words chris lam

Bartabas is the director/choreographer of Zingaro, a special kind of theatre in which horses are the stars. He talks to bc about his new show, Battuta.

How did you get started with horses?
I started in racing. I am too tall to be a jockey but when I started, I was very little. Then there came a big accident, and I went to do dance. I founded Zingaro in 1984. Before that, I had another company, Cirque Aligre. We were like a rock group – there were five people, all very strong personalities. One was a juggler, one woman worked with a trapeze, one was … uh, yeah … and then there was me with horses, and someone with rats! Yes, rats! We made a very special performance – it was not a circus, but it was something very new back then. It was interesting – we worked like a rock group. You know, it’s like you have four or five people, and you want to bring in someone else but it will never work. And we realized that after one performance!

So how did the idea for Zingaro originate?
It started with the thought that I could do the same with a horse that a dancer could do with his body, or a musician with an instrument. The idea of Zingaro is not to show horses. You can see horses very well in the field or on the racecourse. I’m interested to show the relationship between man and horse. In this way, you can like Zingaro and not like horses, or know nothing about horses. When we started, people were always saying, “Oh, I don’t ride horses, I don’t understand horses, so I don’t go to Zingaro.” That’s like saying I don’t look at paintings because I don’t paint!

How would you describe a performance?
First, no one worked like this with horses before Zingaro. What we do is not a tradition. You might say that it is going to be very strange for Hong Kong people, but understand that even for Europeans… well, it’s not so strange now because they know and many people are trying to do this kind of thing, but when we started 20 years ago, people didn’t know. What I was looking at was not a circus, not a theatre. People couldn’t even put a name to it. I said théâtre équestre, I was the one who created that name.

Where did you get your inspiration for Battuta?
The question behind Battuta is, “After more than 20 years, what really is Zingaro?” If I had to say it in one word, it is ‘freedom’. Zingaro is the freedom to create your own rhythm, to live your way. I always say that Zingaro is not just a show, it’s a way of life. There is no freedom without danger, that’s the irony. The origin of Zingaro is Gypsy, and the Gypsies are a people who are free – no land, no rules, no ancestors. Before I came up with the name Battuta, I had intended the title of the show to be No Roof, No Grave.

How long is a show performed before a new show is made?
The natural rhythm of Zingaro is one new performance every three years or so. In the beginning the reason was economic – in the first year it cost me a lot to prepare a show, so it was difficult, and then to prepare the next one took another year. In Paris we have more than 100,000 spectators every year, and we do very little publicity. The public knows us, and it takes a certain time before an audience will be shocked by a new performance. So the timing is natural – I make a new show whenever I want to surprise people. Loungta [Zingaro’s previous spectacle] was a ritual of death and you can say that Battuta is a ritual of life. Every show opens the door for a new one.

How did you learn about the Gypsies?
Zingaro means ‘Gypsy’ in Spanish. It’s in my power to work with culture – not intellectually, but sensitively. I’m interested in world music, and fascinated by how a little Frenchman like me can be touched by music from Asia or America although I don’t know the languages. Why? There must be something universal. And the way we work with horses is like that – it’s this emotion, something prior to language. First it touches your spirit, and then later it touches your mind.

Is that how you teach horsemanship as well – using emotion prior to language?
The way you work with a horse, you don’t use words and it’s not put in writing. You start with the body. I’m fascinated by oral traditions. In Gypsy music, many of the musicians can’t read music, and their songs aren’t written down. Even the way I teach in the Academy [of Equestrian Arts] is more in the Oriental tradition. In Europe, generally the way to learn is to have the teacher explain and explain. In the Orient, the way is more ‘teacher do, student do’. You may not even use words. In India, I have met some great masters of dance and music who don’t speak to their students, they simply do. You can explain everything to someone and they will not feel it. When you work with horses, it is always a question of feeling.

