by Ava Witonsky
To coincide with Michiko Ogawa’s program Beyond Meshes: The Film Music of Teiji Ito on October 29th at Anthology Film Archives, Ultra Dogme presents a conversation between Ava Witonsky and Michiko Ogawa.
For those not in NYC, Ogawa’s short documentary The Cosmic Music of Teiji Ito is available to stream here.
The story of Michiko Ogawa and Teiji Ito begins, of all places, in the Mojave Desert. Facing a stretch of summer days before the start of her doctoral program in contemporary music performance, Ogawa, a Tokyo-raised clarinetist and composer, took to the road. The deep time of the desert, with its cradle of clay and wind-worn dunes, invited a perfect opportunity for listening to The Very Eye of Night, Teiji Ito’s 1959 score for Maya Deren’s final film.
The alchemy of this first encounter changed Ogawa’s life. Through Ito’s music her research and artistic interests came alive anew: who was this experimental composer who syncretized traditions of Japanese musical expression with that of flamenco, Brazilian fado, Haitian drumming, American rock, and western classicism? Teiji Ito is perhaps best remembered for his haunting soundtrack to Deren’s Meshes of the Afternoon (1943) and electrifying her silent images with humming emanations of psychic distress. But as Ogawa’s research and artistic practice dove deeper into Ito’s work in experimental film and theater, she uncovered a life and musical legacy far exceeding a footnote in avant-garde film history.
On Tuesday, October 29th, Michiko Ogawa will present Beyond Meshes: The Film Music of Teiji Ito at Anthology Film Archives. Below, in an interview conducted over email, Michiko shared with me the challenges of interpreting and performing Teiji’s drafted scores, the collaborative process of filming The Cosmic Music of Teiji Ito (2021), and what she continues to learn from Ito as a performer, composer, and researcher.
Ava Witonsky: Hi Michiko! What was it like for you to encounter Ito’s archived scores at the New York Performing Arts Library after hearing his music for film?
Michiko Ogawa: I remember when I first came across the archive—I was very excited that the scores existed, because I had the intention to see if I could do a live soundtrack performance of his work. For two of his works, Meshes of the Afternoon and The Very Eye of Night (1958), I could tell that Ito, who was still in his teens at the time, was very careful and sincere in the creation of his works. His final partner, Cheryl, had typewritten his scribbles and radio interviews on a typewriter, so I was able to learn about his inner life, his humanity and his relationship with music.
What emerged from this [research] was that Ito was intuitively connected to the world, always accompanied by his physicality. Teiji was never what Levi-Strauss would call an “engineer,” but he was someone who used his intuition and the sensations he gained through the process of playing with his own body to create sound, the opposite of creating works based on theories and numbers. I personally felt very close to him in that respect. I also feel that the reason he was able to create his own unique music by experimentally collaging various [types of] traditional music from around the world was because he was thoroughly committed to using his own hands and body to express himself.
How did you interpret the notational differences you read in Ito’s drafted scores for film versus what you heard in his recordings?
There were considerable differences between Ito’s scores and the actual sound [of the recordings]. For example, in the Gagaku ensemble-like scene at the end of Meshes, the performance score I made was based on Ito’s original recordings. Ito did not leave a final score, and some of his later works have almost scribbled notes.
According to colleagues who worked with Ito, he instructed them to verbally play melodies on the spot and copy him exactly. So it was more convincing to me that he improvised the corrections at the recording stage after he had made the score. There was a visual-aural connection beyond what he was able to write down on paper, and the recordings document this.
Tell me about the experience of leading musicians to accompany 16mm film prints! You write that “it is impossible to have a digital level of precision when it comes to analog media.” Were there any moments of improvisation, challenge, or live experimentation?
What struck me most when I saw Ito’s sketches of the score at the New York Public Library was his very detailed hand-drawn visual cues. So it was clear that he had created the music by applying the impressions, sensations, and motifs of the images in the film to each sound like a puzzle. So when we rewrote his score for the ensemble, and in rehearsals, I emphasized that the visual cue should be in sync with the sounds that each part was responsible for as much as possible. As a result, I remember that everyone quickly got used to playing with the timing while looking at the images.
