2025/04/30 Deep Edge -Mansai Part 2 -Machine translation, inaccuracies exist
Source: https://deepedgeplus.kyodonews.jp/column/figureskating-art-cafe/105555/
2025.04.30
[Part 2] The Changes Nomura Mansai Felt Over 10 Years: The Solitude[1] of His Fellow, “Profession Yuzuru Hanyu,” "He is pushing forward with what only he can do"
by 東るい
It’s not about marching the music. Wear the sound, the teaching of Mansai
—10 years ago, when you spoke with Hanyu-san, there were parts of him that couldn’t yet be put into words. But during the group interview on the opening night of notte stellata, you mentioned that those things had now taken shape. In what moments did you feel that most strongly?
“He talks much more now. Back then, he was an athlete, about 20 years old, right? His life was all practice. There wasn’t a need to verbalize anything, and even before that point, in a sport where you earn points, it’s all about whether or not you can execute the elements. But when he turned professional and became a performer, the question became: what is it that you want to express? When I met him ten years ago, I actually intended to tell him: don’t do things without a sense of purpose. Don’t just raise your arm aimlessly—if you raise it with the thought that the sky is in that direction, or that the earth is below, then a sense of inevitability[2] will naturally arise. What I meant was: do things with a purpose. And he realized that. That sense of inevitability. And then, I told him, ‘Wear the music. Don’t just match it.’ Let your body express the music as if it’s part of you. I think that’s what I said.”
“Also, I talked to him about subtraction. Like deliberately not making a sound when jumping, and then bringing a sharp sound only at the end. Or using the opposite direction—these are basic principles of performance, of staging. They’re not really necessary if all you care about is getting points. And there’s no time to verbalize those things anyway. Even if you put it into words, if you can’t do it, it doesn’t matter. But conversely, by verbalizing and forming a sense of purpose, it’s no longer about ‘somehow managing to turn’—it becomes inevitable. You surrender to the music, and find yourself naturally able to rotate. It’s not about thinking, ‘I’ll dance here’ or ‘I’ll land a jump here’—if you wear the music, you’ll fly naturally.”
“He had already been thinking that way. That’s why he constructs his music so precisely. He calculates where to insert steps, where to let things flow—he plans the structure well so that it has the most impact. I also tried to subtly convey: don’t repeat the same thing three times. Add contrast: strong and weak, high and low, big and small. Use all kinds of combinations. I could see that he reconstructed SEIMEI with that kind of mindset. And now, ten years later, here he is in front of me with that mindset.
To express something, you need language. If you don't have the words to express yourself, you won't be able to motivate the staff around you. Show purpose, hold purpose. It’s easy to say it in words, but he’s truly developed that awareness over these ten years.”
The Balance Between the Center Axis of the Noh Stage and the Circling Motion of Ice Skating
—You’ve said that performers in traditional arts, where stage lighting is restricted, must be people who can create their own spotlight—shine their own light. Is Hanyu-san that kind of person?
“Well, in an ice show, there is a spotlight, after all. (laughs) But he’s the kind of person who naturally draws that light. Everyone ends up watching Hanyu-san.
I’ll never forget it—in Boléro, everyone was watching me at first. Then as soon as Hanyu-san appeared, every single person turned to him. At first I was the only one on stage, and when he entered, you could see everyone’s necks crane toward him, curious about what costume he was wearing. It was so amusing I had to laugh.”
—As someone who usually walks diagonally across the Noh stage with precise pacing and shifts in rhythm, how did you feel about syncing that with the rhythm of skating? I wanted to observe both, but it was difficult to take it all in.
“I kind of realized that when everyone’s moving fast, the eye is naturally drawn to what’s slow. If everyone is moving frenetically—whoosh[3], you know—you can’t keep up, so your gaze tends to settle on the center.”
—When someone moves slowly in the middle of fast motion, it starts to feel like that person is the center of gravity—the axis.
“That’s exactly what I set up using the Bon Odori formation[4]. The reason I placed the Noh stage in the center was because it’s the axis. To create that centripetal force. So when everyone moves around it, the one in the center gains power. That’s the relationship with figure skating. When you think of figure skating as a kind of mathematical centripetal force, there’s also the matter of visibility—if you go too far north, the audience can’t see you well.”
