Musical Participation, Solitude, and Self-sufficiency in Bengkala, the “Deaf Village” in Bali バリ島「聾の村」ブンカラにおける音楽参与・孤独・自己充足

Madoka Nishiura 西浦まどか
The University of Tokyo
tcd.madoka@gmail.com

Original publication: Nishiura, Madoka. 2022. “Hibikiai michiru rō no karada: Bari-tō ‘rō no mura’ Bunkara ni okeru ongaku san’yo, kodoku, jiko-jūsoku.” Japanese Journal of Cultural Anthropology 87（3）: 441-460.

Translator’s note: I preserve the article’s recurring terms as consistently as possible: 聾者／聴者 as “deaf people” and “hearing people,” 聾児／聴児 as “deaf children” and “hearing children,” 響き as “resonance,” 響きあう as “resonating with one another” or “mutually resonating,” and 自己充足 as “self-sufficiency.” Musicking is kept as Small’s term. I have kept the source’s relatively plain sequence of claims and contrasts, and have avoided making the English more rhetorically punctuated than the Japanese.

Abstract

This article discusses, from the standpoint of the anthropology of music, various aspects of deaf people’s participation/non-participation in musical practices, taking Bali, Indonesia, as its case. It first surveys two genealogies within the anthropology of music. One is acoustic-body theory, which focuses on whole-body resonance, and the other is musicking theory, which develops a view of music as an interactive event filled with relationality. It shows that, while both have dismantled the “sound”-centeredness of musical performance, they have also shared a form of relational thinking that places value on participants in musical practices “melting together and becoming one.” Viewed through these theoretical perspectives, local deaf people appear to participate with hearing people in musicking interactions as mutually resonating bodies and thereby to connect with others. On this basis, the article examines a deaf child who did not enter the hearing children’s dance-play and later danced entirely alone, asking where the “solitude” faced by deaf people in musical settings is located. It finds one part of the cause in the tacit division of social domains within the village community and in problems of language use surrounding the sign language that produces this division. At the same time, it attends to the “self-sufficiency” of the experience of dancing alone. Finally, from a post-relational perspective, the article argues that “all bodies that make music” each possess a fragile, self-sufficient aspect of aloneness.

Keywords: deaf, music, dance, participation, Bali, self-sufficiency

Contents

• I. Is Music Something Heard with the Ears?
  • 1. Introduction
  • 2. Acoustic-Body Theory: “Resonance” as Whole-Body Sensation
  • 3. Musicking Theory: Music as Interaction
  • 4. The Relational Thinking of Music Research That Aims at “Melting Together and Becoming One”
• II. Deaf Bodies That Resonate Interactively
  • 1. Field Overview
  • 2. Deaf Residents and the Village Music Scene
  • 3. Case and Interpretation from Acoustic-Body Theory 1: A Deaf Person Who Wants a Speaker
  • 4. Case and Interpretation from Acoustic-Body Theory 2: The Sway of Music and the Sway of Intoxication
  • 5. Case and Interpretation from Musicking Theory 1: “Deaf Dance” under the Eaves
  • 6. Case and Interpretation from Musicking Theory 2: Everyday Interaction and the Interaction of Dance-Play
• III. The Solitude and Sufficiency of Dance-Play
  • 1. Background to the Case: A Deaf-Hearing Integrated Elementary School
  • 2. Case: Hearing Children’s Dance-Play and a Deaf Child Alone
  • 3. Interpretation 1: The Hearing Domain and the Deaf Domain
  • 4. Interpretation 2: K-POP That Fulfills
• IV. Conclusion: Everyone Is Self-Sufficient
• Acknowledgments
• Notes
• References

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I. Is Music Something Heard with the Ears?

1. Introduction

When I say, “I study deaf people’s¹ participation in music,” people sometimes react with surprise and a puzzled look. “Deaf people cannot hear with their ears. If music is something heard with the ears, how could deaf people participate in music?” From the standpoint of contemporary Japanese “common sense,” this is an entirely reasonable response. As long as this premise is accepted, music as a form of artistic activity can obstruct the participation of deaf people as a particular group. But is this general “common sense” really correct?

As I will argue, “being deaf” does not in itself mean “being excluded from music.” Deaf people engage with musical practice in various ways. Yet they do not participate in music under exactly the same conditions as hearing people. In what ways do they participate in music, and in what ways do they not participate, or find themselves unable to do so? By describing deaf residents’ involvement with music in a community on the Indonesian island of Bali known as the “deaf village,” this article seeks to clarify some of the conditions under which deaf people participate or do not participate in music.

The article is organized as follows. Chapter I reviews how anthropological studies of music have dismantled music’s sound-centricity. It traces two major approaches, the genealogy of acoustic body theory and the genealogy of musicking theory, which treats music as interaction. I point out that both are ideologically accompanied by relational thinking that makes “melting together and becoming one” music’s highest goal. Building on this theoretical review, Chapter II draws on field data from Bali to examine how deaf people participate in hearing people’s musical practices and are “connected” to others, considering this participation from the perspectives of acoustic body theory and musicking theory. Chapter III turns to a deaf child who did not join hearing children’s dance-play and later danced alone. It asks where the “solitude” that deaf people confront in musical settings is located. I argue that this solitude arises from tacit differences between the social domains of hearing and deaf people in the village community, together with issues of language use surrounding sign language. I also discuss the experience of dancing alone through the concept of “self-sufficiency.” The conclusion argues from a post-relational perspective that “all bodies that make music” possess a fragile, self-sufficient aspect of aloneness.

This chapter begins by surveying how the anthropology of music has dismantled the “common sense” introduced above, that “music is something heard with the ears.” It focuses on two genealogies in particular. The first is the acoustic body theory developed by Yoichi Yamada and others, which attends to the multisensory resonance of musical practice. The second is musicking theory, which attends to interaction in the “here and now” of sites of musical practice.

2. Acoustic-Body Theory: “Resonance” as Whole-Body Sensation

One of the most widely accepted definitions of music in the anthropology of music and ethnomusicology is probably John Blacking’s 1973 formulation, “humanly organized sound” [Blacking 1978: 11-12]. Many practices around the world do not fit the Western concept of music, including its Japanese translation ongaku. Yet if “music” is understood as some form of creative “sound,” it becomes possible to compare the things called “music” in different parts of the world. From this perspective, the idea that music is sound, or something centered on sound, does indeed seem to be an unwavering point of departure for the anthropology of music. The anthropology of music, however, has not treated this “sound” simply as an auditory signal. It has expanded the concept to include the whole body’s perception of vibration. In the anthropology of music in Japan, Yoichi Yamada in particular opened up this perspective.

Yamada writes that “‘hearing’ sound with the ears is only a small part of ‘feeling’ sound with the body” [Yamada 2017: 22]. He proposes an “acoustic body theory” to discuss how the body relates to a whole-body form of sound, one that “resounds within a body in which various somatic senses intersect and intermingle” [Yamada 2017: 15]. Drawing on research into bamboo-flute performance and collective singing among the Waxei people of Papua New Guinea, Yamada calls bodies that sense one another through resonance “acoustic bodies” [Yamada 1991, 2000, 2017].

Yamada’s acoustic body theory developed against the background of acoustic-ecological works from the 1970s and 1980s, including R. Murray Schafer’s soundscape theory [Schafer 2006] and Steven Feld’s acoustemology [Feld 1982; Feld 2008]. They are known for advancing an auditory-centered position against the visualism of Western modernity, but neither limits “sound” to auditory stimuli heard by the ears [Feld 2008; Tanaka 2019]. Yamada, who has maintained an intellectual exchange with Feld, places auditory sound at the center of his discussion while continuing to explore sound as something more than what the ears hear. Such sound presses upon the body as a whole-body sensation and connects with the perception of the world. Resonance enters the body, reverberates within it, and resonates with other bodies. For Yamada, this is “the core of musical experience” [Mathieu 1996: 73, via Yamada 2017: 248]. Sound, then, is not so much “sound” as precisely “resonance.”²

Connecting this multisensory approach to sound with Tim Ingold’s theory of perception brings us closer to deaf people’s musical experience. Ingold criticizes work in the “anthropology of the senses” that presupposes differences among the so-called five senses, such as sight and hearing. In its place, he proposes an account of perception through all the senses, understood as an intermingled whole [Ingold 2000]. He quotes John Hull, who became blind later in life. “We are not a cake with a slice missing. We are a smaller cake” [Hull 1997: xii, via Ingold 2000: 270]. The experience of “blindness,” in other words, does not consist of simply removing the part called “sight” from the perception of a “nondisabled person.” It is experienced as an entirely different perceptual world. The same can be said of deaf people. If sound is “resonance = vibration” felt not only through hearing but through the whole body, including the skin and internal organs, then the resonance perceived by a “hearing-impaired person” is not a partial perception left after something has been subtracted from that of a “nondisabled person.” A deaf person’s experience of resonance emerges as a complex perceptual world entirely different from that of a hearing person.

Once “sound” is expanded into this form of whole-body “resonance,” the sound at the core of music’s definition can become a resource perceptible to deaf people as well. While tacitly presupposing this acoustic body conception, the anthropology of music has also freed music from auditory centrality through another approach. This is musicking theory, which treats musical performance as interaction and attends to its “here and now.”

3. Musicking Theory: Music as Interaction

“Musicking” is a concept proposed by the musicologist Christopher Small in his 1998 book Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening [Small 2011]. As the gerund ending “-ing” suggests, musicking refers to music as an “event” rather than a “thing.” It is music understood as an occurrence that includes every practice connected with a performance, such as cleaning the venue and taking tickets. The term is catchy and readily understood, so its gerund form tends to receive particular emphasis. Yet the originality of Small’s concept lies in its synchronic and relational perspective on musical practice. The idea of turning music into a gerund and emphasizing its character as an event had already been proposed three years earlier by David Elliott under the name “musicing” [Elliott 1995]. Chihiro Nishijima, one of the Japanese translators of Musicking, compares Elliott’s musicing with Small’s musicking. Both reject the treatment of music as a thing. Elliott, however, focuses on an individual’s learning over time and locates the essence of music in “self-growth, self-knowledge, and (Csikszentmihalyi’s) flow.” Small locates it in “the exploration, affirmation, and celebration of group values,” treating “making music” as the construction of collective relations in the moment of the “here and now.” On this point, the two differ substantially [Nishijima 2020: 16-17, commas as in the original]. Small states explicitly that “the act of musicking is achieved within a series of ‘relations,’ and the meaning of the act lies within those multiple relations” [Small 2011: 38]. He can thus be said to have established a direction in music research that attends to every relation within musical performance as an event.

How, then, has musical practice as an event been described and analyzed in concrete terms? Researchers have relied on theories of interaction.

Toyoichi Nozawa [2010], another Japanese translator of Musicking, draws on Erving Goffman’s framework to analyze how the “shout” in an African American Pentecostal church in the United States emerges and gathers intensity. The shout is a trance-state dance accompanied by music. Nozawa [2010] calls the process by which an individual’s immersion in trance is elicited through the “involvement” of surrounding worshippers, the band’s music, pastors, and others an “immersion-involvement” relation. As what Goffman calls a “focused gathering,” he argues, it gives participants “euphoria,” “fun,” and “secure immersion” [Goffman 1985: 33-34, via Nozawa 2010: 431]. Nozawa especially emphasizes that these experiences arise through nonverbal “bodily and unconscious metamessages” [Nozawa 2010: 432], including bodily contact, calls, and feet stamping or hands clapping in time with the music. In a more recent analysis, he argues that the congregation’s “buzz,” an auditory and visual form of noise, is indispensable to the shout [Nozawa 2021]. This work offers a perspective on musical performance as an event of interaction that cannot be reduced to the transmission and reception of linguistic messages.³

In musicking theory, music is not a “thing” made of sound that ought to be heard with the ears. It is a distinctive event of interaction that arises in the “here and now” through an entire field of relations while incorporating many bodily, nonverbal signs beyond sound. Small includes the work of ticket takers and cleaners in musicking, while Nozawa and others attend to exchanges of bodily metamessages. In the same way, musicking theory does not restrict music’s constituent elements to sound. From this perspective, if we ask how deaf people engage with the interactive event as a whole, they can fully be participants in musicking.

4. The Relational Thinking of Music Research That Aims at “Melting Together and Becoming One”

Acoustic body theory and musicking theory have dismantled music’s sound-centricity along different paths, but they share one feature. Both celebrate the experience of people in musical practice “melting together and becoming one.” This is “relational thinking,” which Matei Candea and others identify as a problem into which cultural anthropology has fallen. It is a normative tendency to celebrate warm connections among people without subjecting them to critique [Candea, Cook, Trundle & Yarrow, eds. 2015].

Within the framework of acoustic body theory, Yamada writes, “When one’s own body is filled with resonance, and that resonance overflows the body and interpenetrates with the bodies around it, we experience vibe and groove, a transcendent and collaborative musical pleasure” [Yamada 2017: 250]. He thus values the “transcendent and collaborative musical pleasure” produced at the phenomenological level when “the other’s resonance and one’s own resonance melt together and become one.”

In musicking theory as well, smooth exchanges of feedback, such as one performer’s sound being answered at once by another’s, draw people into participation. Musical performance aims toward the state in which “one’s own agency and the other’s agency melt together and become one” as its highest goal. Behind these findings in the anthropology of music lies a normative idea that musical practice is ideal when people can participate and feel connected to one another.

It is also suggestive that the concept of “participation” in Charles Keil’s groove theory, often cited by both approaches as one of their theoretical pillars, derives from Lucien Lévy-Bruhl’s “participation,” or fusion [Lévy-Bruhl 1953; Keil 1987: 276]. Keil calls the minute discrepancies produced by jazz musicians’ sound “participatory discrepancies” and argues that they generate a groove that draws people into performance. This groove-like “participation” resembles the principle discussed by Lévy-Bruhl through which the Bororo people of Brazil regard themselves as “araras,” or macaws. It is “participation = fusion.” Musical anthropologists do not all use the word “participation” with the meaning of “fusion” explicitly in mind, but they can be said to share this conception at its root. In research on musical performance grounded in relational thinking, participation as it ought to be goes beyond “someone joining a particular activity.” It is a process in which things that were heterogeneous fuse, or melt together and become one.

The wording “melting together and becoming one” used in this section comes from a book on sign language and dance by Yutaka Yoshida. Yoshida [2018] places signed conversation and dance practice in a Kenyan school for the deaf on the same ground by treating both as interaction. She compares the “animated bodies” that emerge in spontaneous, lively communication, such as everyday signed conversation and dance-play, with the “poised bodies” that appear in orderly interview conversations and similar settings. Focusing on the former communicative events, she describes groups of bodies that resonate and “melt together and become one” [Yoshida 2018: 171]. Yoshida’s study is rich in ambitious ideas. It suggests the possibility of communication that crosses the opposition between language and nonlanguage, does not involve hearing, and can nevertheless “resonate with one another.” Yet it remains focused on dismantling a linguistic model of communication set in opposition to this possibility, without giving a logical account of what the “animated body” actually is. When deaf people mingle with others and their bodies become “animated,” for whom, and in what way, do the resonating bodies “melt together and become one”? Under what circumstances are they unable to “melt together and become one”? More fundamentally, should they “melt together and become one”?

To answer these questions, this article examines cases in which deaf people are present at sites of musical practice in a village on the Indonesian island of Bali known as the “deaf village.” Deaf people in the village do not join hearing people in playing gamelan music, dancing ritual offering dances, or listening to popular music through speakers. Yet they engage with music in their own ways. The chapters that follow examine this involvement together with its limits.⁴

II. Deaf Bodies That Resonate Interactively

1. Field Overview

Bengkala Village (Desa Bengkala), located in northern Bali, Indonesia, is often introduced by media inside and outside Indonesia as a “deaf village” or a “sign-language village.” According to village office records from January 2019, 42 of its 2,990 residents were deaf, a proportion about three to four times that of Japan and other regions. Against this background, the village developed its own sign language, Kata Kolok, hereafter “Kata Kolok Sign Language,” which is used mainly by deaf residents and their families. I conducted a total of twelve months of field research in Bengkala Village between January 2019 and March 2020. My methods included participant observation, interviews with residents, and video recording with permission.

Research has established that a specific gene, DFNB3, accounts for the high incidence of deaf births in Bengkala Village [Winata et al. 1995]. Bengkala follows the Balinese custom in which patrilineal kin groups generally live together. Because people with close genetic relations live near one another, households with deaf members tend to cluster to some extent. Thus, although deaf people make up only a little over one percent of the village population and their birth rate is declining, those whose sphere of life overlaps with deaf households feel that far more deaf people live around them than the figure of “one percent” suggests. The Kata Kolok Sign Language they use is also a familiar presence.

