on the screen. The lighting of the cinematic theater also contributes to the schism between audience members and performers. The bright lighting of the screen, in contrast with the darkness of the audience, isolates the audience from the action on screen, as well as from fellow audience members.
In speaking of the “pleasure of looking” in its narcissistic aspect, Mulvey draws heavily on Lacanian theory in which audience members identify with the protagonist on screen. This process of identification reflects Lacan’s theoretical “mirror stage” in which a child for the first time recognizes his/her image in a mirror as a more perfect image of him/herself. Of course, since Mulvey’s work is essentially about gender representation, she addresses the gender of the viewer and viewed, however, perhaps not in the most expected manner. She asserts, “ In a world ordered by sexual imbalance, pleasure has been split between active/male and passive/female.”6 In her view, man is “bearer of the look”; it is he who looks and controls. Woman on the other hand is image. Her appearance “is coded for strong visual and erotic impact so that [she] can be said to connote to-be-looked-at-ness.” Women within the Hollywood film narrative are not important in and of themselves but as the erotic object of the male protagonist’s desire. Therefore, it is the male protagonist with whom audience members identify as the more perfect image of themselves experienced in the mirror stage. Identifying with his powerful place in the narrative brings audience members an emotional satisfaction. Both the audience members (regardless of gender) and the male protagonist are bearers of the look (active/male), and the female characters in the narrative are the image seen (passive/female). Mulvey’s “male gaze” then, is the gaze of the audience in the active (male) position, objectifying/controlling the image of the female (passive) through their power as voyeurs and through the dominant (male) character with whom they identify.
With this definition it is easy to see how those unfamiliar with the contexts of Middle Eastern performance would regard raqs sharqi as a prime example of this dynamic. Take, for example, a common stereotype in the Western imagination of the sultan being entertained by female dancing girls in the harem. In this scene, the females are only important in respect to their sultan—they dance for his pleasure, serve him and obey him. The male is sultan, a symbol of power, answering to no one but himself. While this stereotype may seem a bit fantastic in today’s world, it is amazing how much it still pervades Western consciousness. I cannot count the number of times I have been asked if women come to my performances in the Los Angeles clubs I work in (they do), and how many are surprised when I inform them that in the Middle East my primary source of income came from wedding parties. As I hope to illustrate here, when raqs sharqi is considered in its proper cultural context, the audience/performer relationship is much more complex than the one described by Mulvey.
Audience-Performer Relationships
Since the publication of Mulvey’s article, the concept of the “male gaze” has been expanded to the act of viewing in the performing and visual arts. In Women and Dance; Sylphs and Sirens,7 Christy Adair explains the applicability of the theories of film spectatorship to dance performance. The proscenium stage, she proposes, provides an ideal setting for voyeuristic observation. Separated from the stage action and shrouded in darkness, the spectator is allowed to witness the performance while maintaining anonymity in relation to the performer as well as the audience members. While this observation may apply to Western concert dance (of which she is speaking), it is not consistent with common contexts in which raqs sharqi is performed. Raqs sharqi is most commonly presented in nightclub venues and festive occasions such as weddings and birthdays. Generally speaking, separation from the audience is minimal. At weddings and parties there is, very often, no clearly defined stage space and the dancer will wander close to the tables and perhaps between them. The entire room is usually well lit, and the dancer may dance with the bride and groom and family members. In a nightclub there is usually a small but clearly defined stage space. The audience extends right up to its perimeter, often at the same level. The stage may have brighter lighting than the audience, but the audience can easily be seen by the performer, even in the larger venues. These forms of presentation create a more inclusive space where the separation between performer and audience is narrowed and sometimes, as is the case when the dancer dances with the bride and groom, dissolved.
Additionally, audience members are not anonymous to each other. Guests are seated around tables facing each other, and often partake in food and drink throughout the evening. Tables are usually positioned on three sides of the dancer and her musicians on the fourth side. The entire situation is one of social interaction rather than a one-way viewing. This type of spatial patterning allows for a more complex performer-audience relationship than the one defined by Mulvey; at any given moment, no matter where she faces, the dancer may not only be viewed, but may view and engage her audience.
Indeed, the modern performer of raqs sharqi is expected to interact with the audience in some manner. It is not uncommon for the dancer to address the audience verbally during her show. She may perhaps acknowledge special guests she sees, or dance close to each table making eye contact with individuals. Personally, I will often tilt my head back and shield my eyes from the glare of the stage lights in order to bring those who are seated in back into the experience. The visual acknowledgement of individuals in the audience serves to narrow the gap between performer and audience emotionally. Audience members will often respond by raising their glass (as if in a toast) or holding their arms aloft, as if dancing themselves. The entire audience is often engaged: smiling, shouting praises to the dancer and musicians, clapping along, or sometimes throwing money.