However, in 16mm performances, the length of the performance changes slightly each time depending on the film used, so we’ve had to rewrite the time indications in the score each time. Depending on the film, some of the music would go on without a break. In such cases, it was necessary to fine-tune the speed and length of the performance while everyone was looking for a clear timing of the scene change.
What was it like working with Ito’s score for Meshes of the Afternoon? You note that his instrumentation relied heavily on silence and featured different forms of Japanese performance art and music—Kabuki, Noh, Gagaku—that wouldn’t typically be woven together in one composition. How did you navigate instrumentation in your performance?
The Meshes score was probably Ito’s second work after The Very Eye of Night. Ito’s music was also added in the form of a revision, so to speak, long after the film was released.
I don’t know how Meshes was commissioned between Maya and Ito, but looking at the way they worked, you can see detailed visual cues drawn into the score. I also found some draft sketches and found that Ito had made some trial-and-error attempts with regard to instrumentation. For example, in his own original recording, he played the pentatonic melody at the beginning on guitar, but in the drafts he called for the koto. For a performance at Brisbane International Film Festival, we played the guitar due to space and budget constraints, but for a performance at University of California San Diego we tried to use the koto.
In order to realize a live performance of Meshes, I also had to learn several gagaku instruments. I play the sho and my partner Sam plays the hichiriki, but for the hichiriki we had to take several lessons in Japan as it is not easy to make a sound. Ito was a very handy man, who sang as well as played all kinds of instruments, was a good painter and made his own instruments and leather goods. In the original recordings he probably used a variety of drums, some brought back from Haiti, some from Japan he had inherited from his parents, and some handmade, but I tried to find as close as possible to the ones he used.
Teiji gradually developed what he called the “cosmic principle” as a guiding ethos for the various manifestations of his work. You write that by the end of his life, he started to devote himself to music-making “as a ritualistic event, with the goal of integrating body and mind” and “healing the planet.” Do you relate to composition—whether musical or visual—as a ritual or healing process?
Music as ritual and healing are very universal, even today in many parts of the world, especially those with a cultural background derived from animist beliefs. Japan is one such culture. I think Teiji’s aim was to feel a very harmonious energy in the ecstasy of becoming one with “something greater” through such events. As a musician, I can strongly agree that such a feeling is irreplaceable.
In terms of composing, I don’t think I do it for ritualistic or healing purposes. I think there is a lot that can be projected as a result of a deep prayer or wish, but at the moment my own compositional process is motivated by “experimentation”—the uncertainty of the outcome, and the moments when the process sometimes yields unexpected results. Perhaps it is in this spirit that Teiji also worked, especially in his film music.
In your film, The Cosmic Music of Teiji Ito, you suggest that the best way to understand Teiji and his cosmic principle is through the process of creating our own music. Did the restrictions of the pandemic influence the way you created and listened for music during this project?
Firstly, the decision to create The Comic Music of Teiji Ito with my long term collaborator and friend Manuel Passoa de Lima came about because I had to change our plans for a live soundtrack performance of Teiji’s work due to the pandemic in 2020.
Manuel and I worked through a process of trial and error, aiming to approach Teiji’s spirit not only as an introduction to his music and life within the limitations of the time, but also through a new medium for me. I had previously worked with video of course, but only as a composer, never [filming] myself. During the pandemic, with limited contact to other people outside the family, it was natural to choose materials that were very domestic in nature. This idea seemed to overlap with Teiji’s spirit, which valued personal kinship, and freely bricolaged together whatever he had at hand in his instrument collection (which by the end of his life, had grown extensively). At the time, my children were still young and I was working with my partner to protect both our normal daily lives, and little slivers of time for each of us to use in our creative practices. So I think I was searching for the seeds of a positive future within the unassuming moments of our life, whilst the world outside was in a chaotic state.