As members of a community in which local, familial, and linguistic communities overlap, how do Bengkala’s deaf people relate to hearing residents’ music in village life?

2. Deaf Residents and the Village Music Scene

For the residents of Bengkala Village, the most familiar forms of music, especially music as an event of performance, are the performance of bronze instrumental ensembles called gamelan, the traditional dances they accompany, and popular music.

With regard to gamelan instruments, at least within the scope of my research, I never encountered deaf residents who actively enjoyed listening to performances or joining them. Most seemed to regard the instruments as belonging to hearing people and showed little interest in them.

On the other hand, quite a few deaf people enjoy dancing. In Bengkala, however, the performing-arts domain of hearing people and that of deaf people are clearly separated. As a rule, deaf people in Bengkala Village are not permitted to dance in ritual offering performances. Hearing residents explain this by saying, “Deaf people cannot dance in precise time with the gamelan accompaniment.” Balinese dance values the close interaction between dancers and gamelan players, and the dancing body is inseparable from gamelan sound. Bengkala’s deaf people, who cannot dance while listening to gamelan, are therefore regarded as unsuitable dancers for offering dances.

The village also provides separate opportunities for “deaf dance.” It is performed at welfare events, for tourists, during media coverage, or, less frequently, when requested for rites of passage. Its repertoire includes Janger Kolok, begun in 1967 with choreography by a hearing dancer from Gianyar Regency, which is famous for its performing arts. This piece is accompanied only by a drum and includes an audience-participation segment. The repertoire also includes three pieces accompanied by a gamelan ensemble and choreographed since 2016 by a professor at an arts university in the provincial capital, Denpasar. The dancers are deaf as a rule, while hearing people provide the gamelan accompaniment. In this way, Bengkala Village’s performance settings separate hearing people as “those who can move with the music” from deaf people as “those for whom the music is adjusted.” The principal contexts of the stage are also broadly divided, with ritual for hearing people and welfare and tourism for deaf people.

This does not mean that Bengkala’s deaf residents wholly disregard music in rituals. At sites of ritual offering dances, they are at least present as an audience that only watches. Interestingly, in Kata Kolok Sign Language, the word for “ritual” (upacara) is expressed by a motion of striking with two fingers. According to a hearing sign-language interpreter, the sign derives from the action of playing the reyong, a gamelan instrument consisting of a row of small, knobbed bronze gongs.⁵ The etymology of a local word cannot be taken as a direct reflection of people’s conceptual world. Still, the fact that local vocabulary represents “ritual” through the action of gamelan performance, and continues to do so, suggests at least one conception shared to some degree among Bengkala’s deaf residents. Gamelan music is connected with ritual and can represent ritual.

In these circumstances, which at first appear exclusionary, how do deaf residents experience the village’s music scene? I will now consider in turn cases that correspond to the perspectives reviewed in the previous chapter, first acoustic-body theory and then musicking theory, which treats music as interaction.

3. Case and Interpretation from Acoustic-Body Theory 1: A Deaf Person Who Wants a Speaker

When I was lodging with a deaf family in which all seven members, from the couple to their grandchildren, were deaf, Dharma, the deaf “father,”⁶ repeatedly told me, “You should buy a speaker.” In other words, this seemed to be an indirect prompt phrased as advice to me, asking, “Could you buy a speaker for all of us?” He had previously used the same phrasing to say, “You should buy a washing machine,” so his way of prompting me was not itself surprising. What surprised me was that the object he wanted me to buy was a speaker. Apart from me, everyone in the house was deaf. A speaker should primarily be a device for hearing or listening to music. Why did he want one?

In Bali, or at least in Bengkala and the surrounding villages, almost every house has a full-sized speaker set about thirty centimeters to one meter tall. Quite a few households have no washing machine but do have a speaker. People play music at high volume while they work, or after work when they return home and relax with family and friends over tea and snacks, or sit together and pass around liquor. Most often they play Indonesian pop, K-POP, and Balinese gamelan music. In Bali, the livelier things are, the better, and people often play music loudly wherever they are. Even television volumes are extremely high.

Dharma is deaf, so he does not “hear/listen to” music from a speaker in the same way as hearing people. He said, however, that he feels loud music, especially music with heavy bass, as vibrations resonating in his heart and abdomen. In front of me, he often comically thrust his chin forward and marked the beat of Indonesian pop that someone nearby was playing loudly. Here is a body that perceives “resonance” through the skin and viscera and synchronizes, or wants to synchronize, its own movement with it. For deaf people, this tactile resonance offers one clue for “perceiving” the music that hearing people make.

Yet this experience of low-frequency vibration was not Dharma’s main reason for wanting a speaker. More important to him was the connection between speakers and drinking gatherings. He enjoyed drinking and had made many hearing drinking friends outside the village. He knew that drinking gatherings seemed always to come with speakers and that hearing people seemed to enjoy themselves because of them. By getting the foreigner lodging in his home to buy a speaker, he wanted one day, when he invited friends over to drink, to make the gathering take shape more fully as a drinking gathering.

What matters here is that the host who wanted to provide the speaker was himself deaf and did not hear the sound of the music together with the other hearing people. Following Small’s concept of musicking, musical practice can be understood as an event encompassing the actions of everyone who might be involved, even the work of ticket takers and cleaners. On this account, Dharma, a deaf person more concerned with setting the scene than with music’s sounding itself, may appear to occupy a position like Small’s ticket taker [cf. Small 2011]. In practice, however, his role was closer to that of a performer, or more precisely, to that of a participant in Thomas Turino’s “participatory music” [Turino 2015]. Dharma wanted to provide a speaker less to set up a place where music would sound for his hearing friends than to become excited himself within the atmosphere enlivened by music. He did not want to be an outsider to music’s sounding, like the ticket taker imagined by Small. He wanted to become a body resonating with others as a participant who himself sounded. To make this performer-like role of the deaf Dharma clearer, let us consider one more scene.

4. Case and Interpretation from Acoustic-Body Theory 2: The Sway of Music and the Sway of Intoxication

Case 1. A Drinking Gathering Filled with Sway and Resonance

One day, January 17, 2020, at around three in the afternoon, Dharma asked me, “I’m going to visit a friend outside the village. Do you want to come?” Of course I said I would and began getting ready to leave. He loaded a fish onto his motorbike as a gift for his friend. Incidentally, this fish was the morning’s “spoils.” He had taken mangoes picked without permission at his family home as a gift when visiting a fisherman’s house, and the fisherman had given him the fish. Dharma’s idea of visiting his friend had not come from a prior arrangement either. It came from having acquired a respectable enough gift.

After about thirty minutes by motorbike, we left the national highway for a road paved with asphalt by hand, then turned onto a winding, unpaved track of bare earth. His friend’s house stood there. Although we had arrived without an appointment, the couple who owned the house showed no surprise and welcomed us with “Good to see you, good to see you,” serving tea and snacks. Both were hearing. We sat in a veranda-like space while I answered their conventional questions for a foreigner, such as where I came from. Four people from the host’s family and among his brothers and friends living nearby arrived one after another. Except for the host’s wife and children, all those gathered were men in their thirties or forties. The host had apparently invited them through a smartphone messaging app, saying, “Dharma is here. Let’s drink.” We sat directly on the floor in a circle, and a pitcher filled to the brim with palm wine (tuak) and a glass were brought out. In Bali, one glass is drained in a single draught and passed around. Nearby stood a large speaker about one meter tall, connected to someone’s smartphone and playing Indonesian pop at high volume.

As we passed the liquor around over dishes and snacks, everyone gradually became drunk. One man connected a microphone to the speaker and began karaoke. With his voice hoarse from liquor, the middle-aged man twisted his body and sang at full force with evident pleasure. Those around him called out, “That’s good, that’s good!” Dharma pointed to his friend singing karaoke, imitated his posture, and laughed, “I’ll sing in a funny way.” He too was tipsy, and his face was red. Whether their bodies were swaying with the music or swaying hazily from the alcohol, everyone there, including Dharma, was making fine swaying movements.

At this moment, the deaf Dharma perceived skin-felt, visceral, and visual “vibrations” and was present as a body that was itself “vibrating.” The experience of “resonance” among the hearing people present differed greatly from Dharma’s, and this difference matters. Resonances such as the melody and lyrics of the karaoke song and the singer’s vocal quality could set a hearing person’s body in motion, yet they did not reach Dharma. Just as the experiences of hearing people and Dharma differed, hearing people themselves must also have had various experiences of resonance depending on whether they sang by sounding their own breath, listened to someone else, called encouragement from the side, and on how intoxicated they were. In this “drinking-gathering karaoke” scene, everyone subtly swayed according to their own perceptual experience and emitted vibrations through voice or movement. The deaf Dharma was no onlooker observing the scene from outside. He was a body resonating with others, cast into the very midst of it.

In the tradition of music research, music is “humanly organized sound” [Blacking 1978], and sound will probably retain its importance in music research. Yet, as Yamada and others have shown, sound at sites of musicking is “resonance” that includes skin sensation, visceral sensation, heat, and atmosphere, and deaf people can also become “acoustic bodies” participating in it. When the “sound” of music becomes something that resonates through the whole body rather than something heard by the ears, sound itself need not form a barrier that prevents deaf people from participating in musicking.

5. Case and Interpretation from Musicking Theory 1: “Deaf Dance” under the Eaves

The previous section followed acoustic-body theory and reconceived the body participating in music as a whole-body “body resonating with others.” It thereby showed that deaf people, too, can enter the very midst of a musical setting. What makes this possible is the perception shared by deaf and hearing people of multisensory “vibration” in the broad sense. Yet the ability to perceive something is not the same as its becoming a “musical experience.” Put differently, there remains a leap between the physical phenomenon in which vibration enters one’s body and resonates with other bodies and the feeling of a musical experience in which one has “melted together and become one” with others, sometimes to the point of “participation,” or fusion. From this section onward, I use musicking theory’s perspective on music as interaction to consider the role of a deaf dancer in the unfolding interaction of a dance-play that arose suddenly under the eaves.

Case 2. “Deaf Dance” under the Eaves

The deaf Karisma was one of the women dancers in “deaf dance.” She was forty-nine at the time of my research. She and her deaf husband had three children, two deaf and one hearing. She now lives with her hearing son’s family. Recently, younger people have often performed deaf dance, but Karisma still frequently dances when the younger dancers are unavailable. Among the women on Bengkala’s deaf-dance stage, she is the “veteran” who has performed most often.

For about two months during my research, I rented a room from a hearing family next door to her house. My host family and Karisma’s family were relatives. They were “neighbors” and at the same time “family.”

One evening, March 17, 2019, I was resting in the courtyard after practicing a ritual offering dance with Mari, the high-school-aged daughter of my host family, and others. Her younger brother Agus was playing by beating a drum, and their mother, Ibu Mari, suggested, “Try playing the accompaniment to Janger Kolok.” Janger Kolok is one of the “deaf dances” introduced in the first section of this chapter and is usually performed in welfare and tourism settings. When Agus began to play its drum accompaniment, Ibu Mari peered into the neighboring house where the deaf Karisma was and invited her, saying, “Look, it’s Janger Kolok. Try dancing.” Karisma slipped briskly into another room. I thought she had shyly declined, but she soon strode out while wrapping a dancing sarong around her waist. She had gone into the room to get it.

She began to dance, using the shared courtyard in front of the two houses as a stage. The hearing people who had been sitting under the eaves talking began watching while calling, “It’s Janger Kolok!” Agus, playing the drum, kept his eyes fixed on Karisma, the dancer, and smiled. A deaf French visitor who had been staying in the village for several days happened to pass with a deaf Bengkala resident and also began watching from a short distance.

The dance reached the “audience-participation segment” in its second half. On a regular stage, a woman dancer uses her fan to select an invited guest at a welfare event, an interviewer during media coverage, or the tourist who commissioned a tourist performance. She draws that person onto the stage for an improvised dance session. Here, however, there was no “guest.” Karisma first chose Somi, Mari’s friend, a young woman who enlivened any gathering. Somi immediately approached Karisma and began dancing with fierce, quick movements in a male dance form. Everyone around them collapsed with laughter. After the two danced together improvisationally for a while, Karisma prompted Somi to change dancers with the conventional greeting of palms together and a handshake. She then chose Lydia, another of Mari’s friends sitting beside Somi. Laughing and saying, “No,” Lydia came out to dance as those around her urged her on. This time she made the same female dance movements as Karisma. Mari was chosen next. She tried to decline with an excuse, saying, “Look, I’m filming with the camera!” Those around her called, “Go on, go on,” and drew her onto the “stage.” After only a few seconds, Mari herself put her palms together, shook hands, and returned to her seat. Karisma laughed and signed near her hands, “Changing already.” Karisma tried to choose Ibu Mari, but Ibu Mari pointed to me to indicate that I should be next. Mari judged that Karisma had refrained from choosing me because I was filming on my smartphone. She took my phone, and Karisma chose me. When I came out to dance, everyone again collapsed with laughter, calling, “She’s dancing!” After a while, I stopped and tried to prompt a change with palms together and a handshake, but Karisma pointed to tell me to turn properly as I danced. We continued dancing. When we shook hands to change, those around us pointed to the French visitor, who was then looking elsewhere, and Karisma chose him. He looked surprised, but handed his camera to the deaf resident guiding him and came out to dance. After dancing for a while and shaking hands, the two exchanged the Kata Kolok sign for “thank you,” and the French visitor returned to where he had been. Karisma performed a closing form for the participation segment with movements different from those before it. She bowed with her palms together, and the dance-play ended.

What occurred in this case was precisely what Turino [2015] calls “participatory music.” An interaction rich in relations between sound and movement and between one movement and another took shape among Agus the drummer, the dancers, the audience calling encouragement, and each person selected and drawn in to play the guest. How, then, did the excitement shared in the courtyard arise within the interaction of this dance-play?

To begin with, the occasion for this dance-play was the start of the drum part of a “deaf dance,” rather than the music of hearing people’s traditional dance. Karisma went out of her way to get her dancing sarong and presented the piece before everyone as a serious dance. Those around her responded with smiles and affirmative calls. In the audience-participation segment, Karisma first chose the showy Somi, who immediately danced comically with exaggerated, highly theatrical movements. This established the direction of the segment, in which each selected person would play a guest and dance with Karisma. The suggestions of those around her and Karisma’s decisions together determined whom she chose next. Once the rule of changing dancers with palms together and a handshake had been displayed and shared, either Karisma or the person playing the guest could propose a change. In this way, those watching, those watched, and those directing the flow of the performance intermingled. Focus was established [Goffman 1985], and the time-space of a participatory dance-play frame filled with laughter arose.

What deserves attention here is Karisma’s striking resemblance to the skilled “caller” in American contra dance described by Turino [2015: 298]. According to Turino, callers play an important role in contra dance, a typical form of “participatory” music in which a certain number of beginners are always present. Over a microphone, they call instructions for the next movement, such as “Now, form two lines.” Callers give individual instruction on the spot to confused dancers and announce the title of the next tune, thereby directing the course of the whole event. Participatory music values drawing people in and having them participate more than the completeness of the performance. A caller must help beginners become able to dance without attending to them so much that experienced dancers grow idle. The role requires an ability to direct matters according to each situation.

Like this caller, Karisma in the present case immediately judged and chose the next dancer from the situation at the site and the people participating, thereby determining how the dance would develop. Given the context in which Janger Kolok is normally performed on welfare or tourism stages, the easiest people to choose first would have been me or the French tourist, both “foreigners.” I was holding up a smartphone to film, however, and the French visitor had just arrived and might not yet have grasped the situation. Karisma therefore first chose the showy Somi. Somi immediately responded with an amusing movement, and the dance-play came alive. Karisma later allowed the shy Lydia and Mari to return to the audience after a short time. When I tried to end my turn with awkward movements, she pointed to tell me to “turn properly and dance” and kept the dance going. Like a contra-dance caller, Karisma made instant judgments on each occasion from factors such as the participants’ experience of Balinese dance and their willingness to take part, and she controlled the interaction’s subsequent development. The atmosphere was ultimately able to continue unfolding with excitement largely because of this direction by Karisma as a veteran dancer.

6. Case and Interpretation from Musicking Theory 2: Everyday Interaction and the Interaction of Dance-Play

In fact, the hearing residents of the two households that shared this courtyard regarded Karisma as a troublemaker. Problems arising from her strained relations with the hearing son who lived with her and his wife, who was also hearing, recurred especially often. Karisma was frequently seen persistently signing to her daughter-in-law, who would casually brush her off. When her demands did not get across, Karisma would throw a tantrum and begin breaking plates and other objects. The two households, both neighbors and relatives, often struggled with this “childish” behavior.