The solitude and admiration known only to boundary-crossing artists
—Mansai-san, you referred to Hanyu-san as “profession Yuzuru Hanyu.” You also call yourself “profession Mansai Nomura.” There seems to be a sense of solitude in your borderless, non-boundary activities. Isn’t that a painful position to be in as an artist?
“That’s exactly right. The phrase ‘profession Mansai Nomura’ means doing something that only that person can do. I’m a kyōgen actor, but I don’t just stick to kyōgen. Still, that kind of work is extremely lonely. Like, can a kyōgen critic even properly evaluate this ‘Bolero’? Or can a figure skating critic evaluate it either? If you just enjoy it, that’s fine—but when you get into specialties and categorization, for someone who’s crossing genres, there are very few people who can evaluate all of that and still appreciate Mansai Nomura as a whole.”
“And during those moments, when Hanyu-san said, ‘Athletes don’t use the word retirement,’ I thought to myself again that this is someone who really chooses his words carefully. He kind of mumbled it, you know?[5] So when you ask whether he’s fully come to terms with it, it seems like maybe he hasn’t — but maybe he doesn’t need to. And in that very ambiguity, he’s doing something that only Yuzuru Hanyu could possibly do. You could call him a competitor, but some may argue he’s not one anymore. You could call him an artist, but some might say he isn’t exactly that either. They might say, ‘He’s a skater, right?’—just like if I say I’m an actor, they might reply, ‘But you’re a kyōgen performer, aren’t you?’ In that sense, it’s a very solitary path. But he has a lofty sense of purpose, and he’s doing something no one else can, which is why I gave him the title of ‘profession Yuzuru Hanyu.’ When I saw him again in notte stellata, I was deeply moved by how beautifully he was doing something only he could do.”
“That stage is something only Yuzuru Hanyu could embody—there’s no one more convincing than him. It was truly wonderful. I’m grateful he gave me the chance to be a part of it. I really felt the impact, and I’m glad I did it. Of course, many staff members were there to support it, but Yuzuru Hanyu has a kind of gravitational pull all on his own. While we were talking, I felt in some ways that we were comrades. I think I said it before—he gives off this somewhat public aura, like he belongs to the public. He carries something bigger. In that sense, we are kindred spirits, people who shoulder a sense of duty. I felt he’s that kind of person. Setting aside his own interests, he’s charging ahead toward something only he can do. I’m glad he appreciated the phrase ‘profession Yuzuru Hanyu.’ He truly is ‘profession Yuzuru Hanyu’ now. I really felt we’re people who can connect through that kind of mindset.”
Two "non-human" beings connected to the cosmos... “We probably think in similar ways”
—It didn’t feel like something you created in such a short time. It was remarkably well done.
“He seems to have watched my Bolero performance a lot. He said things like, ‘That rhythm there was kind of loose, wasn’t it?’ (laughs). I improvise quite a bit myself, so he must’ve watched more closely than I have. He grasps my intentions really quickly—like we think in similar ways. When he started working with (choreographer) MIKIKO, she sent me a message on LINE saying: “While creating together with Hanyu-kun, I found myself thinking of you, Mansai-san, again and again. The two of you immediately go to ‘the universe’ (when thinking creatively).” I’m a bit of a non-human[6] (jingai) type myself. I mean, onmyōji[7] are like that too, right? Even an Onmyōji is someone who’s connected to the universe. With Bolero, people might wonder, ‘What does it mean to become a god?’ But for us, we’re in professions where we put on masks and embody that moment of transforming into a god, like in the kyōgen piece Sanbasō.[8] He (Hanyu) is very interested in those ideas, he’s sensitive to them, and he gets inspired by them.”
“He definitely has a kind of divine quality[9] (kamigakari) about him. Otherwise, there’s no way he could pull off something as massive as this. It’s because he has that divine aura and sense of mission[10] (shimeikan) that he’s able to speak so powerfully to others. That underlying sympathy between us is why we could create something so quickly in just a few days. And that’s because he’d already done his studying. Deep down, figure skating and nōgaku[11] movements aren’t so far apart. There’s rhythm, flow (hakobi)[12], and beat/pulse (haku)[13] , and sometimes that concept of beat even disappears. It’s like entrusting your body to the universe. When people walk, their footsteps make sound. But the moment they take flight, that rhythm suddenly vanishes. Whether he’s just gliding or flying through space, I think the emotion and energy inside him changes depending on that. That’s something I said ten years ago, which is why I thought we should start with Tenchi-jin (‘Heaven, Earth, and Humanity’). For the more devoted fans, it was like a review of my teachings. I thought they might enjoy it for that reason as well.”