How do you decide on the music for your performances?
I choose music depending on the theme. After I choose a theme, the music always comes very early, because I have to find the people and make arrangements for their visas – in France, visas take a long time. In Battuta, the theme is danger and liberty, so I searched for Gypsy music. And I already had the idea of opposing string and brass, so I travelled to find groups and people that perform that kind of music. In the beginning, when I told musicians they could join me for two years to do a show with horses, they looked at me strangely. Even I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do with them, because I was preparing for the show a year in advance, so I really had to explain, “You’ll have to work with horses, and come live in a village outside of Paris for three years …”

Can I ask you about the bear in the show?
I never give explanations. I will say this: the bear is part of the tradition of the Gypsies. It’s also an influence from Italian comedy films.

Is it to shock the audience?
Sometimes the effect is not intended. For example, remember the pig?
Yeah, this guy was slaughtering an effigy of a pig in a bathtub dragged by a horse. That was one of the funniest parts of the show.
When we did that in Istanbul, the public went, “Ahhhhh!” So we were a little ashamed. It was not done to shock.

Did you keep doing it in the subsequent performances in Turkey?
No, we tried changing the pig into a sheep. It made it worse!

How would you describe your working relationship with your horses?
This is very interesting. When I work with horses, it is an alliance of the instinct and the intellect. The human is the intellect, and the horse is the instinct. People always ask me, “Are horses intelligent?” I say no. Intelligence for me is having the notions of death, life, and realising that you are dust in this great universe. Only humans have this understanding. Animals have an instinct for the origin of the universe – remember, whether you believe in God or not, it’s a fact that humans are among the last animals to have been created on earth. The other animals were on earth many, many years before us. They are nearer the origin, that is why they have more instinct. Men also had instinct, but have lost that instinct. You can say, in a way, the more you know, the less you feel.

What do you have to do to overcome this gap between intellect and instinct? How is the harmony achieved between the man and the horse?
The horse is like an instrument, a living instrument. If you have a very brutal relationship with a horse, the animal will feel dominated and revolt. If you take the time to build a sensibility, it will respond to you with the same sensibility. You have to build it with the horse. For example, you want to gallop so you lean your weight in a certain way – you teach the horse mechanically. Little by little, the horse will learn that when you do that, it has to do this. And after a time, you just think the movement, and the horse will do it. When you saw me earlier, I didn’t move and the horse was doing different things.

Horses have very good memories. They have visual memory, but most of all, a horse that you work with every day will recognize you by your energy, not your physical features. You can come into the stable with a hat, a beard and a coat, and maybe at first it won’t know you, but with the way you move on the horse, your interior energy, it will recognize you very quickly.

I notice that if I give a new horse to a man who has been here 10 or 15 years, after a time the horse has the same qualities and the same defects as the man. This is because the man makes
the horse.

I always say [to the riders], “You never impose. You propose and the horses dispose.” There is also something else I say a lot within the company, when there is a bad moment: “You chose to work here with me. The horses, they didn’t choose. You have to give more respect to the horses because they didn’t choose to
be here.”

Why are you performing Battuta in Hong Kong and not any other show you have done in the past?
We have no repertoire – this is very important. We cannot just do a show that we made 20 years ago. When we finish a performance, it’s finished forever, because it is so difficult. Each show has been created with a special group of horses. Generally, with the performances that I do, each horse has a very special part and is on its own to do it. I create a certain solo because of a particular horse, for particular people, etc. Horses live shorter lives than us, generally. Also people leave. So to come back and do the same show we did years ago – it is technically impossible.

You used to have a horse named Zingaro, which died several years ago. How did you cope with its death at
the time?
When you lose somebody you like, you’re always sad. The more terrible part is when you build something with a horse, it is very particular – you give a lot to the horse, it gives back to you, and you build something together. When you lose that, it’s really like you lose a part of yourself. I’m not speaking emotionally. It is exactly like you cut off your arm – you’re still alive, but you know it is never going to come back. You lose something you know you will never find again.