The case concerned an impromptu dance-play in the courtyard shared by these households, exactly the same place where such problems occurred. What filled the space at this time was not the sound of plates breaking, curses flying back and forth, or faces swollen from crying. It was a group of bodies dancing, calling encouragement, and collapsing with laughter. Karisma’s relations with her family, often severed through differences in language modality, became temporarily “connected” through dancing and playing together in precisely the same place. What made this possible was the structure of Janger Kolok, which incorporates audience “participation.” It was also the exchange of all the bodily metamessages showing concentration on the action itself, including jeers and calls, the pleasure of dancing with the body and watching dance movements, and Karisma’s apt direction of dancer changes. Together, these “framing devices” [Goffman 1974] produced a “play frame” that diverged from the system of everyday order [Kajimaru 2013; Huizinga 2018; Sicart 2019]. Here, too, the deaf person was at the center of musicking as interaction rather than at its periphery.

Still, all the people present did not “participate” in the same way. Karisma did not perceive the “sound” of this musicking event surrounded by laughter and jeers, so her experience of “resonance” differed from that of the hearing people. The hearing people, too, cast their bodies into the scene through their own distinct forms of resonance. The participants already differed as dancers and audience members. Although the “audience-participation segment” unsettled this boundary, some, like Ibu Mari, steadfastly refused to come out and dance even when chosen. Others, like Mari, came out but quickly returned to the audience. The strength of the incentive to dance together differed from person to person. At this site, each person resonated with others while remaining an individual, rather than everyone uniformly “melting together and becoming one.” Two things are certain. The musicking event was shared there as interaction and gathered intensity in a form filled with laughter. At the center of its unfolding was a deaf dancer.

Until this point, this chapter has deliberately discussed the ways deaf people relate to Bengkala Village’s music scene in relational terms. Its purpose has been to show that deaf people who do not share hearing with hearing people can participate as acoustic bodies in sites of musicking, especially the typical settings of “participatory music,” and can even assume a central role with the authority to determine the flow. Contrary to general “common sense,” deaf people and music are not wholly unrelated. Rather, deaf people can exist among groups of “bodies resonating with one another,” and at times even at their center.

On the other hand, Bengkala’s deaf people do often experience being prevented from participating in musical practices because they are deaf. Within the bounds of “common sense,” one would probably explain, “That is because music is heard with the ears, and deaf people cannot hear.” Many hearing people in Bengkala Village do in fact explain it this way. As the preceding discussion has shown, however, that logic no longer holds. What, then, prevents deaf people from participating in musical practices and makes them solitary beings? The next chapter examines a deaf child who could not enter a dance-play at the village’s integrated elementary school for deaf and hearing children. It considers what causes the “solitude” deaf people may confront in musical settings, and how they receive and deal with it. In other words, it considers a “figure of solitude in music” that much music research based on relational thinking has long overlooked.

III. The Solitude and Sufficiency of Dance-Play

1. Background to the Case: A Deaf-Hearing Integrated Elementary School

In Indonesia, schools for the deaf have been established in each city as special-support schools for children with hearing impairments. In Bali, however, public transportation such as trains is virtually nonexistent. For families living far from a city, taking a child back and forth by motorcycle each day and paying for gasoline, or paying for a child to live in a dormitory, becomes a heavy burden. Many families therefore do not send their deaf children to school.

For this reason, in July 2007 one of the elementary schools in Bengkala Village began an “integrated education for deaf and hearing children” that admitted deaf children. Unlike urban schools for the deaf, which enroll only deaf children, an integrated school places several deaf children in a class composed mainly of hearing children. The school was founded on the principle that deaf and hearing children would learn together. In practice, however, a support teacher teaches a mixed-grade “class for deaf children” outside the regular classroom, and the deaf children study with hearing children only for some subjects. As a leading example of integrated education for disabled children, the school often receives inspection groups from Indonesia and abroad.

The following case took place in a fourth-grade class at this integrated elementary school. At the time, the class had eleven hearing children and two deaf children. On the day of the case, one of the deaf children was absent, so Resi was the only deaf child present.

2. Case: Hearing Children’s Dance-Play and a Deaf Child Alone

Case 3. Hearing Children’s Dance-Play and a Deaf Child Alone

That day, April 16, 2019, the fourth-grade class was making paper pinwheels and drawing pictures. When I looked into the classroom, the teacher was gone. The room had become recess under the name of self-study and was almost a lawless space. Since it was still class time, the children seemed barely to be keeping themselves inside. The students sat around two large tables, but Resi alone had been given an individual desk and chair and sat apart from everyone else.

In this situation, a hearing child named Nopi came over and spoke to me. “Do the dance from the other day,” she said, referring to an offering dance I had performed at a ritual several days earlier. I replied, “Show me a dance.” She cheerfully began dancing, and the other children joined her. A “dance-play often seen at rituals” began. Some children remained in the center, while others, especially boys, moved in and out. They accurately danced not only the boys’ and girls’ offering dances that they ordinarily performed at rituals, but also “adult” offering dances such as rejang renteng and janger.

By chance, the children’s dancing unfolded directly in front of Resi’s desk. Resi was one of the spectators watching it. At any given time, two or three other students were also only watching, though these students continually changed. Resi did not watch without interruption. At times she returned to drawing in the notebook before her. When a boy dropped down beside her, she sometimes drove him away, saying, “Don’t sit here! Go over there!”

The hearing children who danced and the spectators around them often hummed parts of the gamelan accompaniment, singing “dayon” or “nenonen.” Riding the rhythm, the dancers moved in and out, sometimes fooling around and sometimes becoming serious. They were quite literally playing through dance. The longest dance was janger, which includes singing. The children danced to the song and sang to the dance, producing a setting in which dance and song became one.

When the janger ended, the bell rang to end the class. The children learned that recess had begun and rushed outside, and the dance-play naturally disappeared. Resi followed them out. Suddenly she began dancing toward an empty corridor. What she danced did not look like Balinese dance to me. It looked like a brief pop-style movement.

Resi prompted a hearing friend with whom she often spoke to perform the movement with her. The friend glanced at me and the camera, performed Resi’s movement once, then turned on her heel after only a few seconds and immediately went back to the other hearing children.

I asked Resi, “What was that dance just now?” She replied, “K-POP.”

What first draws attention in this case is Resi’s “solitary” figure as she watches the “ritual dance-play” unfolding before her but does not join it. From the discussion so far, it is clear that “being unable to hear” cannot be what makes her “solitary.” Like the deaf man Dharma in Chapter II, Resi possesses a “body that resonates with others.” Like the deaf woman Karisma, she also possesses a “body that engages in musicking” and determines how interaction unfolds. Yet Resi did not dance with the hearing children. Was this a failure of participation? What prevented her from participating in the dance?⁷

This article focuses on the tacit difference in domains that separates deaf people and hearing people in Bengkala Village as a powerful factor that produced Resi’s “solitary figure” at this dance-play.

3. Interpretation 1: The Hearing Domain and the Deaf Domain

In Bengkala Village, deaf people and hearing people often carry out activities separately. One setting where this separation becomes visible is in rituals and their preparations, which occupy an important place in everyday Balinese life. Village customary law assigns the deaf group “roles” such as washing dishes, cleaning, and digging graves in preparation for rituals. Contributing to the village community through rituals is both an obligation of village membership and proof that one is, and is recognized as, a member. In Indonesia, where the social rights of disabled people are still not always taken for granted, hearing residents often describe this arrangement proudly to outside inspection groups. At the same time, assigning a particular role to the deaf group also confines the group within that role. As a result, deaf people and hearing people work at different times and in different places during ritual preparations. Their opportunities to interact through this work are extremely limited.

Differences between the times and places of deaf and hearing people’s activities also arise where no external force such as customary law is at work. For example, when I joined the work of the village youth association with Mari, the hearing girl who appeared in Case 2, I suddenly noticed that no deaf people were present. I wondered why and asked her. Looking at a loss for an answer, she gave an awkward smile and said, “It’s not that they’re prohibited from joining, but you know, they’re [different from us], aren’t they?” (fieldnotes, March 6, 2019). The hearing residents’ sense that “they, the deaf people, are different from us” was seldom actively put into words, but seemed to be shared among hearing residents to some degree. Deaf residents, meanwhile, shared a sense that “they, the hearing people, are different from us.” How, then, was this “tacit difference in domains” formed, and what kind of difference was it?

To begin with, residents did not necessarily categorize the tacit “deaf domain” only as negative “discrimination.” Deaf people in Bengkala, for example, often said, “It is good to be deaf.” Their reason was not the one they often gave, or were made to give, in media interviews, that “in this village, deaf people are treated the same as hearing people.” Known as a “deaf village,” Bengkala receives visits from domestic and international media, inspection groups, and tourists, as well as corporate social-responsibility welfare assistance from a large oil company. On these occasions, deaf residents become the “main figures.” In other words, deaf residents also enjoy outside attention and donations as benefits of their own domain. Once, when a Jakarta company held an event for deaf people in the village, a deaf person who had missed out on the event gifts became angry with a hearing person who had received one. This can be understood as a protest against a hearing person’s encroachment on the deaf domain.

Although Bengkala’s deaf residents live together with hearing people every day, customary law, the everyday community, and the gaze of outsiders distinguish them as people different from hearing people. This distinction produces a tacit difference in domains between deaf and hearing people in daily life. The greatest factor in this difference, however, is not the hearing impairment that defines the category of “deaf people” in the first place. It is the difference in linguistic modality between spoken language and sign language, together with the accumulated experiences of failed communication that follow from it.

On one occasion, January 10, 2019, I was speaking in Kata Kolok Sign Language with a deaf child at the village elementary school. In the middle of our conversation, a hearing teacher standing beside us took hold of my arm and spoke to me aloud. I let the teacher interrupt me, turned around, and replied in spoken language. The deaf child whose conversation had been interrupted did not appear angry. She simply watched our faces as we continued speaking in sounds she could not hear.

Events like this occur frequently around deaf people. The moment a conversational partner begins using spoken language, a deaf person is cut off from the content of the conversation. It is far easier to break into a signed conversation with spoken language than to break into a spoken conversation with sign language, which requires first gaining the other person’s attention. This was the violence of spoken language against a deaf person that both the hearing teacher who broke into my signed conversation and I, who responded, enacted without noticing. The deaf child did not become angry when spoken language interrupted her conversation because this was her everyday life. If she became angry every time, there would be no end to it.

Mara Green, who studies village sign-language communication in Nepal, argues that for signers, “understanding” refers not simply to knowledge of grammar and vocabulary. It is a question of attitude and ethics, of whether people are willing to use sign language with one another and try to understand one another [Green 2014]. The same can be seen in Bengkala. Deaf people there often judge others by saying, “That person can sign” or “That person cannot sign.” Dharma, for example, spoke with certainty of a hearing friend from outside the village whom he had met only twice. “That guy can sign,” he said. “Well, he’s still not very good, but I’ll teach him from now on.” By contrast, the people he judged unable to sign were hearing residents close to him in the village. They included hearing residents with deaf family members, whom the international deaf community calls CODAs, or Children of Deaf Adults, and SODAs, or Siblings of Deaf Adults or Children. These hearing people had grown up with deaf people. They had always seen their deaf family members using Kata Kolok Sign Language and had always faced the need to communicate, so they should have had more sign-language ability than a hearing person from a remote mountain area who had met deaf people only twice. Yet Dharma said that they did not understand our sign language and did not speak to us in signs that meant anything to us. No matter how many signs one knows as knowledge, if one does not actually use them, it is the same as not knowing them. Conversely, as long as one tries to communicate despite lacking knowledge, the two parties will come to “understand” something, although the process and result will doubtless include many misunderstandings. As Green suggests, for deaf people in Bengkala, understanding in communication means trying to understand and trying to understand one another.

These experiences of communication among deaf people in Bengkala show that the village’s “difference in domains” between hearing and deaf people is produced most powerfully neither by the perceptual categories of “hearing” and “deaf,” nor by the disability-based categories of “nondisabled” and “disabled.” It is produced by the linguistic difference between “spoken language” and “sign language,” and by the question of how people try to communicate. Deaf people do not try to join offering-dance practice because they cannot dance to the accompaniment. They stay away because only hearing people are there, and those people either do not know Kata Kolok Sign Language or, even if they know it, do not try to speak actively in it. This tacit difference in domains, underpinned by accumulated experiences of failed communication, clearly separates “deaf people’s dance” from “hearing people’s dance” even in performance settings. To repeat, deaf people possess both “bodies that resonate with one another” and “bodies that engage in musicking.”

Let us now return to the classroom case. Like adults in the village, most students could use Kata Kolok Sign Language only well enough to exchange greetings. The deaf children also studied in the “class for deaf children” outside the regular classroom, so deaf and hearing children often spent their time separately. The gaze of outside inspection groups continually divided the students into deaf and hearing children and reinforced the boundary. As a result, even at the elementary school, hearing children tended to gather and play with hearing children, while deaf children gathered with deaf children. For Resi, actively entering a dance-play consisting only of hearing children was probably very difficult in terms of her personal relations.

Seeing a deaf child who alone does not join the hearing children’s dance-play, many people would think, “It is because deaf people cannot dance with the music.” In fact, this is the logic used in Bengkala to explain why deaf people do not become dancers in ritual offering dances. Yet, as Chapter II argued, whether deaf people hear sound and whether they participate in music are entirely different questions. The barrier that made Resi “solitary” in this classroom was not the sonic character of music. It was the social, tacit difference in domains entangled with this context, and the accumulated experiences of failed communication around sign language that lay at its base.

4. Interpretation 2: K-POP That Fulfills

Resi did not join the hearing children’s dance-play, but immediately after it dispersed she danced K-POP outside the classroom. She did not dance the Balinese traditional dances she had seen countless times. Why did she dance K-POP alone? How might her figure “alone” be interpreted?

At the time of my research, the deaf girls in Bengkala were devoted to K-POP idols. Resi was one of them. Each day she looked up information about groups online, watched music videos, imitated their dancing, and used K-POP images for her Instagram profile. For her, K-POP was not something heard with the ears but a glittering, cool, and sometimes sexy image of stars and dance experienced visually and through video. At the same time, it was evoked together with the bodily memory of imitating those dances.

On one occasion, March 12, 2019, a sign-language support teacher at the elementary school invited me to visit Resi’s house with her. Resi, dressed in ordinary clothes, and her mother welcomed us. Her mother said that no one in the house except Resi could use Kata Kolok Sign Language. Resi herself also said that no one in her family could sign. I asked her mother, “How do you usually communicate?” She replied, “We use something like sign language inside the house.” These were home signs, signs used within a family that includes a deaf person. I told her mother about Resi at school. “She’s lively and energetic. I hear she’s interested in Japan and Korea and wants to work in one of those countries someday.” Her mother gave a strained smile. “She’s nothing like that at home. She always shuts herself in her room alone and does nothing but look at her phone.” Later, I asked Resi, “What do you usually do at home?” She said that she looked up K-POP idols or browsed Instagram. From her parents’ perspective, their daughter, with whom they could not communicate as they did through spoken language, shut herself in her room and did nothing but use her phone. For Resi herself, it was a rich world connected to the outside.

The deaf children living in rural Bali had, of course, never attended an idol’s live performance. Being deaf, they had also never heard the songs as sound. For them, the musical genre of K-POP existed on screens as highly edited, cool still and moving images, together with the stories that accompanied them. Yet they were certainly connected to this thoroughly visual and video-based K-POP.

At the time, K-POP was enormously popular among hearing children as well as deaf children. In fact, immediately after dancing alone, Resi invited a hearing friend to join her. Her act of dancing K-POP may therefore also have had the strategic aspect of a “desirable frame” attentive to the hearing children around her, as well as to me holding a camera. Even so, this article seeks to interpret her “figure dancing alone” from a perspective distinct both from the physical and phenomenological resonance of acoustic-body theory and from the socially interactive relations with others described by musicking theory. If we adopt a relational position that takes connection with others as music’s highest goal and analyze Resi only through her relations with others, she appears to be a “failed case” that did not “melt together and become one.” She did not join the dance-play inside the classroom, and her friend rejected her K-POP dance outside it after only a few seconds. But was she really a “failed case”?

When Resi danced K-POP alone outside the classroom in this case, her gaze rested on the void (kū) as though she had entered another world. As described above, Balinese traditional dance in Bengkala is clearly divided between hearing people’s domain of ritual offering performance and deaf people’s domain of welfare-related contexts. Yet stages belonging to the latter domain, as well as participation in offering-ritual practice, are open to deaf people, so their access to dance is not entirely restricted. While the dance-play in this case unfolded, Resi repeatedly watched the hearing children at play in dance, sometimes smiled, and even made movements as though imitating them. She was not wholly uninterested in Balinese traditional dance. Resi herself said, however, that she did not intend to dance it. For her, K-POP was the closest, coolest form, and the one in which she could most fully “immerse herself.” Outside the classroom, she danced a phrase of K-POP rather than the Balinese traditional dances she had seen so many times or some wholly different game. Did she do so because she was oriented toward immersing herself in that dance? This article calls this mode, in which a person is oriented toward and filled with the experience of the activity she herself is carrying out at that very moment, “self-sufficiency.”