Read part 1 of the interview:
You might also be interested in the interview with Yuzuru Hanyu:
“Nomura Mansai’s Lucky Bag on the Radio” (Part 1) and
“Nomura Mansai’s Lucky Bag on the Radio” (Part 2)
[1] 孤独 (Kodoku): solitude, loneliness. For translation, the choice between "solitude" and "loneliness." The tone in the interview is reverent, respectful, and almost philosophical. Mansai is not pitying Hanyu or suggesting he's sad or isolated in a negative way. Rather, he's acknowledging the kind of existential solitude that comes from walking an unshared path — being in a realm that few (or no one) else can truly enter. depends heavily on the emotional tone and context.
In Japanese, 孤独 often appears in discussions of artists, craftsmen, or visionaries who are pursuing something so unique or uncompromising that no one else can truly accompany them. This is not necessarily sad — it's often portrayed as a dignified and even necessary part of becoming someone like Yuzuru Hanyu or Mansai Nomura. Thus, Mansai’s use of the “Profession Yuzuru Hanyu” and “Profession Mansai Nomura”
[2] 必然 (hitsuzen): inevitability, necessity. To convey that it wasn’t forced or decided by logic.
[3] Mansai uses the onomatopoeia “pyapya pyapya” (ピャピャピャピャ), which describes something moving very fast.
[4] The Bon Odori formation refers to the traditional dance formation used during Bon Odori (盆踊り), a folk dance performed during Obon, the Japanese Buddhist custom of honoring the spirits of ancestors. Bon Odori uses a circular formation. Most commonly, participants dance in a circle around a central elevated platform called a yagura (櫓). The circular motion represents the cyclical nature of life and death, aligning with Obon’s spiritual themes of remembrance and return.
[5] ゴニョゴニョ言っていたでしょ. ゴニョゴニョ(gonyo-gonyo) is an onomatopoeic word that mimics mumbling or muttering. Mansai lightheartedly remarks that Yuzuru was murmuring or hesitating when talking about the word “retirement,” implying that even in his hesitation, he was being very deliberate and thoughtful.
[6] “人外” (jingai) to refer that their modes of thinking, perceiving, and creating exist outside typical human frameworks.
[7] 陰陽師 (Onmyōji), a mystical figure who is understood to be in touch with forces beyond the ordinary — even the universe itself.
[8] 三番叟 (Sanbasō), A celebratory and sacred dance in Noh and Kyōgen theater, performed to pray for peace, prosperity, and bountiful harvests. It often involves rhythmic stomping (足拍子 ashibyōshi) as a symbolic act of grounding and invoking spiritual resonance with the earth.
[9] 神がかり(kamigakari), the more literal meaning is a state of divine possession, specifically where a spiritual being (kami) enters and takes over a human body, allowing the spirit to speak or act through the individual. Here the term is used figuratively to describe someone whose performance or act seems beyond human — as if touched by a divine force.
[10] 使命感（shimeikan）, Sense of mission, sense of duty, or calling.Together, 使命感 refers to a deep inner conviction that one has a role or purpose to fulfill — often spiritual or socially meaningful.
[11] 能楽 (Nōgaku), is one of the traditional styles of Japanese theater. It is composed of the lyric drama noh (能), and the comic theater kyōgen (狂言).
[12] 運び (hakobi), in Noh and traditional Japanese arts, 運び refers to how one moves from one point to another — with intention, balance, and grace. It encompasses more than just physical motion; it includes timing, emotion, breath, and even spatial awareness.
[13] 拍 (haku), beat or rhythmic unit. In music and traditional performing arts, 拍 refers to a rhythmic pulse or beat — not necessarily in the Western sense of a metronomic "tick," but more fluid and often tied to breath, movement, and timing. In Noh, 拍 includes both audible beats (from drums, chanting, etc.) and internalized, almost meditative rhythm — pauses (間 / ma) are just as important as movement. Especially in Noh, 拍 is a broader concept that includes: physical rhythm (timing of movement or music), emotional rhythm (the felt cadence of a line or gesture), and a kind of pulse, as in a living, breathing flow of energy in performance.