Here it is important to recall the discussion of balady vs. raqs sharqi. Unlike many forms of Western concert dance, raqs sharqi extends naturally from the social dancing of the region. Arabs (both men and women) have a personal relationship to the movement and the music. In my opinion, it is because of this that the audience can directly relate to the experience of the performer and more easily become emotionally involved in the performance. As Barbara and Ali Jihad Racy, scholars and performers of Middle Eastern dance and music respectively, have stated, “It is [the] intense relationship between the dancers, singers, and musicians as well as the impact of an emotionally charged audience that imbues Arab dance and music with its soul and vitality.”8 This statement emphasizes the value placed on the emotional expression of all people sharing in the dance event, including the dancer.
Emotive Content and Tarab
Emotional expression is a vital component in the raqs sharqi performance. This sentiment was echoed in a recent discussion with a former dancer of Lebanese descent, Joelle Ferrando, when I asked her to articulate what it is that makes a good Oriental dancer. Before I had completed the question the answer came back, “the feeling…She has to connect soul to soul with the [audience members] through her eyes.”9 I was not surprised. During my time in the Middle East, I had many conversations with Arabs regarding the difference between Arab and non-Arab dancers. Dance enthusiasts sometimes remarked that while non-Arabs were often extremely technically proficient, many lacked “the feeling,” and so, on the whole, did not match up to their Arab counterparts. Emotional evocation is, in fact, central to the aesthetics of music and dance in the Arab world, so much so that a common expression regarding art is “Fann il hsas” or “art is feeling.”10
With regard to music, the importance of emotional evocation may be represented by the concept of tarab (TAH-rahb). “In familiar terms tarab can be described as a musically induced state of ecstacy…[or]…the extraordinary emotional state evoked by music,”11 or as Shiloah puts it, “the emotion stirred in a listener’s soul.”12 In his book, Making Music in the Arab World: The Culture and Artistry of Tarab, Racy uses the familiar word “ecstasy” interchangeably with the word “tarab.”
The basic nuances and connotations of the word ‘tarab’ as commonly used today are consistent with the concept of ‘ecstasy’ as explained in standard English sources. Accordingly, ecstasy, like tarab, implies experiences of emotional excitement, pain or other similarly intense emotions, exaltation, a sense of yearning or absorption, feeling of timelessness, elation, or rapturous delight.13
While the term tarab itself refers to ecstasy as it relates to music, I firmly believe that the feelings and emotional effects of the dance performance are very closely related. For one, the presentation of raqs sharqi is inextricably tied to music. In many cases, the dance is music interpreted visually through the dancer, so that the audience may experience the music in all its aspects (i.e. mood, melody, and rhythm), visually and kinesthetically. The dancer is also responding to the emotional effect (tarab) of the music on her as well as to its rhythm and melody. After all, moving and dancing is one of the manifestations of tarab.14 Additionally, much of the music that is used in Oriental dance performance belongs to the genre of music often described as tarab music. Music in this genre focuses on emotional content and melodic modes, and often contains lyrics reflecting themes of worldly love.15 In Cairo a dancer is not considered an artiste unless she dances with Umm Kulthum’s music, one of the most popular tarab artists in history. Furthermore, the contexts of music and dance overlap and the relationships between audience and performer are similar. In a broad sense, while music and dance have many varying manifestations in the Arab world, all are “historically, contextually and aesthetically linked.”16 For these reasons I feel that the various facets of the tarab phenomenon are applicable to Oriental dance.
Tarab as Communication
The ability of a performer to induce the state of tarab in audiences relies in part on the artist’s ability to feel tarab themselves. “The innate ability to feel the music, or to interact with one’s own performance ecstatically, prepares the performer [to generate tarab in others].”17 Recently, after my performance in a local Arab nightclub, a woman stopped me as I was leaving. She complemented my dance saying, “You dance from your heart. It’s beautiful.” Her male companion chimed in, “Especially when you lean your head back, smile, and close your eyes.” Unlike viewers who are unused to the culture of Arabic dance performance and subsequently “only care about the technique,”18 experienced viewers are equally, if not more, concerned with the feeling that accompanies the movement. This is in direct opposition to a statement made by Christy Adair regarding Western concert dance. She states, “Women’s experience in this context is rarely valued and usually invisible.”19 On the contrary, the dancer’s experience is an integral part of the Oriental dance performance and experienced audience members are acutely aware of the presence or absence of the dancer’s emotional connection to the dance. In fact, the dancer’s experience helps to determine the audience’s experience.