It is important that the object toward which the “self” is oriented here is not “the person herself,” but “the experience of the activity the person herself is carrying out at this very moment.” In this article, a state of “self-sufficiency” does not necessarily mean separation from others. Because it includes the possibility that an experience may become sufficient precisely through activity with others, it remains open to others while placing the focus on the person’s own experience. Resi was not dancing alone in a room. She danced outside the classroom amid the gazes of her friends and of me, in the very midst of social relations. This does not conflict with the possibility that she experienced self-sufficiency through K-POP.

When she danced that one phrase, the accumulation of K-POP images she had once seen on a screen propelled her small body. What she experienced in the school corridor was a self-sufficient K-POP world. While she remained situated within the actual social relation of “me and my friends,” the fictive new relation of “me and K-POP images” emerged. This “new relation” resembles the experience of Mongolian Christian converts discussed by Morten Pedersen, one of the leading figures of post-relationalism. They separated themselves from the actual social relation of “me and my relatives” and formed a new relation between “me and God” [Pedersen 2012]. At the same time, what matters here is that Resi’s new relation arose precisely through dance and was fragile enough to vanish in only a few seconds.

Thomas Turino, using James Lea’s terms the Possible and the Actual, argues that everyday life takes place in an Actual dominated by familiar knowledge and habits grounded in past experience. Art awakens us from habit. Within a special frame that permits immersion in the “here and now,” it dramatically foregrounds the interaction of the Actual with future possibilities, namely dreams, hopes, desires, and ideals, or the Possible. In doing so, art crystallizes the essence of a fulfilled life [Lea 2001, via Turino 2015: 41-43]. Music, visual art, theater, and other arts are used in rituals in many parts of the world. In light of this fact, Turino’s location of the “power of art” in a balanced interaction between the Actual and the Possible is reasonable. Looking again at Resi, it was precisely the rhythmic movement of K-POP, rather than simply walking or imagining it in her mind, that could make the Possible strongly present in a “here and now” connected to the Actual. That Possible consisted of the glittering images of K-POP idols she had seen before, or an “impossible” future image such as sharing a stage with them. Yet the power of dance to bring this into the foreground was less stable than Turino believed. Resi’s K-POP was rejected by her friend and disappeared after only a few dozen seconds.

As long as we live in this world, complete escape from the mesh of relations remains impossible. In this sense, post-relationalism does not posit a world without relations. Yet when we take one step beyond relational thinking, which has focused on social relations and assigned them positive meaning, and look at a deaf child dancing K-POP alone, we see a figure oriented through dance and music toward what she herself is experiencing at that very moment and becoming self-sufficient. We also see the richness and fragility of that experience. In “Cutting the Network,” Marilyn Strathern argues that when elements become a sum, the network is cut and brought to a stop [Strathern 1996: 523]. Sufficiency is precisely one form of such a sum. It can cut an existing relation and provide the occasion for a wholly different kind of new relation to begin. When a deaf girl dances K-POP alone, her figure need not express only “pitiful loneliness.” It also reveals what might be called “dignified solitude,” filled with self-sufficiency as a new relationality.

IV. Conclusion: Everyone Is Self-Sufficient

This article began from the common-sense idea that “deaf people who cannot hear cannot participate in music, an art of the ears.” Drawing on perspectives in the anthropology of music that have dismantled and expanded the sound-centeredness of music, especially acoustic-body theory and musicking theory, it discussed how deaf people in Bengkala Village do and do not “participate” in hearing people’s musical practices. Chapter II described two deaf bodies that participate in music. The first was a “body that resonates with others,” the body of a deaf person who nonetheless wants a speaker and sways in a karaoke setting while intoxicated and feeling bass vibrations in the viscera. The second was a “body that engages in musicking,” the body of a deaf person who determines the development of interaction and greatly heightens a performance during a dance-play that suddenly arises under the eaves. In both cases, the body “participates” in musical performance through “resonance” that includes visceral sensation and atmosphere, riding rhythm and engaging in smooth exchanges with others. Chapter III, by contrast, examined a deaf child who appeared “solitary” at first glance. She did not join her friends’ dance-play as a dancer, engaged in no explicit exchange, and afterward danced alone. The article showed that the barrier to her participation in music was the tacit difference in domains between deaf and hearing people created by accumulated experiences of failed communication around sign language, rather than a difference in hearing. At the same time, it showed that the time-space in which she danced alone contained a self-sufficient moment oriented toward the experience of her own activity. In this concluding chapter, I extend the search for conditions of musical participation and non-participation from deaf people to hearing people as well, and consider from a post-relational position what it means for a human being to participate in music.

Small’s Musicking, which set out a paradigm for discussing music through the relations intertwined in musical practice, closes with a final chapter titled “The Solitary Flute Player” [Small 2011]. As a thought experiment, and with a romanticist gaze [Mori 2017], Small imagines an African herdsman playing a flute alone on the grassland and poses a question to the reader. The herdsman certainly seems to be a “solitary” being cut off from the rich relationality of musicking, but is he really? Small then shows that even this herdsman, however “solitary” he appears outwardly, remains connected to society and the world because the instrument’s design, tuning, melodic patterns, and other elements are made by society [Small 2011: 379-380]. Small thus ends up returning even the “solitary flute player” to the mesh of relations in musicking. Could there also be an approach that finds in him a self-sufficient moment like the one found in Chapter III? The herdsman probably played that tune on his flute at that moment because he felt like playing it. He might remain immersed in it for hours, or want to stop after only a few seconds. Even in the time-space of playing a flute alone on the grassland, a person cannot escape the mesh of social relations. Yet a moment of sufficiency does exist there, a moment in which the player immerses himself in the activity of playing the flute.

Looking in the other direction, the people discussed in Chapter II who participate in musical performances with others can also be understood as each becoming self-sufficient to varying degrees. In karaoke at a drinking gathering, the perception and cognition of every actor must differ not only between deaf and hearing people, but among hearing people as well. In his ethnography of noise music in Japan, David Novak writes, “This ecstasy at high volume arises not from social collectivity but from a personal encounter with the overwhelming presence of sound” [Novak 2019: 65]. In noise music, known for its high-volume performances in underground live venues, participants simply immerse themselves in a “personal encounter with the overwhelming presence of sound” entering their own bodies. Irresistible resonance, especially as it grows louder, can bring those present a self-sufficiency in which they can think only of themselves and the activity taking place. Before people resonate with others, they have already experienced a “personal encounter” with resonance entering their own bodies.

In the case of the dance-play under the eaves, too, the incentives to become a dancer varied, and the development of interaction was filled with uncertain elements. Precisely because events did not necessarily proceed according to an individual’s wishes, they contained an element of challenge. The focused and immersive “flow experience” described by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, which is one form of self-sufficiency, could arise through the subtleties of exchange [Csikszentmihalyi 2000; Turino 2015]. Rather than everyone becoming sufficient in the same way, it is the presence of different forms of self-sufficiency that makes the unfolding of interaction “interesting.” From this perspective, even in musical performances that proponents of relational thinking call “successful,” people may only appear to “melt together and become one.” Might each person in fact be moving back and forth among fragile parameters of self-sufficiency?

Music is not made of sound alone. It is an interactive event of whole-body mutual resonance. Within it, “participants” are oriented toward the very thing they are experiencing at that moment and experience moments of self-sufficiency. Whether alone or among others, these moments arise in varying degrees and forms. In the time-space of music, as “bodies that resonate with one another and engage in musicking,” everyone is solitary, and everyone also plays in the intervals of sufficiency, in all their variations. Here there is no difference between hearing people and deaf people.

Acknowledgments

The research on which this study is based was made possible by Grants-in-Aid for Scientific Research (Grant-in-Aid for JSPS Fellows: 18J23294), support from the Kao Foundation for Arts and Sciences, and the cooperation of the residents of Bengkala. This article was written on the basis of an oral presentation and discussion at the second regular research meeting of the Kanto Area Research Colloquium of the Japanese Society of Cultural Anthropology, “Solitude and Co-Presence: Rethinking Music’s ‘Connection.’” I received valuable advice from Mr. Yutaka Aida, who organized and guided the research meeting, the other contributors to this special issue, Mr. Fuyuki Doi, Ms. Maho Araki, Ms. Minori Tai, Mr. Hidenori Samoto, Ms. Satsuki Kojima, Professor Toyoichi Nozawa and Professor Sachiyo Ukigaya, who served as commentators at the meeting, and my supervisor, Professor Katsuo Nawa. Two anonymous reviewers offered precise corrections and valuable suggestions. I express my heartfelt gratitude to them all.

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Originally published in *Japanese Journal of Cultural Anthropology* 87, no. 3, pp. 441-460, December 2022. Accepted October 4, 2022.

Footnotes

1. The Japanese kanji 聾 (rō) is not included in the Jōyō Kanji List, and so 聾 (rō) and 聾者 (rōsha) are often written partly in kana as ろう (rō) and ろう者 (rōsha). In this article, however, I use the kanji spellings 聾 (rō) and 聾者 (rōsha) throughout, for reasons including readability when a particle follows. In this English translation, I use “deaf” and “deaf people” accordingly. ↩

2. It is true that Yamada’s idea of “bodies resonating with one another,” which develops from the physical sound heard through the ears, overlaps with the “resonance” accessible to deaf people but cannot fully coincide with it. However, as this article will show, deaf people are not completely cut off from the world of auditory sound. They too inhabit the very midst of a world resounding with sound as they feel and imagine acoustic vibrations, or some part of them. See also Friedner and Helmreich [2012]. In this sense, I believe acoustic-body theory can still be applied to deaf bodies despite the importance it assigns to auditory sound. ↩

3. Nozawa is not alone in emphasizing the importance of bodily metamessages in performance. Many major theorists in the anthropology of music have attended to bodily nonverbal signs such as the participants’ glances and the timing at which they make sound. They include Christopher Small, who proposed musicking, Thomas Turino, who used “participatory music” to describe a form of musical performance with an ethos different from presentational performance, and Charles Keil, known for groove theory [Keil 1966; Small 2011; Turino 2015]. Musical performances filled with exchanges of such bodily nonverbal signs have been thought capable of producing phenomena beyond the reach of logocentric interaction through linguistic signs governed by modern Western ideology, especially “connections” among people. From the standpoint of linguistic anthropology and sociolinguistics, however, the opposition between “logocentric language” and “bodily sensory non-language” reflects an extremely narrow view of language. Linguistic communication itself is full of bodily and sensory semiotic resources, so the two do not stand in opposition [e.g. Kawada 1988; Harkness 2015; Pennycook and Otsuji 2015]. ↩

4. The field cases examined in this article include “dancing” as one of the main ways in which deaf residents engage with the “musical practices” they encounter. The anthropology of music and ethnomusicology have long discussed the inseparability of “dancing” and “doing music,” or musicking. The genealogy of musicking theory introduced in Chapter I is typical [e.g. Nozawa 2013; Inoue 2018; Mashino and Seye 2020; Nozawa and Kawase, eds. 2021]. These studies generally assume that bodies move with the “sound” of music and do not envision a case such as the one examined here, in which a person dances without hearing sound. This may raise the question of whether deaf people’s dances can truly be included in what these studies call musicking. This article gives weight to the following fact. As the discussion throughout will attempt to describe, in many sites of musical performance involving deaf people, even deaf people themselves understand the practice as centered on auditory “music.” Deaf people live as perceptual and linguistic minorities in a hearing-majority world. They do not spring into dance from a world wholly unrelated to the existence of auditory “music.” They engage in various ways with “music” premised on hearing, and from there they dance. This is why the article deliberately begins with theories of music. From this standpoint, I refer to the whole complex of practices, including “participation” through “dancing,” as “musical performance,” “musical practice,” and so forth. ↩

5. Kata Kolok Sign Language also has another sign for “gamelan,” which is said to derive from the action of playing a metallophone instrument called the gangsa. ↩

6. All personal names appearing in the cases in this article are pseudonyms. ↩

7. On the other hand, Resi’s position as someone who did not enter the dance-play as a dancer could be analyzed as participation in musicking as one of the spectators. The anthropology of music has tended to give relatively little weight to participation through watching alone. Yet Daisuke Bundo [2010] shows that the musical practices of the Baka Pygmies, known for dense polyphonic singing, are in fact filled with “sloppy” interactions such as frequent entrances and exits and casual conversation. Masato Sawada [1996] shows that participation in Efe Pygmy choral singing is possible through the bodily internalization of sound that occurs in “listening intently.” Such reports and analyses cannot be ignored. In the case examined here, however, all the hearing-child spectators other than Resi entered and left the dance-play. For the other hearing children, it was a performance they could freely enter and leave, what Turino [2015] calls a “participatory” performance. For Resi alone, it became a “presentational” performance. This article treats that imbalance as her “solitary figure” and asks what brought it about. ↩

西浦まどか（Madoka Nishiura）
東京大學（The University of Tokyo）
tcd.madoka@gmail.com

原文書目信息：西浦まどか。2022。〈響きあい満ちる聾の身体――バリ島「聾の村」ブンカラにおける音楽参与・孤独・自己充足〉。《文化人類学》87（3）：441–460。

譯名說明：為儘可能保留原文的術語構造，本文將「聾者／聴者」譯作“聾者／聽者”，將「聾児／聴児」譯作“聾童／聽童”；將 musicking 保留為英語術語，並在首次出現時釋作“音樂行動”；將「響き」依語境譯作“迴響”，「響きあう」譯作“相互迴響”或“相互共振”。原文的著重號以文下著重點保存，假名注音以 ruby 保存。

摘要

本文以印度尼西亞巴厘島為例，從音樂人類學的觀點討論聾者參與／不參與音樂實踐的諸般面貌。本文首先概觀音樂人類學的兩條譜系：其一是著眼於全身感覺性迴響的“聲響身體論”，其二是把音樂理解為充滿關係性的互動事件的 musicking 論；並指出，兩者一方面解構了音樂表演的“聲音”中心性，另一方面也共同具有一種關係論思維，即把音樂實踐中的參與者“彼此相融而成為一體”視為有價值之事。通過這些理論視角觀察當地聾者與音樂的關係時，聾者似乎以相互迴響的身體，與聽者一同參與 musicking 的互動，並由此同他者相連接。在此基礎上，本文以一名沒有加入聽童們的舞蹈遊戲、後來卻獨自一人起舞的聾童之行為為例，考察聾者在音樂場域中所面對的“孤獨”究竟位於何處。本文分析認為，其成因之一在於該村落共同體之中隱而不言的社會領域差異，以及圍繞著形成這一差異的手語語言之語言使用問題；與此同時，本文也關注獨自起舞這一經驗的“自我充足性”。最後，本文從後關係論的視角論證：“所有做音樂的身體”，各自都兼有脆弱而自我充足的“孤”之一面。

關鍵詞：聾、音樂、舞蹈、參與、巴釐、自我充足

目錄

• Ⅰ　音樂是用耳朵聽的嗎
  • 1　引言
  • 2　聲響身體論——作為全身感覺的“迴響”
  • 3　Musicking 論——作為互動的音樂
  • 4　以“彼此相融而成為一體”為目標的音樂研究之關係論思維
• Ⅱ　互動地相互迴響的聾者身體
  • 1　田野概況
  • 2　聾者居民與村中音樂場景的關係
  • 3　聲響身體論的案例與解釋之一——想要音箱的聾者
  • 4　聲響身體論的案例與解釋之二——音樂的搖晃、酩酊的搖晃
  • 5　Musicking 論的案例與解釋之一——屋簷下的“聾者舞蹈”
  • 6　Musicking 論的案例與解釋之二——日常互動與舞蹈遊戲的互動
• Ⅲ　舞蹈遊戲的孤獨與充足
  • 1　案例背景——聾聽融合小學
  • 2　案例——聽童的舞蹈遊戲與獨自一人的聾童蕾西
  • 3　案例解釋之一——聽者的領域／聾者的領域
  • 4　案例解釋之二——充足的 K-POP
• Ⅳ　結論——每個人都在自我充足
• 致謝
• 註釋
• 參考文獻

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Ⅰ　音樂是用耳朵聽的嗎

1　引言

當筆者說“我研究聾者¹的音樂參與”時，對方有時會一面驚訝，一面露出狐疑的神色：“聾者是耳朵聽不見的人，倘若音樂是用耳朵聽的，那聾者豈不是無從參加音樂？”從現代日本人的“常識”來看，這一反應十分合乎情理。只要站在這一前提上，音樂這種藝術活動形態，便可能阻礙聾者這一特定人群的參與。然而，這種一般性的“常識”果真正確嗎？

