"Dancing with Yu Xiuhua"
Article By Hu Tao
From Wei Wen Po
November 18, 2024
Though I've known Yu Xiuhua for years, I've never truly written about her. Perhaps I was waiting for the right moment. Over the past year, I witnessed the creation of the dance-poetry theater "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" from inception to completion, and now feels like the time. In the widely known story of her life, this chapter might not seem particularly legendary, yet the serendipitous connections and mysterious bonds within it bring to mind a line by poet Czesław Miłosz: "But the impossible is indeed happening."
From November 15–17, "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" premiered at Shanghai's Theatre YOUNG. It feels like the right time to document this journey and share my perspective on Yu Xiuhua.
A Reluctant Participant
Farooq Chaudhry is a British producer and director in his early sixties, renowned in the world of dance. When I first met him in May 2023 at a restaurant near the Lido Hotel in Beijing, I had no idea that, over the next year and a half, Yu Xiuhua would embark on an unprecedented adventure.
"I want to see Yu Xiuhua dance. I'm serious," Farooq declared right away. Although we had interacted online before, his conviction surprised me.
"You know, she has cerebral palsy. This could be dangerous, and she might not even agree," I replied hesitantly.
"I've read her poems. They moved me deeply. I feel an instinctive urge to bring her poetry to the stage. My gut tells me she's braver than we think and capable of more than we imagine. Trust me." His gaze was intense.
"It's risky. She's a poet and writer; that's her true calling. At most, she's read poems on stage. Asking her to dance and act feels like too big a leap. There's no precedent for something like this, in China or anywhere else."
"Exactly why it's worth trying. She's unique. Her poetry belongs on the world stage, and her story needs to be known. I'm confident."
When Yu Xiuhua heard about the idea, she was incredulous: "Dance? I can barely stand, how am I supposed to dance?" Still, curiosity about the project led us to tentatively agree to give it a shot.
To assess Yu's physical condition and start some basic movement training, Farooq and the choreographer, Su-man, decided to visit her hometown. In early September 2023, I accompanied the two artists to Hengdian Village in Zhongxiang, Hubei Province.
Yu and her father warmly welcomed the artists. Upon meeting Farooq at the door, Yu threw her arms wide and hugged him like an old friend, her unreserved laughter immediately infectious. Simple, direct, fiery—she was exactly as Farooq had imagined.
Su-man, a renowned dancer and trainer, specializes in coaching those new to dance, including stars like Juliette Binoche and Hollywood actors. She customizes training plans for each individual's needs. Yu Xiuhua, however, was her biggest challenge yet: Could a person with cerebral palsy fulfill their vision? Even they weren't sure.
The larger obstacle was Yu's lifestyle. If no visitors came by, she'd spend her days lying at home, barely leaving the house. Her routine consisted of going downstairs to eat, drinking some wine, tending to her plants, and reading on the balcony. She never exercised or took walks, and her soft mattress was her haven, where she scrolled through short videos in comfort.
On a sunny September day in Hengdian, with the first hints of autumn in the air and green tangerines hanging from the branches, Yu Xiuhua—her hair tied in a ponytail and wearing loose clothes—reluctantly began her first dance movement class in the old family home, now a museum.
Breathing exercises, bending, stretching, lying down, rolling over—guided by Su-man, Yu awkwardly and painstakingly attempted each move. She had long since resigned herself to her body's limitations, a weighty vessel that bore all her pain and struggles. She had always wanted to escape it, never imagining it could be reawakened.
To their surprise, by the third day, Su-man and Farooq were thrilled with Yu's progress. She not only persisted through all the movements but also picked them up faster than many actors Su-man had trained. "She's quicker than a lot of stars I've worked with!" Su-man remarked. Though her movements wobbled and lacked range due to her condition, they saw in her a unique artistic sensibility and depth of understanding. "She's incredibly smart and has great artistic talent."
By the third day, Yu began noticing changes in her body—less stiffness, more relaxation. She realized that regular movement training was beneficial, despite the persistent pain and fatigue.
Farooq shared his feelings about Yu's poetry: "Your work evokes such powerful emotions in me. Sometimes, it moves me to tears. It's a reading experience I've never had, not even from writers in my own country." Later, when Yu wrote a series of new poems for the dance theater, Farooq would text me repeatedly, saying, "I'm so touched, with tears in my eyes."