Do you think the process of creating the film and “looking at the tiny absurd materials” of life brought you to a new experience of Ito’s “cosmic principle”?
I feel that looking at “small absurd materials” and thinking about macro cosmic principles—in the sense of something much bigger than ourselves—are just opposite directions, but in the end, they are bound together by the same thing. I feel that searching for what Ito calls the “cosmic principle” is a grand process of getting closer to the essence of oneself, and within the elements of our daily life, we are all given an equal opportunity to search.
The concept of cultural appropriation is also a highly contentious issue, particularly in the context of recent artistic activities. When Teiji lived in NYC, in the 1950s through 70s, the social awareness in terms of “cultural belongings” was in a sense more naïve and at the same time more free, particularly when it came to artistic materials. However, I personally feel that in artistic activities, as long as there is accurate social awareness and genuine passion, it should be accepted more generously to digest and express all kinds of art and culture in one’s own way, regardless of nationality, language, or skin color.
Teiji was able to blend a wide variety of cultural artifacts and musical traditions, in a way that feels both rooted in, and a great expansion of, his existence as a Japanese-American. He came from a family of artists and musicians, and Japanese culture is itself a very syncretic one already. I guess again, we can see a sort of micro-macro approach, taking stuff that were the simple grains of his everyday life and blending them, fusing them with whatever else crossed his path in the highly multicultural atmosphere of New York City.
Teiji’s creative process and aesthetics of “collage” seem to come into your film on many registers: we hear the crackling of eggs and hot oil in a pan, crunching footfalls across a quiet snowy field; a visual rhythm emerges of water pouring into cups, pots, sinks. Similar to Teiji’s overdubbing technique, you play with the layering, fragmentation, and distortion of footage. Were you thinking of collage as you created The Cosmic Music of Teiji Ito?
In the process of making the work, Manuel and I went through materials we use in our daily life and how we use them. Following Teiji’s “working process” meant that we would first collect the materials, and then we would make a collage out of them. I mentioned earlier that exploring cosmic principles is a process of approaching one’s own essence. I also believe that it is a search for one’s own voice. What I personally value are the fragments of personal experiences and memories of my daily life and the intuitive inspirations and coincidences that emerge from them. I was also very influenced by Levi-Strauss’ writings around bricolage, and I think in order to enter Teiji’s spirit one does need to have the attitude of the bricoleur.
Ito had a predilection for intimate connections—not only with the close-knit collaborators he performed with, but also in the way he carefully collected instruments throughout his life. What was the experience of collaboration like on this film? And given Teiji’s preference for working with close kin (both human and instrumental), I’m curious if you approached performing and adapting Ito’s works as a process of collaboration?
As a musician myself, I strongly understand the importance of having a colleague that you can truly trust and respect, both musically and as a human being. Manuel and I have been working intermittently since we met in California in 2015, but the creation of this piece was the most intense exchange we have had. We had to work together, sometimes in quite frank discussions, to adjust our direction, but it was a fulfilling process.
In terms of transcribing and performing his works, I would say that I am [more of a] researcher and interpreter than collaborator. Although Teiji was highly established in the New York experimental and theater scenes during his lifetime, Teiji’s name was not widely recognized as a musician until John Zorn released Teiji’s original recordings on his label Tzadik in the 1990s.
I am currently in the process of writing Teiji’s biography, and I believe that by making his unconventional approach—underpinned by his broad musical knowledge and musical talent—known to a wider public, he will be re-recognised as a pioneer of “performer/composer” in the contemporary experimental music scene, giving us and younger generations of artists the courage to pursue our own original expression and a guide to truly rich artistic fruitfulness.
Ava Witonsky is a writer, analog filmmaker, and magic lanternist living in New York City. She has contributed to ScreenSlate and to programs at Light Industry, Arverne Cinema, Anthology Film Archives, Film-Makers’ Cooperative, cinemóvil, and Microscope Gallery. She is currently researching filmmaking as a healing modality as a Film and Media Studies Master’s student at Columbia University.
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