如本文以下所將論述的，首先，“是聾的”絕不意味著“被排除於音樂之外”。聾者以各種形式同音樂實踐發生關係。然而，這也並不意味著他們在與聽者完全相同的條件下參與音樂。他們以何種方式參與音樂，又以何種方式不參與（或不能參與）音樂？因此，本文試圖通過描寫印度尼西亞巴厘島一個被稱作“聾人村”的共同體之中，聾者居民同音樂的關係，揭示聾者參與及不參與音樂之契機的一端。

本文結構如下。首先，第Ⅰ章回顧人類學的音樂研究如何解構音樂的“聲音”中心性。作為其中兩種主要路徑，本文追溯聲響身體論的譜系，以及把音樂視作互動的 musicking 論之譜系，並指出：二者在意識形態上都伴隨一種關係論思維，把“彼此相融而成為一體”設定為音樂的最高目標。在這一理論回顧的基礎上，第Ⅱ章依據印度尼西亞巴厘島的田野資料，分別從聲響身體論與 musicking 論的視角，討論聾者如何參與聽者的音樂實踐，並同他者“連接”。另一方面，第Ⅲ章以一名沒有加入聽童們的舞蹈遊戲、此後卻獨自一人起舞的聾童為例，考察聾者在音樂場域中所面對的“孤獨”究竟何在。本文分析認為，這一孤獨的緣由在於該村落共同體中，分隔聽者與聾者的隱性社會領域差異，以及圍繞手語語言的語言使用問題。同時，本文以“自我充足性”這一概念討論獨自起舞的經驗。最後，在結論中，本文將從後關係論的視角論證：“所有做音樂的身體”，各自都兼有脆弱而自我充足的“孤”之一面。

本章首先概觀音樂人類學如何解構開篇所提出的“音樂是用耳朵聽的”這一“常識”，尤其聚焦於兩條譜系：一是山田陽一等人著眼於音樂實踐之多感覺性迴響而提出的聲響身體論；二是著眼於音樂實踐現場“此時—此地”之互動的 musicking 論。

2　聲響身體論——作為全身感覺的“迴響”

在音樂人類學與民族音樂學中，最廣為通行的音樂定義之一，大概是約翰·布萊金於 1973 年提出的“由人類組織起來的聲響”［ブラッキング 1978：11–12］。世界上固然存在許多不符合西方式 music 概念——包括其日語譯詞“音樂”——的實踐，但若把“音樂／music”理解為某種創造性的“聲響（sound）”，便有可能比較世界各地所謂的“音樂”。如此看來，把音樂設想為聲響，或某種以聲響為中心的事物，似乎確是音樂人類學不可動搖的出發點。然而，音樂人類學並未把這一“聲響”概念僅僅理解為聽覺信號，而是將其擴展為全身對振動的知覺。在日本音樂人類學中，開拓這一視角者尤其是山田陽一。

山田指出，“以耳‘聽’音，不過是以身體‘感受’音的一小部分”［山田 2017：22］；並提出“聲響身體論”，以討論全身性的聲響如何同身體發生關係——那種聲響“迴盪於各種身體感覺彼此交錯、相互混合的身體之中”［山田 2017：15］。山田以巴布亞新幾內亞瓦黑人的竹笛演奏與集體歌唱為例展開調查，並把通過相互迴響而彼此感應的身體稱為“聲響身體（acoustic body）”［山田 1991，2000，2017］。

山田的聲響身體論，以 1970 至 1980 年代一系列聲響生態學著作為背景，其中包括雷蒙德·默裡·謝弗的“聲景論”［シェーファー 2006］、史蒂文·費爾德的“聲響認識論”［Feld 1982；フェルド 2008］等。眾所周知，他們提出了與西方現代視覺中心主義相對抗的聽覺中心主義立場；然而二者都沒有把“聲響”限定為由耳朵聽取的聽覺刺激［フェルド 2008；田中 2019］。尤其是一直同費爾德保持思想交流的山田，雖然把聽覺性的聲響置於討論中心，卻始終探究一種超越耳聽的聲響形態：它作為全身感覺性的事物迫近身體，並同對世界的認識相接。迴響侵入身體、在其中反響、並同其他身體共鳴；在山田看來，這正是“音樂經驗的核心”［マシュー 1996：73，via 山田 2017：248］。因此，sound 與其說是“聲音”，不如說恰恰是“迴響”。²

把這種多感覺性的聲響路徑同蒂姆·英戈爾德的知覺論連接起來，我們便能更為接近聾者的音樂經驗。英戈爾德批評以視覺、聽覺……等所謂五感之差異為前提的“感覺人類學”，提出一種把感覺視為彼此混融之整體的全感覺知覺論［Ingold 2000］。他引用後天失明者約翰·赫爾的一句話：“我們不是缺了一塊的蛋糕。我們是一塊較小的蛋糕。”［Hull 1997：xii, via Ingold 2000：270］換言之，“盲”的經驗並不是從“健全者”的知覺中，恰好抽掉“視覺”那一部分；它被經驗為一個全然不同的知覺世界。聾者亦可作如是觀。當我們說聲響不僅由聽覺、亦由皮膚感覺與內臟感覺等全身所感受，是一種“迴響＝振動”時，對“聽覺障礙者”而言，它並不是從“健全者”知覺中減去一部分後所剩的、不完整的迴響知覺。某位聾者的迴響經驗，會作為一個同某位聽者全然不同的複合知覺世界而顯現。

當“聲音／sound”被擴展為這種全身感覺性的“迴響”時，佔據音樂定義核心的“聲音／sound”，便可能成為聾者也能夠知覺的資源。音樂人類學一面不明言地以這種聲響身體論式構想為前提，一面又通過另一條路徑把音樂從聽覺中心性中解放出來。這就是把音樂表演視作互動，著眼於其“此時—此地”性的 musicking 論。

3　Musicking 論——作為互動的音樂

“Musicking（音樂行動）”是音樂學者克里斯托弗·斯莫爾在 1998 年出版的《Musicking——音樂是〈行動〉（Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening）》中提出的概念［スモール 2011］。正如其中“～ing”這一動名詞形式所示，musicking 所指的是並非作為“物”而是作為“事”的音樂，也就是一種事件性的音樂：它包含清掃會場、驗票等一切同表演有關的實踐。由於名稱醒目而易懂，人們往往著重強調其動名詞的一面；然而，斯莫爾的 musicking 概念真正的原創性，在於其對音樂實踐採取共時而關係論的視角。事實上，把 music 動名詞化、重視其“事”性的構想，早在斯莫爾三年前，已由戴維·埃利奧特以“musicing”之名提出［Elliott 1995］。作為《Musicking》日譯者之一，西島千尋比較了埃利奧特的 musicing 與斯莫爾的 musicking：二者固然都否定音樂的物性，但前者埃利奧特以個人歷時性的學習為重心，例如把“自我成長，自我認識，（契克森米哈賴的）心流”視為音樂的本質；後者斯莫爾則把本質見於“群體價值觀的探究，確認，慶祝”，並認為“做音樂”是在“此時—此地”那一瞬間建構集體關係。兩者在這一點上有重大差異［西島 2020：16–17，逗號照原文］。斯莫爾明確寫道：“musicking 這一行動，是在一連串‘關係’之中達成的；行動的意義，就存在於這些複數的關係之中。”［スモール 2011：38］可以說，著眼於作為事件的音樂表演中的一切關係，作為音樂研究的一種方向，正是由他確立起來的。

那麼，這種作為事件的音樂實踐，具體如何被描寫並分析？研究者在此所依憑的，是互動論。

《Musicking》的另一位日譯者野澤豐一［2010］，藉助歐文·戈夫曼的框架，分析美國黑人五旬節派教會中的“shout”——亦即一種伴隨音樂的出神狀態舞蹈——如何發生並逐漸高漲。野澤［2010］把個人性的出神沉浸在周圍信徒、樂隊音樂與牧師等人的“介入”之下被引發的過程，稱作〈沉浸—介入〉關係；並認為，作為戈夫曼所謂“焦點既定的聚集”，它給參與者帶來了“euphoria（欣快感）”“有趣”與“安心的沉浸”［ゴッフマン 1985：33–34，via 野澤 2010：431］。野澤尤其強調，這些經驗是通過以非語言為中心的“身體性的、無意識的元訊息”［野澤 2010：432］而發生的，例如身體接觸、呼喊、跟隨音樂的踏步和拍手。在較近年的分析中，野澤論證，這種 shout 不可或缺的是會眾發出的〈喧動〉：它既是聽覺性的，也是視覺性的噪聲［野澤 2021］。由此，音樂表演被置於一種無法還原為語言訊息之發送與接收的互動事件視角之下。³

在這種 musicking 論中，音樂並非一種由聲音構成、應當用耳朵聽取的“物”，而是一種獨特的互動事件：它包含聲音以外的各種身體性非語言符號，並由一切關係在“此時—此地”發生。正如斯莫爾把驗票員與清潔工的勞動納入 musicking，野澤等人又重視身體性元訊息的往復，musicking 論同樣沒有把音樂的構成要素限定為聲音。若依據這種 musicking 論，從聾者如何同整個互動事件發生關係的角度來看，聾者完全可能成為 musicking 的參與者。

4　以“彼此相融而成為一體”為目標的音樂研究之關係論思維

聲響身體論與 musicking 論從不同路徑解構了音樂的聲音中心性，但兩種路徑具有一個共同點：它們稱揚音樂實踐中人們“彼此相融而成為一體”的經驗。這便是“關係論思維（relational thinking）”——即馬泰·坎代亞等人曾經指出文化人類學所陷入的問題：一種不加批判地讚頌人與人之間溫暖聯繫的規範性思維傾向［Candea, Cook, Trundle & Yarrow (eds.) 2015］。

在聲響身體論的框架中，山田寫道：“當自己的身體被迴響所充滿，迴響從身體中漫溢，並同周圍的身體相互滲透時，我們便經驗到 vibe 與 groove，亦即超越性的、協同的音樂快感。”［山田 2017：250］如此，他肯定了在現象學層面上“（他者的迴響同自己的迴響）彼此相融而成為一體”所帶來的，恰恰是“超越性的、協同的音樂快感”。

另一方面，在 musicking 論中，例如當一位演奏者的聲音立即得到另一位演奏者以聲音作出的回應，流暢反饋彼此往復，人們便被捲入參與，而“（自己的行動主體性同他者的行動主體性）彼此相融而成為一體”的狀態，則被當作音樂表演的最高目標。也就是說，在這些音樂人類學知識背後，可以發現一種規範性思維：把人們能夠參與並感到彼此連接，視為音樂實踐的理想形態。

此外，兩種路徑都常常引用查爾斯·凱爾的 groove 理論作為理論支柱之一；而其中“參與（participation）”這一概念，來自呂西安·列維—布呂爾的“融即（participation）”，這一事實也頗具啟發性［レヴィ＝ブリュル 1953；Keil 1987：276］。凱爾把爵士音樂家之 sound 所產生的細微錯差稱為“參與性錯差（participatory discrepancies）”，認為它生成把人捲入表演的 groove；而此處那種 groove 式的“參與”，同列維—布呂爾所討論的原理頗為接近：巴西博羅羅人依憑這一原理，把自己看作“阿拉拉（macaw，金剛鸚鵡）”。這就是“參與パーティシペーション＝融即”。當然，絕非所有音樂人類學家在使用“參與”一詞時，都直接灌注了“融即”的含義；但可以說，他們共享這一構想的根柢。也就是說，在以關係論思維為基礎的音樂表演研究中，所謂應然的“參與”，並不只達到“某個人加入某項特定活動”這一程度；它是原本異質之物相互融合（＝彼此相融）而成為一體的過程。

事實上，本節所使用的“彼此相融而成為一體”這一措辭，取自吉田優貴一部以手語與舞蹈為題的著作。吉田［2018］把肯尼亞聾校中的手語會話與舞蹈實踐，都置於互動這一共同基底上來討論，將日常手語會話、舞蹈遊戲等自發而生動的溝通中產生的“躍動的身體”，同井然的訪談會話等場合中出現的“擺出架勢的身體”加以比較，並尤其描寫在前一種溝通事件中，身體群如何彼此共振而“彼此相融而成為一體”［吉田 2018：171］。吉田的研究富於進取性的構想，提示了超越語言—非語言之對立、不包含聽覺卻仍能“相互迴響”的溝通可能性；但其論述始終停留在解構與此相對立的語言學溝通模型，未能以邏輯形式說明“躍動的身體”的內實。當聾者同人群交錯而“躍動”時，相互共振的身體，對誰而言、以何種方式“彼此相融而成為一體”？或者，在何種時候，它們不能“彼此相融而成為一體”？又或者，首先，它們應當“彼此相融而成為一體”嗎？

為回答這些問題，本文考察在印度尼西亞巴厘島一個被稱為“聾人村”的村莊中，聾者身處音樂實踐現場的案例。村中的聾者的確不與聽者混在一起演奏甘美蘭音樂，不跳儀式奉納舞蹈，也不通過音箱聽流行音樂。然而，他們以自己的方式同音樂發生關係。以下各章將連同這種關係的限度，一併加以考察。⁴

Ⅱ　互動地相互迴響的聾者身體

1　田野概況

本卡拉村（Desa Bengkala）位於印度尼西亞巴厘島北部，印度尼西亞國內外媒體常把它介紹為“聾人村”或“手語村”。據村公所截至 2019 年 1 月的記錄，全村 2,990 名居民中有 42 名聾者；聾者居民所佔比例約為日本等其他地區的三至四倍。基於這一背景，村中產生了獨有的手語“卡塔·科洛克”（Kata Kolok，下稱“卡塔·科洛克手語”），主要由聾者居民及其家人使用。筆者自 2019 年 1 月至 2020 年 3 月間，在本卡拉村共進行了十二個月的田野調查。調查方法包括參與觀察、居民訪談，以及在取得許可後進行錄像等。

研究已經確認，本卡拉村聾人出生率較高的原因，是特定基因 DFNB3［Winata et al. 1995］。在遵循巴釐慣例、父系親屬群體通常聚居的本卡拉，遺傳關係相近者共同居住，因此有聾者的家庭在一定程度上呈聚集趨勢。由此，儘管聾者人口僅佔全村略多於百分之一，出生率亦呈下降趨勢，但對於生活圈同聾者家庭重合的人而言，周圍所居住的聾者似乎遠多於“百分之一”這一數字所顯示的數量；他們使用的卡塔·科洛克手語，也是一種近在身邊的存在。

本卡拉的聾者作為一個地域、家庭與語言共同體彼此重疊的共同體成員，在村莊生活中如何同聽者居民的音樂發生關係？

2　聾者居民與村中音樂場景的關係

對本卡拉村居民而言，最貼近日常的音樂——尤其是作為表演事件的音樂——是稱作甘美蘭（gamelan）的青銅樂器群演奏、由其伴奏的傳統舞蹈，以及流行音樂。

首先，就甘美蘭樂器而言，至少在筆者調查所及範圍內，從未遇見主動喜歡聆聽演奏或加入演奏的聾者居民。他們大多把樂器視為聽者的事物，似乎不感興趣。

另一方面，喜歡跳舞的聾者並不少見。不過，在本卡拉，聽者的表演藝術領域與聾者的表演藝術領域有明確區分。因為在本卡拉村，原則上不允許聾者在儀式奉納表演中起舞。聽者居民對此的解釋是：“因為聾者無法準確配合甘美蘭伴奏起舞。”巴釐舞蹈重視舞者與甘美蘭演奏者之間細密的互動，起舞的身體與甘美蘭聲響不可分割；因此，不能一邊聽甘美蘭一邊起舞的本卡拉聾者，被認為不適合擔任奉納舞蹈的舞者。

另一方面，村中又另設了同聽者分開的“聾者舞蹈”機會。它會在福利活動、面向遊客的活動、媒體採訪，或（雖不多見）應人生禮儀之邀時上演。其曲目包括：1967 年由一位來自以表演藝術聞名的吉安雅縣之聽者舞者編創、只用鼓伴奏且含觀眾參與環節的《詹格爾·科洛克》（Janger Kolok）；以及自 2016 年起，由省會登巴薩一所藝術大學的教授編舞、以甘美蘭樂器群伴奏的三首作品。舞者原則上是聾者，甘美蘭伴奏則由聽者承擔。如此，本卡拉村的表演藝術場域把聽者與聾者分隔為“能乘著音樂的人”與“由音樂來遷就的人”；而舞台的主要語境也大致分化為：聽者對應儀式，聾者對應福利與觀光。