We later learned that Farooq, a Pakistani immigrant, had faced intense discrimination growing up in the UK. Perhaps a shared experience of marginalization deepened his connection to the resilience and vitality in Yu's poetry. Pain and struggle seek an outlet—poetry for Yu, dance for Farooq. This mysterious synergy united them.
"Hu Tao, let's give it a try and see what this old man can pull off," Yu told me.
And so, it was decided. We finalized plans for the first workshop, which began in late September on Huandao Island in Zhejiang Province. On this remote and serene island, Farooq brought together dancers and actors to lay the groundwork for a multidisciplinary stage production blending poetry, dance, and theater.
The Storm Within
The most direct impression Yu Xiuhua ever had of dance came in February 2023, when we attended a performance of Yang Liping's renowned stage production, “Peacock”, at the Suzhou Bay Theatre. It was the first stop of a long journey that began in early spring. Both of us had endured a difficult 2022, eager to cast the pain of the past into the garbage heap of time.
Once again, Yu was deeply moved by something foreign and far removed from her life experiences. She was captivated by the graceful dancing of the peacocks on stage and the transcendent, cyclical narrative. That night, back at the hotel, she was so exhilarated she secretly ordered a bottle of Erguotou via a delivery app. She drank herself into a stupor and needed an entire day to recover.
At the time, we had no idea that Farooq was Yang Liping's international creative producer. Nor did we know that he had first learned about Yu Xiuhua through Yang's prized disciple, Dong Jilan (Jinhua). While Farooq was conceptualizing a new dance project and struggling to find a theme, Dong Jilan suggested Yu Xiuhua, a Chinese poet whose work she deeply admired.
Farooq soon sought out Yu's poetry. In the verses of this unfamiliar woman from a distant land, he found an immediate resonance. "Her words leap onto the page with fearless, unflinching honesty, capturing a woman's vulnerability and struggle for acceptance—both inner and external. I was profoundly moved," he said.
Compelled by an "irresistible urge," Farooq decided to embark on an artistic journey with his team. He invited Dong Jilan to join the group and brought in talented dancer Li Kehua and actress Tian Lan. Guided by his intuitive vision, Farooq began to shape a new form of stage art—a fusion of poetry, dance, and theater. He was eager to bring this vision to life at the Flower and Bird Island workshop.
From the rehearsal hall on Flower and Bird Island, one could see the boundless sea stretching to the horizon. Isolated in a remote corner of the East China Sea, the island is adorned with wildflowers, untamed wilderness, and a raw, otherworldly beauty. Immersed in this idyllic setting, the artists felt nourished by the embrace of nature.
From the moment Yu first watched the dancers rehearse up close, she was enveloped by an extraordinary whirlwind. Dong Jilan and Li Kehua presented a well-practiced duet. The dancers moved with deliberate stillness, their hands slowly tracing arcs before suddenly erupting into a wild, primal surge. Their limbs extended in every direction like a tree sprouting countless branches, propelled by an unseen force from deep within. With wide strides, leaps, rolls, and intricate combinations of movement, they mimicked the ebb and flow of tides—dynamic, fluid, and mesmerizing.
Yu was spellbound. She couldn't fathom how the dancers remembered such an array of seemingly impromptu movements. She marveled at the freedom of their bodies, akin to the unbounded flow of consciousness that shapes poetry. In their movements, she saw echoes of the sprite that often danced in her mind, stumbling yet unrestrained by the limits of her physical form. For the first time, she grasped the connection between poetry and dance: both are vessels of transcendence.
Compared to professional dancers, Yu's body seemed far from ideal. Her figure lacked the lithe elegance of the young women in the troupe. Her belly, soft and rounded, bore the marks of middle age. Her congenital cerebral palsy made her movements shaky and uncoordinated; even walking was an uneven, precarious act. While many admired her indomitable spirit, those close to her knew how easily her body tired. On outings, she often needed to sit down after walking only a short distance.
Yu envied the dancers' nimble, graceful forms and their freedom of movement—qualities she could only dream of. Inspired, she penned a new poem for the production, “She Dances in April”. Farooq chose this as the initial title of the dance drama. One line encapsulated Yu's yearning: "From grinded eyes she retrieves a fragmented self / From disability, She retrieves a dancer on light feet." It was an authentic portrait of her inner desire.
The troupe supported Yu's integration into dance, starting with daily warm-ups to ease her stiff body. She progressed from basic movements to synchronized routines, gradually harmonizing with the group. Using vivid analogies, the instructors helped Yu learn. For instance, the motion of sweeping hands across her face was described as "washing your face in the morning," and bending forward was likened to "catching a bird." Through repetition, Yu began to grasp the essence of the movements. Though her steps still lagged behind Dong Jilan and Li Kehua, she managed to perform the foundational choreography with growing confidence.