During the performance, the dancer’s emotional connection to the dance “is maintained and reinforced by the creative feedback between the performer and audience.”20 Wadi al Safi, a famous Lebanese singer, describes this process through the analogy of two mirrors facing each other, where the image is reflected in one mirror and then the other, over and over again.21 In concrete terms, the ecstatic process of the performer ignites the ecstatic response of the audience who will respond by clapping or shouting praises, which in turn boosts the ecstatic feeling of the performer.
The audience, then, plays a participatory role in Middle Eastern performance. An audience initiated in the music and dance of the region understands the performance in all its nuances. They know when to respond outwardly, and when to watch closely. In the musical sense, audience members such as these are called “sammi’ah.”22 A successful performance is one in which the audience is contributing to the reciprocal ecstatic experience between the audience and the performer. Its success will reflect the number of sammi’ah in the audience. Apparently, many of the great singers in the tarab genre often brought a circle of listeners to every concert they gave. We are told that when Umm Kulthum was hired for private performances, she had it stated in the contract that her entourage would accompany her to the event.23 The necessity of initiated audience members is likewise important to dance. A large group of those truly interested in the ecstatic experience of Arabic performance will be more receptive and responsive to the performer’s emotional expression. As the “energy” magnifies as it is bounced back and forth between audience members and performer, non-initiated audience members will witness the exchange and may in time become those who understand this aspect of performance.
I therefore believe that it is the communication between the audience and the performer that ultimately defines the meaning of a dance performance. Ideally, this communication happens on a heightened emotional level, epitomized by the concept of tarab, and relies to a large extent on the dancer’s personal connection to her dance and her ability to project it outward. This communication is not one-way, however, and so the intent and ability of the audience to see and respond to the dancer’s emotional evocation is also a factor in the creation of meaning in a dance event.
If the emotive content of the dance is to be felt, the audience must be open to the possibility of seeing the experience of the dancer. If this possibility does not exist, it is the audience who will have the final decision on the meaning they take home from the performance. While this is not always the optimal situation for the performer, it is true that the dancer cannot define how she is viewed.24 She can, however, define how she engages with and presents her performance to the audience members—so even if they do not respond favorably, in my opinion, she is never powerless.
These points have positive and negative consequences regarding power relationships between audience and performer. Firstly, because the dancer’s experience is important to the initiated viewers of raqs sharqi (and to herself), some of the power of the monolithic “male gaze” is taken away and invested instead in the performer. After all, a body exuding real emotion transforms itself from a “dancing body” (a term so often used in dance scholarship) into someone fully human. Viewed this way, the sexuality of her dance becomes something she owns rather than something that exists solely for the pleasure of others. Conversely, because the audience/performer relationship is so vital a component in raqs sharqi, the audience’s reaction also holds power in the situation. Recall the metaphor of the two mirrors. If the audience responds less than positively, this collective energy may influence the performer. The audience’s response may diminish the feeling in the performer, dampening the ecstatic properties of the dance, and reducing it to little more than a visual presentation. The balance of power on stage, as in life, is greatly dependent on the attitudes of the people engaged in the relationship, whether they are male or female.
The Gaze in Perspective
While thus far I have argued that, ideally, the raqs sharqi performance is most concerned with emotional evocation and communication, I do concede that there are aspects of the performance event that can invite the voyeuristic gaze. For while it is true that Oriental dance enthusiasts see more than the technique, the sexuality inherent in the technique cannot be denied. In addition, the two-piece costume that brings attention to the bust and hips, adds to the “to-be-looked-at-ness”25 of the dancer. To be sure, the Oriental dancer is “coded for strong visual and erotic impact” both in dress and in technique.26 Her image as “erotic object” is important in the professional arena, where dancers are considered, at least in part, for their physical appearance.
However, as I have shown, the dancer is more than the mere “object” of her body. She initiates her own ecstasy and feeling through her personal relationship to the music and movement, and sets in motion the reciprocal ecstatic relationship between performer and audience. She is important not solely for her technique or beauty, but for the feeling and emotion she brings to the event. Her experience is valued and is, perhaps most importantly, one in which audience members can identify. Here I am reminded of the reactions of audience members in many of my performances when I engage their gaze— very often they hold their arms aloft as if dancing themselves. To put these opposing perspectives into Mulvey’s terms, the dancer is at once “erotic object” and the “protagonist” of the dance event.
It is my belief that the balance of these two perspectives cannot be determined by the simple analysis of the audience/performer relationship that is the basis of the “male gaze.” Mulvey’s gaze is premised on the assumption that the woman is nothing more than a passive image to which the audience responds simply from psychological processes that do not take into consideration cultural, religious or individual difference. In my opinion, this is a dangerous starting point, for it leaves little room for learning, growth and change. It places both the performer and audience members in less than powerful positions, locked into a dynamic that is difficult to alter. By shifting our perspective of the “male gaze” into a possible audience-performer relationship rather than the rule, both dancer and audience members gain greater control of the meaning in the dance event to which they both contribute.