然而，這並不意味著本卡拉的聾者居民完全無視儀式中的音樂。在儀式奉納舞蹈的現場，他們至少作為只觀看的觀眾同在其中。頗有意味的是，在卡塔·科洛克手語中，表示“儀式（upacara）”的詞，是以兩根手指作敲擊動作。根據一位聽者手語翻譯的說明，這一詞形源自敲奏甘美蘭樂器群中名為雷永（reyong）的樂器——一排帶小凸鈕的銅鑼——的動作。⁵ 當然，不能說地方詞彙的詞源直接反映人們的觀念世界；不過，在地方詞彙中，“儀式”以甘美蘭演奏的動作來表示，並持續如此使用，至少提示了一種在本卡拉聾者居民之間得到某種程度共享的觀念：甘美蘭音樂同儀式相連，而且足以代表儀式。

那麼，在這種乍看之下具有排斥性的情形中，聾者居民如何經驗村中的音樂場景？下面依次考察分別對應上一章所回顧之聲響身體論，以及把音樂視為互動的 musicking 論視角的案例。

3　聲響身體論的案例與解釋之一——想要音箱的聾者

筆者寄住在一個聾者家庭時——從夫婦到孫輩，七人全都是聾者——這個聾者家庭中的“父親”達爾瑪（化名）⁶ 曾多次對筆者說：“你該買個音箱才是。”換言之，這似乎是以給筆者提建議的形式，迂迴地催促：“能不能為我們大家買個音箱？”過去他也曾以同樣說法講過“你該買台洗衣機才是”，因此他的催促方式本身並不令人意外；令筆者驚訝的是，他所催促購買的竟是音箱。除筆者之外，這個家裡只有聾者。音箱本應主要是用來聽／聆聽音樂的器具，他為什麼想要？

在巴釐（至少在本卡拉及其周邊村莊），幾乎每家都擺有高約三十釐米至一米的正式音箱組。沒有洗衣機，卻有音箱的家庭，也不在少數。人們工作時，或下工回家後同家人與朋友聚集喝茶吃點心，又或輪飲酒水、一起閒坐時，會用很大的音量播放音樂。所播放的多為印度尼西亞流行樂、K-POP 與巴釐甘美蘭音樂。巴釐總之以越熱鬧越好，因而人們常不分場所地大聲放音樂，甚至電視音量也非常大。

達爾瑪是聾者，因此並不會像聽者那樣“聽／聆聽”音箱中的音樂。不過他說，對於大音量、尤其是低音強烈的曲子，他能以傳到心臟和腹部的振動來感受。在筆者面前，他常常跟著附近某人高聲播放的印度尼西亞流行音樂節拍，滑稽地把下巴向前一伸，打起拍子。這裡存在著一個把“迴響”知覺為皮膚感覺、內臟感覺，並令自身運動與之同步（／想要與之同步）的身體。這種可以說是觸覺性的迴響，對聾者而言，成為“知覺”聽者所做之音樂的線索之一。

然而，聾者達爾瑪想要音箱的主要理由，並不只是這種低頻振動經驗。對他更重要的是音箱與飲酒聚會之間的關係。他喜歡喝酒，在村外結交了許多聽者酒友；他知道飲酒聚會似乎總有音箱相伴，也知道聽者似乎會因音箱而盡興。他想讓寄住於家的外國人買下音箱，以便有朝一日把朋友們叫到家中飲酒時，使這場飲酒聚會更像一場飲酒聚會地成立起來。

這裡重要的是：想要準備音箱的主人本人是聾者，並不與其他聽者一同聽見音樂的聲音。若依循斯莫爾的 musicking 概念，把音樂實踐理解為包括所有可能同其發生關係者之行動——甚至包括驗票員與清潔工的勞動——的事件，那麼，比起音樂本身的鳴響，更著力設置其場所的聾者達爾瑪，其位置似乎近似斯莫爾所理解的驗票員［cf. スモール 2011］。然而實際上，他的角色更接近演奏者；更準確地說，是托馬斯·圖裡諾所謂“參與式音樂”［トゥリノ 2015］中的一名參與者。達爾瑪想準備音箱，並不那麼是為了替聽者朋友佈置一個音樂鳴響的場所，而是因為他自己也想在因音樂而高漲的氣氛中一道高漲。因此，達爾瑪不願像斯莫爾所設想的驗票員那樣，成為音樂鳴響之外部的人；他想恰恰作為自身也在鳴響的參與者，成為同他者一道共振的身體。為了更清楚地說明聾者達爾瑪所承擔的這種演奏者式角色，下一節再看一個場景。

4　聲響身體論的案例與解釋之二——音樂的搖晃、酩酊的搖晃

【案例一】充滿搖晃與迴響的飲酒聚會

某日（2020 年 1 月 17 日）下午三點左右，達爾瑪邀筆者：“我要去村外朋友家玩，你跟不跟來？”筆者自然答應，並開始準備出門；他也把一條魚裝上摩托車，作為送給朋友的禮物。順帶一提，這條魚是當天早上的“戰利品”：他拿著從老家擅自摘來的芒果去漁民家串門時，對方贈給了他。達爾瑪想到去探望朋友，也並非事先有所約定，而是因為得到了足夠體面的禮物。

騎摩托車約三十分鐘，從國道轉入手工鋪成的瀝青路，再進入一條沒有鋪裝、裸露著泥土的蜿蜒小道，朋友的家便在那裡。雖是未預約的造訪，主人夫婦卻毫無驚訝之色，只說“來得好，來得好”，以茶和點心招待我們。主人夫婦是聽者。我們坐在一個類似緣廊的空間裡，筆者正回答主人夫婦“從哪裡來”等（對外國人的例行）問題時，主人的家人以及住在附近的兄弟和朋友陸續來了四人。除主人之妻與孩子外，到場者全是大約三四十歲的男性。看來主人用智能手機的信息軟件招呼他們：“達爾瑪來了，喝酒吧。”眾人直接圍坐在地板上，面前擺來一隻盛滿椰酒（tuak）的水罐和一隻杯子。在巴釐，飲酒是用同一只杯子一飲而盡，再輪流傳遞。旁邊有一隻約一米高的大音箱，接著某人的智能手機，以大音量播放印度尼西亞流行歌曲。

眾人圍著菜餚與下酒小食輪飲，漸漸都醉了；其中一人把麥克風接到音箱上，開始唱卡拉 OK。那位大叔用被酒弄啞的嗓子，一邊扭動身體，一邊快意地縱聲高唱。周圍人也起鬨：“好啊，好啊！”達爾瑪指著高唱卡拉 OK 的朋友，一邊模仿他的姿態，一邊笑道：“看我給他怪腔怪調地唱一個。”他自己也已酒意上頭，臉色通紅。究竟是身體乘著音樂而搖晃，還是因酒意朦朧而搖晃，包括達爾瑪在內，現場每個人的身體都在微微擺動。

此時的聾者達爾瑪，知覺著皮膚感覺的、內臟感覺的、視覺性的“振動”，並作為一個自身也在“振動”的身體處於現場。不過，也不能忽略在場聽者的“迴響”經驗同達爾瑪的經驗大有差異。卡拉 OK 中所唱歌曲的旋律與歌詞、歌者的音色等迴響，對某位聽者而言足以推動身體，卻確實未能抵達聾者達爾瑪。然而，正如聽者與達爾瑪的“迴響”經驗彼此不同，即使在聽者之間，也會隨著自己用呼吸發聲歌唱、聽他人歌唱、在旁起鬨，以及酩酊程度的不同，而具有種種不同的迴響經驗。在這幅“飲酒聚會的卡拉 OK”場景中，每個人都依據各自的知覺經驗微微搖動身體，以聲音或動作發出振動；聾者達爾瑪不是從外部旁觀現場的人。他是一個被投入現場正中央、正在“相互迴響”的身體。

在音樂研究的傳統中，音樂是“人類組織起來的聲響”［ブラッキング 1978］，聲音在音樂研究中的重要性今後大概也不會動搖。然而，如山田等人所示，musicking 現場中的聲響，是一種把皮膚感覺、內臟感覺、熱氣與氣氛全都包含在內的“迴響”；聾者也能成為參與其中的“聲響身體”。當音樂的“聲音”性不再是用耳朵聽取之物，而成為響徹全身之物時，僅憑這種“聲音”性本身，並不會構成阻擋聾者參與 musicking 的障壁。

5　Musicking 論的案例與解釋之一——屋簷下的“聾者舞蹈”

上一節遵循聲響身體論的構想，把參與音樂的身體重新理解為一種全身感覺性的“相互迴響的身體”，由此說明聾者也能夠進入音樂場域的正中央。使這一點成為可能的，是聾者與聽者對多感覺性的、廣義“振動”知覺所具有的共享性。然而，能夠知覺某物，並不等同於它已成為“音樂經驗”。換言之，在振動侵入自身身體並同其他身體共振這一物理現象，同一種有時甚至近乎“融即”地同他者“彼此相融而成為一體”的音樂經驗之感覺之間，仍有一道跳躍。於是，從本節開始，我們將由把音樂視為互動的 musicking 論出發，考察一名聾者舞者在屋簷下突發的舞蹈遊戲這一互動之展開中所承擔的角色。

【案例二】屋簷下的“聾者舞蹈”

聾者卡里斯瑪是“聾者舞蹈”的女舞者之一。調查時四十九歲。她同聾者丈夫育有三個孩子，其中兩人為聾者，一人為聽者。如今她同聽者兒子一家共同生活。近來“聾者舞蹈”常交給年輕人跳，但年輕人抽不開身時，卡里斯瑪也經常上場。在本卡拉的聾者舞蹈舞台上，她是女舞者中演出次數最多的“老手”。

調查期間，筆者曾有約兩個月在她家隔壁一個聽者家庭中租住一間房。寄宿家庭同卡里斯瑪一家是親戚，既是“鄰居”，同時也是“家人”。

某日（2019 年 3 月 17 日）傍晚，筆者同寄宿家庭的高中生女兒瑪麗等人練完儀式奉納舞蹈，正在中庭休息。她們的弟弟阿古斯正在敲鼓玩耍，母親伊布·瑪麗便提議：“試著敲一下《詹格爾·科洛克》的伴奏吧。”《詹格爾·科洛克》即本章第一節介紹過的“聾者舞蹈”之一，通常在福利、觀光等語境中表演。阿古斯開始敲奏《詹格爾·科洛克》的鼓伴奏後，伊布·瑪麗探頭望向聾者卡里斯瑪所在的隔壁屋子，邀她說：“看，是《詹格爾·科洛克》，你跳跳看。”卡里斯瑪當即輕快地退入另一間屋子，筆者還以為她害羞而拒絕；不料她很快英姿颯爽地出來，腰間正纏著跳舞用的紗籠（sarong，腰布）。原來她回屋是去取紗籠。

她把屋前兩家共用的中庭當作舞台，起舞了。原本坐在屋簷下聊天的聽者們，也一邊起鬨“是《詹格爾·科洛克》！”一邊開始觀看。敲鼓的阿古斯目不轉睛地看著舞者卡里斯瑪，嘴角帶笑。當時一名在村中住了數日的法國聾者，恰巧同一位本卡拉聾者一同路過，也站在稍遠處看了起來。

舞蹈來到後半段的“觀眾參與環節”。在通常的舞台上，若是福利活動，女舞者便用扇子點選受邀賓客；若是媒體採訪，則點選採訪者；若由遊客委託演出，則點選委託的遊客，把他們帶上舞台，進行一段即興共舞。然而，此地並沒有“賓客”。卡里斯瑪先點選了瑪麗的朋友、善於活躍氣氛的年輕女子索米。索米立刻以激烈迅捷的動作擺出男性舞蹈的型，靠近卡里斯瑪，跳了起來。周圍人看得笑翻。兩人即興共舞片刻，卡里斯瑪以合掌與握手這一套固定問候，示意索米更換舞者；繼而點選旁邊另一位瑪麗的朋友莉迪婭。莉迪婭一邊笑著說“不要啦”，一邊因周圍人的起鬨而走出來起舞。這一次，她做的是同卡里斯瑪一樣的女性舞蹈動作。接著被點到的是瑪麗。她想找理由拒絕：“你看，我還在拿相機拍呢！”但周圍人喊著“跳吧，跳吧”，把她帶進“舞台”。不過數秒，瑪麗便主動合掌、握手，回到原來的座位。卡里斯瑪笑著在手邊打手語：“已經要換了呀。”卡里斯瑪本想點選伊布·瑪麗，伊布·瑪麗卻指向筆者，表示下一個該輪到她。瑪麗判斷，卡里斯瑪是顧慮筆者正用手機拍攝，才沒有點選，於是接過筆者的手機，讓卡里斯瑪點選筆者。筆者走出來起舞，周圍人又笑翻了：“她跳起來了！”過了一會兒，筆者停下來，想以合掌、握手示意換人；卡里斯瑪卻用手指示意：要好好轉著圈跳。兩人於是繼續。握手換人時，周圍人指向那時正看著別處的法國人，卡里斯瑪便點選了他。法國人似乎有些吃驚，但把手中相機交給同行的聾者居民嚮導，也走出來起舞。跳了一陣、握過手後，兩人互相打了卡塔·科洛克手語的“謝謝”；法國人回到原處。卡里斯瑪以不同於先前的動作，做完參與環節的收束之型，合掌鞠躬，這場舞蹈遊戲至此結束。

這一案例中發生的，正是圖裡諾［2015］所謂的“參與式音樂”。鼓手阿古斯、舞者、起鬨的觀眾，以及被點選而捲入其中、扮演賓客的每一個人之間，成立了一種富含聲音與動作之關係、動作與動作之關係的互動。那麼，在這一舞蹈遊戲的互動中，中庭裡共享的高漲氣氛如何發生？

首先，這場舞蹈遊戲的契機，並不是聽者傳統舞蹈的音樂，而是“聾者舞蹈”的鼓聲開始被演奏。卡里斯瑪特地去取舞蹈腰布，繼而把它當作一支嚴肅的舞蹈，在眾人面前表演；周圍人則以笑容和肯定性的起鬨回應。在觀眾參與環節，卡里斯瑪先點選愛出風頭的索米；索米又立刻以誇張而富於表演性的動作滑稽起舞，由此確定了這一環節的方向：被點到的人將扮演賓客，同卡里斯瑪共舞。接著點誰，由周圍人的提議和卡里斯瑪的決定共同確定。以合掌、握手換人這一規則被展示並共享後，卡里斯瑪或賓客角色中的任何一方都能提出換人。由此，觀看者、被觀看者與指示表演流程的人彼此交錯；焦點被“確定下來”［ゴッフマン 1985］，一個充滿笑聲的參與式舞蹈遊戲框架之時空因而發生。

此處值得注意的是，卡里斯瑪的形象，同圖裡諾描寫的美國 contra dance 中熟練的“caller”極其相似［トゥリノ 2015：298］。據圖裡諾，在總有一定數量初學者的典型“參與式”音樂 contra dance 中，擔任重要角色的是叫作 caller 的人。他們用麥克風喊出“來，排成兩列”等下一步動作指示。Caller 會當場對困惑者進行個別舞蹈指導，也會報出下一首曲名，由此主持整個活動的進程。參與式音樂比起表演的完成度，更重視如何把人捲入並使之參與；caller 因而既要照顧初學舞者，使他們能夠跳起來，又不能過分照顧他們，以至令經驗者鬆懈；他們需要一種因時因地作出調度的能力。

本章案例中的卡里斯瑪同上述 caller 一樣，會根據現場狀況與參與者陣容，即刻判斷並點選下一名舞者，由此決定此後舞蹈如何展開。考慮到《詹格爾·科洛克》通常在福利或觀光舞台上演的語境，最容易首先點選為舞者的，應是作為“外國人”的筆者或法國遊客。然而，筆者正舉著手機拍攝；法國人又剛到現場，可能還未掌握情況。因此，卡里斯瑪先點了愛出風頭的索米；索米隨即以有趣的動作回應，舞蹈遊戲由此活躍起來。此後，對於害羞的莉迪婭和瑪麗，她允許二人在短時間內返回觀眾席；而面對以笨拙動作想要結束自己回合的筆者，她卻用手指示“好好轉圈跳”，令舞蹈繼續。卡里斯瑪在這裡恰如 contra dance 的 caller，根據參與者的巴釐舞蹈經驗與參與意願等，當場瞬間判斷，並操縱作為互動的後續展開。場中氣氛能夠帶著高漲之勢持續展開，最終在很大程度上歸因於卡里斯瑪作為老練舞者的這種調度。

6　Musicking 論的案例與解釋之二——日常互動與舞蹈遊戲的互動

事實上，在共用這一中庭的兩個家庭之聽者居民眼中，卡里斯瑪是個惹麻煩的人。尤其反覆出現的，是她同一起居住的聽者兒子及其妻子（聽者）不和而引發的問題。常可見卡里斯瑪執拗地以手語同兒媳說話，兒媳則敷衍應付。自己的要求傳達不了時，卡里斯瑪便發脾氣，開始摔碎盤子等物。既是鄰居又是親戚的兩個家庭，常為卡里斯瑪這種“孩子氣”的行為所困擾。