Farooq's vision included the recurring theme of "shadows," a motif deeply rooted in his psyche. Perhaps it was Yu's poetry that reawakened memories of his own days spent in obscurity. He sought to explore how living in shadows shapes the human spirit and how one might emerge from their grasp. In the choreography, Li Kehua's precision and Dong Jilan's wild energy embodied two opposing facets of Yu's inner self, while actress Tian Lan represented another voice—a younger, more conventional version of Yu. Tian's scripted monologues explored the tensions between these inner personas.
One scene featured Tian lifting Yu from the ground, Yu's arms extended like wings, poised in flight atop Tian's back. Yu joked about the intimate gesture, noting how she could smell the "scent of woman" from Tian's proximity.
As soft guitar notes introduced Yu's poem “Determination”, the dancers began to move. Yu commenced with simple motions like "washing her face," gradually advancing to more intricate sequences. Her unsteady posture and deliberate movements resembled a sailboat precariously navigating choppy waters. Despite her clumsiness, Yu exuded a distinctive rhythm and beauty. Her resilience, like a tender shoot breaking through the soil, conveyed an unstoppable vitality. In that moment, the audience was transfixed by the raw purity of her presence.
During a rehearsal sharing session, island residents witnessed this emerging masterpiece. Many were moved to tears by Yu's bravery and the poignant interplay of bodies on stage.
But Yu herself resisted sentimentality. The grind of rehearsals wore on her, and Farooq's ever-evolving ideas tested her patience. "This old man keeps changing his mind!" she exclaimed.
One evening, a wandering musician arrived on the island, hosting an impromptu "music night." The troupe seized the chance to unwind. Amid the revelry, Yu surprised everyone by performing an improvised dance to “Flower Demon” from Dao Lang's new album. Her movements echoed elements of the rehearsed choreography but were distinctly her own creation—a swaying, heartfelt expression of her unique spirit.
Farooq was astounded. "Amazing!" he exclaimed, recognizing Yu's untapped potential as a choreographer. This revelation marked a turning point. Farooq realized it was time to challenge her further, to unleash the full extent of her creative energy.
Becoming a Dancer
The trip to Huaniao Island reassured Farooq and his team. Upon returning to the UK, Farooq devoted himself to refining the script, striving for deeper layers of content while assembling the set design, lighting, and music teams—longtime collaborators of international renown.
Playwright Amy was captivated by a line in “Determination”: "My ten thousand tons of moonlight have sunk into the depths of the ocean." She suggested using "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" as the title for the entire production. Farooq, an admirer of Chinese elements, was delighted. He keenly recognized its resonance with Tang poetry, finding the evocative imagery of "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" subtler and more vivid than the initial title, "She Dances in April".
"Shadows" emerged as a central motif for the piece, but Farooq didn't want to stop at surface-level symbolism. The more he learned about Yu Xiuhua, the more he saw her as a coexistence of contrasts: a body bound by physical limitations but a soul soaring freely, an outward appearance of ease masking inner solitude, and an explosive force lying dormant in the shadows of her heart. Onstage, he aimed to present a multifaceted Yu Xiuhua.
Farooq sought to explore even deeper corners of Yu's psyche, uncovering darker, wilder, and even violent aspects—fragments that mirrored his own inner reflections. He invited Yu to create two new poems for "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight".
"My eyes are two tombs / One buries a volcano of passion, the other a Dead Sea of despair / Yet I must live, as if stillborn within the womb...Only by slamming our fists against life's sharp edge, can we catch / The fallen leaves covering the mountains." At the end of 2023, Yu delivered her submissions “Early Autumn” and “Between two opposing mirrors” became sharp anchors for the production's tone. Along with five earlier poems and Amy's monologue for the dancer Tian Lan, the material now offered a rich narrative arc. The team's remaining task was to weave it all together cohesively.
With confidence in the work's foundation, Farooq's team officially invited Yu and the dancers to the UK in the spring of 2024 for the third phase of creation and rehearsals. This crucial trip involved testing stage effects with the technical team and moving the creative development into execution.
When UK visas were approved, the reality of the commitment set in. Yu joked, "So this old guy really means business—could this get even bigger than I thought?" None of them had anticipated Farooq's persistence. He traveled tirelessly, promoting "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" at global art forums, determined to bring the work to the world stage.