These meanings do not have to be thematic, or contain social or political commentary (although they may), but can be as simple as a feeling: joy, sadness, strength, control, abandonment or ecstasy. It is the feeling beyond the technique that has the capacity to transform the performer from a “dancing body” into a dancer (a person who dances), who is infinitely more interesting than anything she can do technically. As audience members, we have the ability to open ourselves up to perceiving these meanings. As dancers, we have the power to choose the content and context of our performance to help direct its meaning towards our personal definitions and values of our own dance.
Because this form varies so much between individual dancers, we are in unique positions to define our dance’s meaning for ourselves, and consciously choose how we want to influence the audience’s perceptions of our dance. We are, in effect, creating and re-creating the meanings of the dance each time we step on stage. This leaves us with not only power and possibility, but also responsibility. It can be very easy to speak about the meanings our dance holds for us on an intellectual level, then leave it aside once the performance begins. As artists, part of our work lies in integrating our ideas about our dance into the practice of performing. In doing so, we might communicate our views of the dance rather than simply meet the audience’s expectations. This requires that we not only decide what our own personal dance means to ourselves, but take specific actions to keep our performing lives in line with the values we have set for ourselves. I do not assume that there is one overall meaning of the dance form of raqs sharqi, nor do I believe that each dancer will have one simple definition of what this dance is to her. One of the beautiful things about this form is its capacity to be subtly complex. Likewise, our own definitions will be complex. Our intentions may differ from one choreography or performance to the next, or over time.
As for myself, complexity is one of the reasons I am drawn to expand my work to the theater setting. In the traditional contexts of the nightclub stage and the wedding party, audiences tend to come with certain expectations. The role of the dancer in each of these settings is fairly limited. At the wedding party she must keep a celebratory atmosphere, while in the nightclub, with its distractions of food, drink, and dining companions, the performer cannot demand too much work from the audience. I feel that the theater context allows audiences to be open to new ideas and complex experiences, and gives me, as an artist, much more creative freedom. Ironically, there have been times when I have felt the division between the audience and performer much more pronounced in the theater setting, hampering the kind of communication one finds in traditional contexts. My challenge now is to use the creative freedom the theater affords to create an inclusive experience with the audience. In so doing, I hope to play some part in complicating the simple and often too narrow frame with which many view the art of raqs sharqi.
Footnotes:
1. Mulvey.
2. Thomas.
3. I will be limiting my discussion to raqs sharqi in a Middle Eastern context, that is, to Arab audiences in the Middle East unless specifically stated otherwise.
4. In Egypt the terminology is not necessarily as distinct as I am using in this paper. “Balady” often refers to a style of raqs sharqi that is less refined and stylized. I cannot recall, however, having heard Egyptians referring to the social dance as “raqs sharqi.” It is usually referred to as “balady,” “Musri” (Egyptian) or simply “raqs” (dance).
5. Mulvey, pg. 363.
6. Ibid., pg. 366.
7. Adair.
8. Racy and Racy.
9. Joelle Ferrando, personal communication, 2003.
10. Racy, pg. 4.
11. Ibid., pg. 6.
12. Shiloah, pg. 16.
13. Racy, pg. 6.
14. Rouget, pgs. 281-283.
15. Racy, pgs. 6, 119.
16. Racy and Racy, pg. 487.
17. Racy, pg. 128.
18. Joelle Ferrando, personal communication, 2003.
19. Adair, pg. 72.
20. Racy, pg. 131.
21. Interview with Sabah Fakhri in Racy, pg. 131.
22. Racy, pgs. 40-42.
23. Ibid., pgs. 64-65.
24. Adair, pg. 72.
25. Mulvey, pg. 366.
26. Ibid.
References:
Adair, Christy. Women and Dance: Sylphs and Siren’s. New York: New York University Press, 1992.
Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” In Art After Hedonism: Rethinking Representation, Edited by Brian Wallis 1984.
Racy, Ali Jihad. Making Music in the Arab World: The Culture and Artistry of Tarab. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
Racy, Barbara T. and Ali Jihad Racy. “Music for Dance: Arab Music.” In International Encyclopedia of Dance, edited by Selma Jeanne Cohen, Oxford, 1998:4:487-491.
Rouget, Gilbert. Music and Trance: A Theory of Relations between Music and Possession. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1985.
Shiloah, Amnon. Music in the World of Islam: A Socio-Cultural Study. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1995.
Thomas, Helen. “Representing the Gendered Body in Dance: A Critical Appraisal of ‘New’ Dance Studies” 1996: www.univie.ac.at/Kontext/onlinetxt/thomas.htm.