案例所取的，是一場即興舞蹈遊戲；它發生在兩家共用的中庭，也正是上述問題發生的完全同一處場所。此時充滿空間的，不是盤子碎裂的聲音，不是來回飛擲的咒罵，也不是哭腫的臉，而是起舞、起鬨、笑得前仰後合的身體群。卡里斯瑪同家人的關係，往往因語言模態之差異而斷裂；卻恰恰在同一場所中，藉由共同舞玩而一時“連接”起來。使之成為可能的，是《詹格爾·科洛克》這一把觀眾“參與”編入結構的曲目；是包括嘲聲與呼喊在內，顯示人們專注於行動本身的一切身體性元訊息之往復；是以身體跳舞以及觀看舞蹈動作的趣味；是卡里斯瑪恰當地調換舞者；也是由這些“框架化裝置”［Goffman 1974］所產生、偏離日常秩序體系的“遊戲框架”［梶丸 2013；ホイジンガ 2018；シカール 2019］。在這裡，聾者非但不處在作為互動的 musicking 之邊緣，反而位於其中心。

不過，此處也須注意：現場所有參與者絕不是以同一方式“參與”的。卡里斯瑪沒有知覺到這一被笑聲和嘲聲包圍的 musicking 事件之“聲音”，她的“迴響”經驗因而同其他聽者不同。聽者也各自作為各自的迴響，把身體投入現場。參與者之間原本就有舞者與觀眾之別；儘管“參與環節”使二者邊界搖動，但有人即使被點選也堅決不肯起舞，如伊布·瑪麗；也有人走出來後很快又回到觀眾中，如瑪麗。對共同起舞這件事本身的動機強度，因人而異。在這個與其說每個人都以同一方式“彼此相融而成為一體”，不如說每一個人始終作為每一個人而相互迴響的現場，可以確定的事實可歸結為兩點：其一，作為互動的 musicking 事件在現場得到共享，並以充滿笑聲的方式高漲；其二，在這一展開的中心，有一名聾者舞者。

本章迄今有意以關係論方式討論本卡拉村聾者同音樂場景的關係。其目的在於說明：即使聾者不與聽者共享聽覺，他們也能作為聲響身體，參與 musicking 現場，尤其是“參與式音樂”的典型場域；甚至還可能承擔擁有決定流程之權的中心角色。與一般“常識”相反，聾者與音樂絕非全無關係。毋寧說，他們可以存在於“相互迴響的身體”群之中，有時甚至位於其中心。

然而另一方面，本卡拉的聾者確也常因其為聾，而經驗到被阻擋於音樂實踐參與之外。在“一般常識”的範圍內，人們大概會解釋說：“那是因為音樂是用耳朵聽的，而聾者耳朵聽不見。”事實上，本卡拉村許多聽者也如此說明。但如前所述，這套邏輯已不能成立。那麼，究竟是什麼阻止聾者參與音樂實踐，並使他們成為孤獨的存在？下一章將考察一名未能加入村中聾聽融合小學舞蹈遊戲的聾童，思考聾者在音樂場域中可能面對的“孤獨”源於什麼，以及他們如何接受並應對它。也就是說，本文將考察一種關係論音樂研究長期遺漏的對象：“音樂中的孤獨之姿”。

Ⅲ　舞蹈遊戲的孤獨與充足

1　案例背景——聾聽融合小學

在印度尼西亞，各城市都設有聾校，作為面向聽覺障礙兒童的特殊支援學校。然而，在火車等公共交通幾乎等於不存在的巴厘島，對遠離城市的家庭而言，每日騎摩托車往返接送及其汽油費用，或孩子寄宿生活所需的匯款，都會成為沉重負擔；因此，不讓聾童上學的家庭並不少見。

為此，本卡拉村中一所小學於 2007 年 7 月開始實行接收聾童的“聾聽融合教育”。不同於只有聾童就讀的城市聾校，在融合教育學校中，數名聾童會進入以聽童為主的班級。該校雖依據聾者與聽者共同學習的理念而設，實際做法卻是先由輔助教師在教室外開設跨年級混合的“聾童班”，只有部分課程才同聽童在同一教室學習。作為障礙者融合教育的前沿案例，該校常接待國內外考察。

以下案例發生在這所聾聽融合小學的四年級班級。當時班上有十一名聽童與兩名聾童；但案例發生當天，其中一名聾童缺席，現場只有蕾西一名聾童。

2　案例——聽童的舞蹈遊戲與獨自一人的聾童蕾西

【案例三】聽童的舞蹈遊戲與獨自一人的聾童蕾西

那天（2019 年 4 月 16 日），四年級課堂的內容是用紙製作風車和畫畫。筆者去教室探看時，教師已不在場，教室化作以自習為名的課間休息，幾乎成了無法無天之地；不過畢竟仍在上課時間，孩子們似乎勉強還留在教室裡。學生圍坐在兩張大桌子旁，只有聾童蕾西被單獨安排了一張桌椅，離開眾人坐著。

在這種情形下，聽童諾皮主動來同筆者講話。她說：“跳一下前幾天的舞吧〔數日前的一場儀式中，筆者曾跳奉納舞〕。”筆者反過來說：“你跳一個給我看看。”她便興高采烈地舞了起來。其他孩子隨即加入，開始了“儀式上常見的舞蹈遊戲”。有些孩子一直在中央跳，也有些孩子——尤其是男孩——時進時出。他們不僅準確跳出自己平日會在儀式中表演的少年少女奉納舞，也會跳 rejang renteng、janger 等“大人”的奉納舞。

這些孩子的舞蹈，碰巧就在蕾西的桌前展開。此時，蕾西是觀看這一情形的觀眾之一。除她之外，也總有兩三名只是觀看的學生，只是人員不斷更替。蕾西並非一直凝視，有時也回到手邊的本子繼續畫畫。一個男孩“咚”地坐到她旁邊時，她還會趕他：“別坐這兒！到那邊去！”

正在起舞的聽童與周圍觀眾，常哼唱“dayon～”“nenonen～”之類的甘美蘭伴奏聲部。起舞的聽童乘著節奏，進進出出，時而胡鬧、時而認真，真正是在以舞蹈遊戲。其中持續最久的，是一種名為 janger、伴有歌唱的舞蹈。孩子們隨著歌起舞，又隨著舞歌唱，形成一個舞蹈與歌融為一體的場。

這段 janger 結束後，下課鈴響起；孩子們知道到了休息時間，便衝出教室，舞蹈遊戲自然消散。聾童蕾西也隨後走出教室；忽然，她朝著空無一人的走廊跳了起來。不過在筆者眼中，她跳的並不是巴釐舞蹈，而是一小段流行音樂式動作。

蕾西示意一位常同她講話的聽童朋友，一起做剛才的動作。朋友先瞥了筆者與相機一眼，跟著蕾西做了一遍，卻只過數秒便轉身離開，立即回到其他聽童那裡。

筆者問蕾西：“剛才是什麼舞？”她回答：“K-POP。”

這一案例中，最先引人注意的，是聾童蕾西一面注視在眼前展開的“儀式舞蹈遊戲”、一面卻不參加的“孤獨”姿態。根據前述討論，使她“孤獨”的原因顯然不能是“因為耳朵聽不見”。蕾西既擁有如第Ⅱ章聾者達爾瑪那樣、同他者共振的“相互迴響的身體”，也擁有如聾者卡里斯瑪那樣、決定互動展開的“進行 musicking 的身體”。然而，蕾西沒有同聽童們一起跳舞。這是參與的失敗嗎？是什麼阻止她參與舞蹈？⁷

本文希望把本卡拉村中分隔聾者與聽者的隱性領域差異，視為在這場舞蹈遊戲中造成聾童蕾西“孤獨姿態”的一項強力因素。

3　案例解釋之一——聽者的領域／聾者的領域

在本卡拉村，聾者與聽者分開活動的情形屢見不鮮。其顯著例子之一，是在巴釐日常生活中佔有重要位置的儀式及其準備。村落習慣法把儀式準備中的洗餐具、清掃、掘墓等工作，作為“角色”分配給聾者群體。以儀式為軸心對村落共同體作出貢獻，是村落成員的義務，也是其為成員（並獲承認為成員）的證明；在障礙者的社會權利尚未必被視為理所當然的印度尼西亞，聽者居民常以此為傲，向外來考察團講述。另一方面，把特定角色分配給聾者群體，也同時具有把聾者群體封閉於該角色之中的一面。結果，在村落儀式的準備中，聾者與聽者活動的時間和場所被分開；二者藉由儀式準備進行交流的機會極為有限。

聽者與聾者活動時空的差異，也會在沒有上述習慣法之類外在效力的地方發生。例如，筆者同案例二中的聽者少女瑪麗一起參加村青年團工作時，忽然注意到現場看不見聾者。筆者感到奇怪，便詢問瑪麗；她露出難以作答的神色，苦笑著說：“也不是禁止他們參加啦……可是你看，他們〔跟我們〕不一樣吧？”（田野筆記，2019 年 3 月 6 日）。“他們聾者同我們不一樣”這一聽者居民的感受，雖不被積極說出口，卻似乎在聽者居民中得到某種程度的共享。另一方面，聾者居民也共享“他們聽者同我們不一樣”的感受。不過，這種可以說是“隱性的領域差異”的東西，究竟以何種形態、又如何形成？

首先，對居民而言，隱性的“聾者領域”並不必然（或不只）被範疇化為負面的“歧視”。例如，本卡拉聾者常說“聾很好”；但其理由並不是他們在媒體採訪中常講（／被要求講）的：“這個村裡，聾者也同聽者一樣被對待。”本卡拉村以“聾人村”之名，接受國內外媒體、考察團與遊客訪問，也接受大型石油公司的 CSR 福利援助；此時，聾者居民成為“主角”。換言之，聾者居民也有把外部關注、捐助等享受為自己領域之利益的一面。例如，某次由雅加達一家公司主辦的聾人活動在村中舉行，一位沒領到活動贈品的聾者，曾對領到贈品的聽者發怒。這可謂對聽者侵犯其領域的抗議。

本卡拉的聾者居民雖日日同聽者共同生活，卻又在習慣法、日常共同體與外來者目光之下，被區分為有別於聽者的人。這在每日生活中製造出聾者與聽者之間某種隱性的領域差異。然而，造成這種領域差異的最大因素，並不是首先規定“聾者”範疇的聽覺障礙。它是口語語言與手語語言之間的語言模態差異，也是由此積累起來的溝通失效經驗。

例如某日（2019 年 1 月 10 日），筆者在村中小學同一名聾童用卡塔·科洛克手語交談。交談途中，旁邊一位聽者教師抓住筆者的手臂，以口語向筆者說話。筆者任由教師叫住，轉身用口語應答。被打斷的聾童沒有顯出生氣，只是看著我們二人的臉，而我們繼續用她聽不見的聲音說話。

這樣的事情在聾者周圍頻繁發生。一旦對話者開始說口語，聾者便立刻同會話內容隔絕。用口語插入手語會話，比起以需要先吸引對方注意的手語插入口語會話，要容易得多。這正是那位聽者教師插入筆者與聾童的手語會話、以及筆者本人隨之應答時，無意識地對聾者施加的口語暴力。被口語打斷談話的聾童沒有生氣，是因為這就是她的日常。若每次都生氣，便無窮無盡。

研究尼泊爾村落手語溝通的瑪拉·格林指出，對手語使用者而言，“理解”並不單指語法與詞彙知識，而是彼此是否願意使用手語、是否願意理解對方這一態度與倫理問題［Green 2014］。本卡拉也可見相同情形。本卡拉聾者常評價他人：“那個人會手語”“那個人不會手語”。例如，聾者達爾瑪評價一位只見過兩次、住在村外的聽者朋友時，神情篤定地說：“那傢伙會手語。”“雖說還很差，不過以後我會教他。”另一方面，他評價為“不會手語”的，反而是身邊的村中聽者居民。其中也包括家中有聾者的聽者居民，即國際聾人共同體所謂 CODA（Children of Deaf Adults，聾人父母的子女）或 SODA（Siblings of Deaf Adults/Children，聾人成人／兒童的兄弟姐妹）。他們雖是聽者，卻與聾者共同長大，總是看見聾者家人的卡塔·科洛克手語，也一直面對溝通的需要，因此至少應比只同聾者見過兩次的深山聽者，更具有“會手語”的語言能力。然而達爾瑪評價這些人說：他們既不理解我們的手語，自己也不以對我們有意義的手語同我們說話。無論作為知識知道多少手語詞彙，只要實際上不用，就同不知道一樣。反之，即使缺乏知識，只要試圖溝通——這個過程與結果當然會包含許多誤解——彼此也終究會“理解”某些東西。如格林所說，對本卡拉聾者而言，溝通中的理解，就是試圖理解，並彼此試圖理解。

從本卡拉村聾者的這些溝通經驗來看，最有力地製造村中聽者與聾者“領域差異”的，並不是基於知覺的“聽”對“聾”範疇，也不是基於障礙（觀）的“健全者”對“障礙者”範疇；而是基於語言的“口語語言”對“手語語言”之差異，以及人們究竟試圖如何溝通的問題。聾者不想參加奉納舞蹈練習，並非因為無法配合伴奏起舞，而是因為那裡只有聽者；他們不知道卡塔·科洛克手語，或即使知道，也不願積極用它交談。由這種溝通失效經驗的積累支撐起來的隱性領域差異，正是在表演藝術場域中也把“聾者的舞蹈”同“聽者的舞蹈”明確分開的力量。再說一次：聾者既擁有“相互迴響的身體”，也擁有“進行 musicking 的身體”。

現在回到教室案例。與村中成人相同，多數學生只會打問候程度的卡塔·科洛克手語；而聾童又在教室外的“聾童班”學習，因此聾童與聽童經常分開度日。外來考察團的目光又始終把學生切分為聾童與聽童，強化這條界線。結果，即使在小學中，聽童往往同聽童聚集玩耍，聾童則同聾童聚集。可以推測，對案例中的聾童蕾西而言，主動加入一場只有聽童的舞蹈遊戲，在人際關係上十分困難。

看到一名沒有加入聽童舞蹈遊戲的聾童，許多人會想：“因為聾者不能乘著音樂跳舞。”事實上，這正是本卡拉村用來解釋聾者為何不擔任儀式奉納舞蹈舞者的邏輯。然而，如第Ⅱ章所論，聾者聽不聽見聲音，與其是否參與音樂，是全然不同的問題。使教室裡的聾童蕾西成為“孤獨”者的障壁，並不是音樂的聲音性。它是纏繞在這一語境中的隱性社會領域差異，以及其根底處圍繞手語而積累的溝通失效經驗。

4　案例解釋之二——充足的 K-POP

然而，沒有加入聽童舞蹈遊戲的蕾西，卻在遊戲散開後立即來到教室外，跳起 K-POP。她跳的並不是自己已經無數次見過的巴釐傳統舞蹈。為什麼她獨自一人跳 K-POP？她這副“獨自”的姿態，可以如何解釋？

筆者調查時，本卡拉的聾人少女們迷戀 K-POP 偶像。蕾西也是其中之一。她每天上網查看組合資訊，觀看音樂視頻，模仿其中舞蹈，也把相關圖像用作自己的 Instagram 頭像。對她而言，K-POP 不是用耳朵聽取之物，而是一種視覺的、影像的明星與舞蹈意象：璀璨、帥氣、有時性感；同時又是某種與模仿它起舞的身體記憶一併被喚起的東西。

某日（2019 年 3 月 12 日），小學手語輔助教師邀請筆者：“我要去蕾西家，你一起來嗎？”我們一同造訪。穿便服的蕾西與母親迎接我們。母親說，家中除蕾西外，沒有人會卡塔·科洛克手語；蕾西自己也說，家人都不會手語。筆者問母親：“平時你們怎麼溝通？”母親回答：“就用家裡那種像手語的東西……”那是有聾者家庭內部的符號，即家庭手勢（home sign）。筆者向母親談蕾西在學校的情形：“她很活潑，也很有精神。聽說她對日本和韓國感興趣，將來想去其中一個地方工作。”母親苦笑著說：“在家裡完全不是這樣……總是一個人關在房裡，只顧著看手機……”後來筆者問蕾西：“你在家裡平常做什麼？”她答道：查 K-POP 偶像，或者看 Instagram。從父母眼中看，語言不能（像口語那樣）相通的女兒，躲在房裡只會擺弄手機；但對本人而言，那是一個同外部相連接的豐饒世界。