Before the UK trip, Yu's mood was low. Winter and spring triggered her mild depression. Over six months, she reverted to her usual routine at home: drinking, tending flowers, and watching short videos in bed. Away from the collective life of the dance troupe, no one pushed or trained her, and she found herself distanced from dance. She regretted her decision to commit, lamenting before the flight, "I really boarded this old man's pirate ship—who knew this would take so long?" She had never collaborated so deeply with anyone before.
But landing in London was another story. Yu, plagued by chronic insomnia, surprisingly didn't struggle with jet lag. She and the filming team strolled around Gordon Square, encountering statues of Virginia Woolf and Rabindranath Tagore. She delighted in the playful squirrels on the hotel lawn and found the food not as bad as rumored. The fresh air and novel surroundings gradually lifted her spirits.
In Newcastle, Yu and the dancers finally stepped onto the theater stage for full technical rehearsals. The process went smoothly. The dancers, after countless days of practice, grew more adept. Everyone adjusted to Farooq's spontaneous, inspiration-driven working style, fine-tuning the production through repeated experiments.
Farooq created a solo dance specifically for Yu Xiuhua, inspired by her performance on Huaniao Island. This was the only solo in "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" and her moment to shine. For Farooq, it represented "the heartbeat of the entire work." Standing center stage, Yu began with her arms crossed overhead, transforming them into birdlike wings fluttering gently. Lowering her hands, she bent forward, extending her arms from behind her back. This time, her arms became wings, and she embodied the bird, slowly spinning onstage. For five minutes, the stage held only her, a single beam of light, three projections, and her flowing silhouette. It was a solitary moment, radiating despair yet brimming with courage, resilience, and quiet defiance.
Farooq remarked, "Yu sees freedom as a bird. Poetry gave her wings; perhaps dance will give her another pair."
On Dance City's stage, "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" had its first public performance before 200+ audience members—locals, Chinese expatriates, and students. The dancers delivered an extraordinarily moving performance, earning enthusiastic applause and cheers, which greatly bolstered Farooq's confidence.
Returning to London, the team refined the production, holding two rehearsal-sharing sessions. At the final session's end, attendees showered the dancers with warm applause. Yet Yu suddenly slumped onto the floor, refusing to rise. A teammate had to pull her up as she reluctantly joined the group for a bow, her face heavy with melancholy. Offstage, her expression darkened further, lips pursed, eyes filled with sadness.
Yu had forgotten several movements during the performance. She believed she had let down her fellow dancers, ruining what she'd hoped would be a perfect farewell to the sharing sessions. Though most didn't notice the mistakes, she was consumed by guilt. When Farooq embraced her, her tears finally fell, and she cried like a wounded child in his arms.
Even at the evening celebration, Yu remained subdued. With her tear-streaked face, she leaned silently against the bar's wall, detached from the team's joyful toasts. Others came to comfort her, with dancers sharing their experiences: dance is a painful pursuit, and every dancer faces moments of near-collapse. Reflective dancers, when they fall short or feel they've held back their team, often wrestle with self-reproach. In this sense, perhaps Yu Xiuhua truly became a "dancer" at that very moment.
Life Is an Encounter
In late October, six months after the trip to the UK, the team reconvened in the rehearsal hall of the Suzhou Bay Grand Theatre, located on the shores of Taihu Lake. They were making a final push in preparation for the world premiere of "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" at Shanghai's Theatre YOUNG in mid-November. During the past half-year, Yu Xiuhua had been busy promoting her new poetry collection, "Flowers Bloom on the Hillside", traveling across the country and exhausting both body and mind. She had completely forgotten her dance moves.
Three days before heading to Suzhou, I received a sudden late-night call from Farooq. He sounded panicked: "Yu Xiuhua just sent me a few WeChat messages. I translated them with an app. Does she mean she doesn't want to rehearse anymore? I'm worried..."
He forwarded her messages to me: "Farooq, I'm in love. Don't ruin it for me. I don't want to rehearse anymore."
I couldn't help but laugh.
After spending time with her, I recognized her unique trickery—a playful mix of truth and humor. There's a mischievous twinkle in her "hehe" laughter that pulls her conversation partner into a seemingly "unfavorable" position. I quickly explained to Farooq that she'd probably been drinking and couldn't be taken seriously. I reassured him that we would arrive at rehearsal on time, which finally eased his mind.
"Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" remains Yu Xiuhua's most in-depth collaborative project to date. Its continuation was nothing short of miraculous, fueled by the dedication of the creative team and the persistence of Fengling Productions, its producers. But it was also rooted in the indescribable contradictions within Yu herself.
To me, Yu Xiuhua is a fascinating paradox, a blend of contrasts. Collaborating with her often felt like walking a tightrope—suspended, suspenseful, even surreal. The highs and lows came in waves, marked by intense joy and profound sorrow. On stage, you constantly worried she might stumble, but she always managed to steady herself at the last moment, evoking both anxiety and admiration. She is someone who thrives on "being in the moment."
In the early days in Suzhou, Yu struggled to remember her dance moves, and everyone seemed slightly out of sync. In her solo, she forgot many steps and rhythms, which was further complicated by Suman's revisions to the choreography. The rehearsals felt slow and heavy.
Years of poor sleep forced her to rely on alcohol and medication. This pattern brought on prolonged anxiety. When I advised her to separate drinking from medication, she secretly increased her dosage instead. One day, she took four sleeping pills, leaving her groggy the next morning and in poor condition for rehearsal.
During warm-ups and simple routines, she was drenched in sweat and frequently lay down on a yoga mat to rest. Her morning practices were a blur of fatigue.
Yet, by the afternoon, after a cup of coffee, her energy surged back. A recharged Yu Xiuhua stood before us. While her dance partners practiced group routines, she tirelessly repeated her solo movements in front of the mirror, her feet pounding the floor with determination. Her body seemed to operate on a unique rhythm, an extraordinary reserve of energy: she could consume alcohol, coffee, and sleeping pills in one day; oscillate between sleeplessness and exhilaration; and heal remarkably fast despite her delicate skin.
Since her first training session in Hengdian Village, Yu Xiuhua never missed a single rehearsal—even when her health faltered. Only she knows how difficult that was. Witnessing the dancers' daily workload up close, I, a physically fit man, found it challenging to endure barefoot training on wooden floors. For a person with a disability, it was nothing short of remarkable.
I could see she was pushing herself, as she had always done in life. She wasn't one to give up, even if she wouldn't admit it outright.
For a solitary poet, collective creation seemed unimaginable. Writing is an individual act, but dancing requires cooperation, coordination, and even compromise. Accustomed to her own rhythms, Yu was now subject to discipline for the first time—and she never faltered. She later admitted in various settings that the dedication of the TTToM crew inspired her to press on: "To honor the commitment of everyone involved, I couldn't quit halfway."
The fiercely independent Yu Xiuhua also found herself enjoying the camaraderie. Sometimes, she even dreaded returning home to isolation, confessing, "No one will watch over me then."
The controversy surrounding Yu Xiuhua's dancing began with the release of the British Library video. Critics remarked, "She dances like a clown. Why showcase your shortcomings?" Yu wasn't fazed. She went even further, self-deprecatingly calling her solo performance in Huaniao Island's Flower Demon "a monkey spinning in circles." When her father expressed interest in attending the Shanghai premiere, she adamantly refused: "It's not worth seeing. I don't dance well."
Farooq reflected in interviews that he had encountered many technically skilled dancers in his career, but what mattered most was sincerity. Yu Xiuhua possessed that sincerity and delivered to the best of her ability. In many ways, poetry and dance are interconnected: both use the body to convey emotion and both are ways for her to experience life.
On November 8 and 9, after three weeks of rehearsal, "Ten Thousand Tons of Moonlight" had its preview performances at Suzhou Bay Grand Theater's drama hall. The crew refined choreography and staging, revising movements and blocking repeatedly. Farooq was still nervous during his pre-show introductions, particularly about dancers forgetting their steps. Yu, ever playful, teased him:
"Don't worry. If we mess up, the audience won't even notice."
During the second preview, Yang Liping was in the audience. Backstage, she and Yu warmly embraced. Yu had grown accustomed to the collective lifestyle and began to cherish their time together:"By the time I finally get it right, you're all leaving again."
On stage, Yu Xiuhua gave her all:"Life should be lived to the fullest. On stage, I stretch my arms as far as I can, trying to touch the infinite within the finite."
Farooq remarked,"This is not a dance performance. It's a work about life."
Yu Xiuhua added,"Disability confines a body, but discovering that a disabled body can still dance opens up new possibilities for life."
Thus, on stage, the audience witnessed a different Yu Xiuhua: a fragile yet determined figure, embodying an "impossible" spirit. Her unique form expressed the bittersweet essence of life, as a singular, vibrant soul emerged to share its story.
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