The Silent Language of Butoh 2014

Last Saturday, my new dear friend Deva shared her experience with subbody Butoh. Her words painted a picture so unique and mysterious that I felt an irresistible pull to experience it for myself.

The class lasted three hours, and about ten of us gathered in the space. At the start, the instructor asked us to be still, to listen—not just with our ears, but with our inner body. We were to move in four simple directions: forward and backward, left and right, in circles.

I lay down, trying to follow her guidance, but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Was I doing it right? Was I missing something? Yet, as the class went on, we began moving different parts of our body—starting with the head, then the shoulders, then more. Slowly, I felt something shifting. My body. My mind. A quiet emptiness took over—dark, still, calm.

Then, she told me to stand. I tried, but I felt like a newborn, taking my very first steps. I moved, but my body was heavy. She told us to walk as if it were the first time in our lives. But I didn’t have to pretend—it truly felt like my first time.

I lifted my leg, then hesitated. Should my heel touch the ground first? Or my toes? I didn’t know. Balancing was hard, but I wasn’t frustrated. I simply kept trying. My mind was free of distractions—there was no past, no future, just the task before me. I was only doing what I was told. That was all. And somehow, that simplicity felt profound.

Then, my body found a rhythm. My weight shifted, my other foot lifted. Thinking back, I must have looked like a zombie learning to walk. It wasn’t easy—my legs felt too weak to carry me, and I struggled to stay upright. But I stayed present, listening, feeling.

At some point, I lost all sense of place. I wasn’t in the room anymore. It felt as if I had stepped inside my own body, traveling without self-consciousness. There was no “me,” no awareness of self—only something deeper. I could have been anything: a rock, a river, an animal, a tree. I was in a dark, endless space. The only thing anchoring me was my instructor’s voice. Without it, I might have stayed in that emptiness forever.

Then she asked us to paint—not on paper, but in space. We were paired up, mirroring each other, drawing each other's shape. I am an artist, but this was different. The moment she asked me to draw, my subconscious became the artist. I let go. I had no hesitation, no self-judgment. My hand moved as if it already knew what to do. I was simply being.

The class ended, and I returned to my usual state of mind. But something lingered.

Every day, miracles unfold in nature. Birds cross vast oceans without losing their way. Frogs freeze in winter and wake in spring, as if time had only paused. In Butoh, I entered a place where my body, mind, and soul did not lead—I became a blank canvas, waiting for something beyond myself to leave its mark.

And I wonder: Are humans the only creatures not driven purely by instinct? Every other being moves as if following an unseen purpose. Yet we, alone, question. We alone seek truth. We alone long to be right.

Why?

Why are we different? Why are we given this extraordinary ability to change?

And what does the Creator wish for us to paint on our canvas?

Butoh reminded me of something I felt as a child—this deep, unshakable wonder. Why was I born? Is there something I must prove before I die?

And if there is a beginning, must there also be an end?

I am not convinced that death is the end. It doesn’t feel right. After all, I had no say in my birth—why should my death be any different? But while I live, I do have choices. I have been given the will to change.

We could be like the rest of creation, simply following an unseen force. But we are not.

So why?

There must be a reason.

Perhaps our purpose is not to follow, but to seek. To discipline our daily lives, to keep asking, and to never stop searching for the answers.

Thank you for reading.

— Soo Kyung Kim