住在巴釐鄉下的聾童，當然從未去看過偶像的真實現場；若是聾者，也從未把歌曲作為聲音聽過。對她們而言，K-POP 這一音樂類型存在於屏幕之上，是經過高度剪輯的帥氣圖像與影像，也是伴隨其後的故事。然而，她們的確同這種徹底視覺性、影像性的 K-POP 連接著。

當然，當時 K-POP 不只在聾童之間，也在聽童之間大為流行。事實上，蕾西獨舞后立即邀請一名聽者朋友一起跳；從這一點看，她跳 K-POP 的行動，也可能具有一種策略性的“可取框架”之側面——它意識到周圍聽童（以及舉著相機的筆者）的存在。然而，即便如此，本文仍希望從有別於聲響身體論式物理—現象學共振、亦有別於 musicking 論式同他者之社會互動關係的視角，解釋她“獨自起舞的姿態”。只要採取把同他者連接視為音樂最高目標的關係論立場，並僅在同他者的關係中分析，那麼，蕾西既沒有加入教室內的舞蹈遊戲，來到教室外跳 K-POP 後又只過數秒便被朋友拒絕，便彷彿成了一個未能“彼此相融而成為一體”的“失敗案例”。然而，她真的只是“失敗案例”嗎？

案例中，蕾西在教室外獨自跳 K-POP 時，凝望著空くう，彷彿進入了某個別的世界。如前所述，在本卡拉，巴釐傳統舞蹈雖明確分為聽者領域中的儀式奉納表演與聾者領域中的福利語境；但後者的舞台以及奉納儀式練習的參與等，也會向聾者開放，因此聾者並非完全被限制接近舞蹈。在案例中的舞蹈遊戲展開期間，蕾西多次凝視聽童們舞玩的姿態，偶爾微笑，甚至做出仿效般的動作；由此可知，她並不是對巴釐傳統舞蹈全無興趣。然而，蕾西自己說，她並不打算跳巴釐傳統舞蹈。對她而言，最親近、最帥氣、最能令她“沉浸”其中的，是 K-POP。她在教室外跳了一句 K-POP，不是跳自己已無數次見過的巴釐傳統舞蹈，也不是玩全然不同的遊戲，而偏偏是 K-POP；這是否正因為她志向於讓自己浸入這一舞蹈？本文希望把這種狀態——當事者志向於、並充滿於自身此刻正在進行之活動的經驗——稱為“自我充足性（self-sufficiency）”。

須注意，這裡“自我”所志向的對象，並不是“當事者自身”，而是“當事者自身此刻正在進行之活動的經驗”。本文所謂“自我充足”的狀態，並不必然意味著同他者隔絕。相反，正因為它包含經驗唯有通過同他者的活動才可能充足的可能性，它是在保持向他者開放的同時，把焦點放在當事者自身的經驗上。因此，案例中的蕾西並非在獨自一人的房間，而是在教室外、朋友與筆者的目光之中起舞，處於社會關係的正中央；這一點同她可能經由 K-POP 經驗自我充足，並不矛盾。

當她跳出那一小句動作時，她過去在屏幕上看見的 K-POP 意象之積累，正推動那個小小的身體。她在學校走廊中所經驗的，是一個自我充足的 K-POP 世界：她雖仍位於“我與朋友”這一現實社會關係之中，卻又生起“我與 K-POP 意象”這一虛構的新關係。這一“新關係”，類似後關係論領軍人物之一莫滕·彼得森所討論的蒙古基督教改宗者經驗：從“我與親屬”的現實社會關係中切離，轉而結成“我與神”的新關係［Pedersen 2012］。不過，另一方面重要的是，這一關係正是通過舞蹈而發生，而且脆弱到只須數秒便會消散。

圖裡諾借用詹姆斯·利的〈可能世界（the Possible）〉與〈現實世界（the Actual）〉之術語，指出：在日常生活裡，以既往經驗為基礎的已知知識與習慣支配著〈現實世界〉；而正是藝術，把我們從習慣中喚醒，並在一個令我們能沉浸於“此時—此地”的特殊框架內，戲劇性地凸顯未來可能性——夢想、希望、慾望與理想，即〈可能世界〉——同〈現實世界〉之間的互動，由此結晶出充實生命的精華［Lea 2001，via トゥリノ 2015：41–43］。考慮到音樂、視覺藝術、舞台藝術等在各地許多儀式中被使用，圖裡諾把“藝術的力量”見於〈現實世界〉與〈可能世界〉之間平衡的互動，並非無稽之想。由此再看案例中的蕾西：唯有 K-POP 富於節奏的動作——既不是僅僅走路，也不是僅僅在腦中想象——才能使她過去看見的 K-POP 偶像之璀璨意象（或與偶像同台等“不可能”的未來意象）這一〈可能世界〉，在同〈現實世界〉相連的“此時—此地”中強烈現前。不過，舞蹈使之成為前景的力量，並不像圖裡諾所相信的那樣穩定；蕾西的 K-POP 也被朋友拒絕，只在數十秒後便消散。

只要我們活在這個世界上，就不可能全然逃脫關係的網目。從這一意義說，後關係論絕不是觀看一個關係為零的世界。然而，當我們從一貫聚焦社會關係、並賦予其肯定意義的關係論思維中邁出一步，觀看聾童獨自跳 K-POP 的姿態時，便能看見一種藉由舞蹈與音樂，志向自身此刻正經驗之事並自我充足的姿態，也能看見這種經驗的豐饒與脆弱。瑪麗蓮·斯特拉森在題為 “Cutting the Network” 的論文中論證：當要素成為總和時，網絡便被切斷而停止［Strathern 1996：523］。充足正是總和的一種形態；它可以由此切斷既有關係，成為啟動一種全然不同的新關係的契機。當聾人少女獨自跳 K-POP 時，這不一定只是一副“可憐的孤獨”姿態。那裡也能看見一種可以說是“孤高”的姿態：充滿作為新關係性的自我充足性。

Ⅳ　結論——每個人都在自我充足

本文首先針對一種一般常識式構想——“耳朵聽不見的聾者，不能參與作為耳朵藝術的音樂”——藉助音樂人類學解構並擴展音樂聲音中心性的視角，尤其是聲響身體論與 musicking 論兩種路徑，討論本卡拉村的聾者如何參與、又如何不參與聽者的音樂實踐。第二章描寫了兩種參與音樂的聾者身體。其一，是儘管為聾卻想要音箱，並在卡拉 OK 場合一邊酩酊，一邊隨著低音在內臟中的振動搖晃的“相互迴響的身體”；其二，是在屋簷下突發的舞蹈遊戲中，決定互動的展開並令表演大為高漲的“進行 musicking 的身體”。兩個案例都藉由包括內臟感覺與氣氛在內的“迴響”，乘著節奏，並同他者進行流暢往復，從而“參與”音樂表演。另一方面，第三章考察了一名乍看之下“孤獨”的聾童：她沒有作為舞者加入朋友們的舞蹈遊戲，沒有進行明示的互動，隨後又獨自起舞。本文一面表明，阻擋她參與音樂的障壁並非聽覺差異，而是圍繞手語語言之溝通失效的積累所形成、聾者與聽者之間的隱性領域差異；同時也指出，獨自起舞的時空中，存在一個志向自身活動經驗本身的、自我充足的時刻。作為結論，本章將把尋找這種音樂參與／不參與契機的視角，從聾者擴展到聽者，並從後關係論立場考察：對人而言，參與音樂究竟意味著什麼。

斯莫爾的《Musicking》提出了一個範式：應從音樂實踐中彼此纏繞的關係性來討論音樂。該書卻以題為“孤獨的長笛吹奏者”的終章結束［スモール 2011］。他以思想實驗方式（並帶著浪漫主義目光［毛利 2017］）想象一位獨自在草原吹笛的非洲牧人，向讀者發問：這位牧人看來的確是一個同 musicking 豐富關係性隔絕的“孤獨”存在；但果真如此嗎？斯莫爾繼而指出，樂器設計、調律、旋律型等都是社會所造；因此，即使這名牧人在外觀上何等“孤獨”，實際上也仍同社會與世界連接［スモール 2011：379–380］。斯莫爾如此把“孤獨的長笛吹奏者”也還原進 musicking 的關係網目；然而，是否也可以採取另一種路徑，在其中發現如本文第Ⅲ章所見的自我充足時刻？這名牧人此刻以笛吹奏這首曲子，大概是因為他想吹；而且他也許會沉浸其中數小時，也許幾秒之後便不想再吹。即使在草原上獨自吹笛的時空裡，人也無法逃離社會關係的網目；但那裡確實存在一個充足的瞬間，使人把自己浸入吹笛這一活動之中。

反過來看，本文第Ⅱ章所討論的那些同他者一起參與音樂表演的人，也可以被理解為各自以不同程度進行自我充足。在飲酒聚會的卡拉 OK 中，每個行動者的知覺與認識，超越聾者或聽者之分，即使在聽者之間也實際應當彼此不同。戴維·諾瓦克在關於日本噪音音樂的民族誌中寫道：“在這種大音量中的忘我，並非來自社會性的群體性，而是來自同聲音壓倒性現前的個人相遇。”［ノヴァック 2019：65］在以地下現場空間中的巨響表演著稱的噪音音樂中，參與者只是沉浸在“同侵入自身身體之聲音的壓倒性現前相遇”之中。無法抗拒的聲音迴響——尤其當它越大——越可能給現場之人帶來一種自我充足，使其只能想到自己與正在進行的活動。人在同他者相互迴響以前，先已經驗到同侵入自身身體之迴響的“個人相遇”。

同樣，在屋簷下舞蹈遊戲的案例中，成為舞者的動機並不均一，互動展開充滿不確定因素。然而，正因為事情未必按個人意願發展，其中才包含挑戰的成分；米哈里·契克森米哈賴所謂集中而沉浸的——也就是作為自我充足之一種形態的——“心流經驗”，可能由往復交流的細微機理生成［チクセントミハイ 2000；トゥリノ 2015］。與其說每個人以同一方式得到充足，不如說，正因存在彼此不同的自我充足，展開互動才變得“有趣”。從這一視角看，即使在關係論思維的論者所稱“成功”的音樂表演中，人們看似“彼此相融而成為一體”，實際上是否也各自在脆弱的自我充足參數之間往返？

音樂並不只由聲音構成，而是一項全身感覺性相互迴響的互動事件。其中，“參與者”志向於自己此刻正在經驗之事本身，經驗自我充足的時刻；無論獨自一人還是身處他者之間，這些時刻都以各自不同的程度與變化發生。在音樂的時空中，作為“相互迴響而進行 musicking 的身體”，每個人都是孤獨的，每個人也都在種種變化的充足間隙中游戲。聽者與聾者在這裡沒有區別。

致謝

構成本研究基礎的調查，得以在科學研究費補助金（特別研究員獎勵費：18J23294）、花王藝術振興財團的資助，以及本卡拉各位居民的協助下完成。本文依據日本文化人類學會關東地區研究懇談會第二次例行研究會“孤獨與共在——重新思考音樂的‘連接’”中的口頭髮表與討論寫成。組織並引導研究會的相田豐先生、本專輯其他作者、土井冬樹先生、荒木真步女士、田井みのり女士、佐本英規先生、小島冴月女士，上述例行研究會的評論人野澤豐一教授與浮ケ谷幸代教授，以及指導教師名和克郎教授，均給予有益建議。兩位匿名審稿人提供了準確的指正與珍貴的啟示。在此謹致衷心謝意。

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（原刊載：『文化人類學』87 卷 3 號，441–460 頁，2022 年 12 月；2022 年 10 月 4 日決定採用。）

原刊英文摘要（譯）

充滿聲響的聾者身體

巴厘島“聾人村”本卡拉的音樂參與、孤獨與自我充足

本文通過考察印度尼西亞巴厘島本卡拉村的案例，討論聾者參與／不參與音樂的種種面貌。該村以聾者居民比例較高而聞名。聾者通常未被理解為廣泛參與音樂的人群；然而，音樂人類學主要藉助“聲響身體”與 musicking 等構想，解構了音樂學的聲音中心性。本文運用這些構想，說明本卡拉聾者居民如何參與音樂互動，並由此同他者共振。不過，這些路徑也往往同時受到關係論思維影響，過度重視表演中的一體感。本文還分析一名聾人女孩在參與兒童舞蹈時所面對的“孤獨”，並揭示“自我充足”的可能性，以及聾者居民與聽者居民之間的社會、語言分隔，如何成為造成孤獨的關鍵因素。

關鍵詞：聾、音樂、舞蹈、參與、巴釐、自我充足

Footnotes

1. 日語“聾”不屬於常用漢字，因此也常把「聾」「聾者」寫作假名「ろう」「ろう者」。不過，本文出於同助詞連寫時的易讀性等理由，統一採用漢字寫法「聾」「聾者」。中文譯文相應統一作“聾”“聾者”。 ↩

2. 山田“相互迴響的身體”這一構想，始終以物理上由耳朵聽見的聲響為出發點而展開。它雖同聾者能夠接近的“迴響”有所重疊，卻確實無法完全一致。然而，如本文以下所將說明的，聾者並不是同聽覺性聲響世界徹底隔絕的存在；他們也感受並想象聲響振動（的一部分），處於聲響鳴動的世界正中央（亦參見 Friedner & Helmreich［2012］）。從這一意義說，筆者認為，聲響身體論中聽覺性聲響的重要地位，並不意味著這一理論不能應用於聾的身體。 ↩

3. 重視表演中身體性元訊息之重要性的，不只有野澤。提出 musicking 的克里斯托弗·斯莫爾、以“參與式音樂”說明一種不同於呈演式之 ethos 的音樂表演形態的托馬斯·圖裡諾、以 groove 理論聞名的查爾斯·凱爾等許多音樂人類學主要論者，都曾關注表演中參與者彼此的視線、發聲時機等身體性非語言符號［Keil 1966；スモール 2011；トゥリノ 2015］。而充滿這些身體性非語言符號往復的音樂表演，被認為能使受到西方現代意識形態支配、依賴語言符號的邏各斯中心互動所不可能之現象成為可能，尤其是人們之間“連接”的生成。不過，從語言人類學與社會語言學的立場看，這種“邏各斯中心的語言”對“身體感覺性的非語言”之對立，是一種極為狹窄的語言觀。語言溝通本身也充滿身體感覺性的符號資源，二者絕非相互對立［e.g. 川田 1988；Harkness 2015；Pennycook & Otsuji 2015 等］。 ↩

4. 本文所討論的田野案例，把“起舞”包括為聾者居民同其所遇“音樂實踐”發生關係的主要方式之一。音樂人類學與民族音樂學長期討論“起舞”與“做音樂（musicking）”之不可分性，本文第Ⅰ章所介紹的 musicking 論譜系即為典型［e.g. 野澤 2013；井上 2018；Mashino & Seye 2020；野澤・川瀬編 2021］。這些研究原則上預設身體隨音樂之“聲音”運動，並未設想如本文這樣不聽聲音而起舞的案例。因此，人們可能會問：聾者的舞蹈果真能夠包括在他們所謂的 musicking 中嗎？本文則重視如下事實：如全文所嘗試描寫的，在聾者所介入的許多音樂表演現場中，甚至聾者自身也意識到，那是以（聽覺性的）“音樂”為中心的實踐。聾者作為知覺與語言少數群體，生活在聽者佔多數的世界中；他們並不是從一個同聽覺性“音樂”的存在毫無關係的世界突然躍出。他們以各種方式同以聽覺為前提的“音樂”發生關係，並躍動而出。這就是本文有意從音樂論出發的理由。基於這一立場，以下把能夠包括經由“起舞”而發生的“參與”在內的複合實踐整體，稱作“音樂表演”“音樂實踐”等。 ↩

5. 卡塔·科洛克手語另有一個表示“甘美蘭”的詞，據說其詞源是演奏一種稱作岡薩（gangsa）的金屬琴樂器之動作。 ↩

6. 本文案例中出現的所有人名，以下均為化名。 ↩

7. 另一方面，也可以分析認為：沒有作為舞者進入舞蹈遊戲的蕾西，確實作為觀眾之一參與了 musicking。音樂人類學往往相對輕視僅僅觀看這種參與；不過，分藤大翼［2010］指出，以濃密復調合唱著稱的巴卡俾格米人的音樂實踐，實際充滿頻繁進出、閒談等“馬虎”的互動；澤田昌人［1996］則說明，在埃菲俾格米人的合唱中，可以通過“凝神諦聽”這一聲音的身體內在化而參與。此類報告與分析不容忽視。然而，在本文案例中，蕾西以外的聽童觀眾全都曾在舞蹈遊戲中進出。對其他聽童而言，這是一場可以自由出入的、圖裡諾［2015］所謂“參與式”表演；對蕾西一人而言，它卻成為“呈演式”表演。本文正把這一不均衡視為她的“孤獨姿態”，探究其所以然。 ↩