On Stage, the Echoes of Five Thousand Years

On March 10, 2026, both the afternoon and evening performances of the Shen Yun New York Art Troupe at the Queen Sofia Palace of the Arts in Valencia, Spain, were completely sold out. The image captures a curtain call from the afternoon show. (Jun Zhuo / The Dajiyuan)

[People News] Some things cannot be rehearsed. While skills, movements, and expressions can all be practiced, the light in a performer’s eyes when they stand on stage — that quality that conveys they are not merely performing, but engaging in something they genuinely believe in — cannot be cultivated in a rehearsal room. It must come from the heart.

As the lights dimmed, I experienced a gentle sensation, as if something ancient reached out to me across the ages — it was neither entirely moving nor completely shocking; rather, it was a profound feeling I had gained from years of attending Shen Yun performances live, leaving the theater each time with an indescribable sense of something deeper.

1. Beauty is the first language

The beauty of Shen Yun transcends language. Surrounded by an audience of Spanish speakers, I observed the reactions of those around me — during the water sleeve performance, when the silks flowed gracefully through the air, a middle-aged woman, who had no understanding of Chinese culture, held her breath; in the Kingdom of the Peacocks, at the moment the peacock spread its tail and the dancer's skirt unfurled simultaneously, she instinctively grasped her companion's arm.

This beauty is structured. The costumes of Shen Yun are not mere restorations displayed in a museum; they are vibrant and alive, designed for high-speed spins and large leaps. The silk of the water sleeves flows gracefully under soft lighting, the furs of the Mongolian riders quiver with the rhythm, and the flowerpot-bottom shoes of the princesses create a crisp beat on the wooden floor. Five thousand years of aesthetic tradition are distilled into two hours here—not as a display, but as a living breath.

The symphony orchestra embodies this breath's rhythm. The sound of the erhu is the closest representation of the human voice in Chinese music—it is subtle, it narrates, and while it retains its solitude within the harmonies of Western orchestras, it also creates a unique resonance with them. This fusion is not a compromise; it is a confident dialogue: I come from a different civilization, yet we can communicate in the same space.

2. The Cosmic Order in the Story

This year, what left the deepest impression on me was 'The Adventure.' The monks, in their quest to reclaim the golden Buddha stolen by robbers, had three of them disguise as men, using delicate and pitiful poses to lure the robbers. There were even moments of wigs falling off and wardrobe malfunctions that elicited laughter from the audience. Then, when they reached the riverbank with the golden Buddha and found their escape route cut off, the robbers caught up, and at the moment the knife was about to strike, they stood their ground—the golden Buddha shone brilliantly, magnifying several times in mid-air, causing the robbers to kneel in fear and bow their heads.

This narrative intertwines comedy and the sacred within the same story, following the sequence of first laughter, then shock. The laughter allows the audience to release their psychological burdens, and in that moment of relaxation, they receive a profound message about faith: when a person chooses to stand firm in the face of despair, a greater power will intervene at the last moment.

'Reaping What You Sow' is a program that has left a lasting impression on me. It tells the story of two couples: one is kind-hearted, while the other is wealthy but unkind. They encounter a deity disguised as a beggar, and their choices lead to starkly different outcomes. The kind couple follows the rules and eats only one celestial fruit, which rejuvenates them; in contrast, the greedy, rich man ignores the warning and chooses to eat two, ultimately turning into a baby. This illustrates how the logic of greed unfolds naturally—punishment is not an external imposition but rather a consequence of the greedy behavior itself. It is a gentle yet precise expression of the law of cause and effect.

'The Birth of the Golden Monkey' held my attention completely, as Shen Yun chose to depict the least represented part of the Sun Wukong story—not the chaos in Heaven or the journey to the West, but the process of mastering the arts.

Sun Wukong diligently follows his master to cultivate, enduring the changing seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. He strictly obeys his master's commands, remaining committed to his training without faltering due to the weather. His fellow disciples cannot withstand the hardship and drop out one by one, but Sun Wukong perseveres. Consequently, his master grants him initiation and teaches him the seventy-two transformations.

On stage, this segment is portrayed as a figure meditating in the same position throughout the changing seasons—while the other disciples gradually depart, the light transitions from the brightness of spring to the chill of winter, with only this figure remaining unmoved. This moment is the quietest in the entire performance, yet it is also the most powerful. The strength comes not from movement, but from stillness.

I came to understand the essence of cultivation: Kung Fu is not an innate talent or a matter of chance; it is the one who remains after everyone else has departed, earned through time and willpower. The empowerment is the outcome, while perseverance is the underlying cause; the supernatural abilities are external skills, but that meditative figure represents the true Sun Wukong.

Upon returning to Flower and Fruit Mountain, I discovered that three monsters had taken over his homeland, and Sun Wukong used his supernatural powers to drive them away. This conclusion carries deep meaning—cultivation is not about escaping the world, but about gaining the ability to protect what is worth safeguarding upon returning to it. Mastering skills is an introspective journey, while driving away monsters is an extroverted action; both represent two facets of the same endeavor.

When the stone monkey suddenly leaped out of the screen to become a living dance performer, countless audience members gasped in astonishment. When he smoothly re-entered the screen to seek his master and learn the way, the audience erupted in enthusiastic applause, expressing their admiration for this unique expressiveness. I was reminded of the golden monkey's emergence, embodying that steadfast figure through the seasons, which in a sense mirrors the cultivator.

3. The Weight Beneath the Lightness

This year's program included two Mongolian dances. The male Mongolian dance in the first half was a sensory feast—clear river waters, majestic distant mountains, the whinnying of fine horses, and the leaping figures of heroic young men on the grassland. No prior knowledge is necessary; anyone seated in the theater can feel that vastness. It provides the audience with a pure emotional connection: the grassland is beautiful, it is free, and it is something to aspire to.

The women's Mongolian dance in the second half presents a stark contrast. Set in the Snow Mountain Book Building, the bright moonlight and the flickering glow of butter lamps illuminate a young girl as she reverently honors the deities. The camera transitions from the grandeur of the outside world to the tranquility within—shifting from the vastness of heaven and earth to the sincerity of the soul.

These two performances do not explicitly define beauty or the sacred; rather, they first invite the audience to experience beauty for themselves, and then to seek the sacred within that beauty.

The Manchu dance might be the most underrated performance this year. The young ladies, wearing flowerpot-soled shoes, fly kites in the palace courtyard, their laughter ringing clear and their movements gentle. Yet, the flowerpot-soled shoes require balance and concentration to walk—maintaining grace under such constraints serves as a metaphor for personal cultivation: external limitations cannot impede inner tranquility. As the kite soars beyond the palace walls, the string remains in hand—showing that even within the confines of the walls, the connection to the heavens is never severed.

The program 'Academy' narrates the story of a girl who dislikes needlework and disguises herself to attend the academy. While it appears to be a light comedy on the surface, it conveys a deeper message about pursuit: the truly significant matters are worth breaking societal norms to chase, and the realms of spirit and knowledge are accessible to all who seek them, regardless of gender. This theme resonates with 'Zhang Guolao,' who navigates the world without being ensnared by fame and fortune, reflecting Shen Yun's consistent expression of life’s philosophy—engaging in worldly affairs with an otherworldly mindset.

4. A comprehensive narrative on perseverance.

Having watched Shen Yun for several consecutive years, I have come to realize that there is a recurring hidden theme throughout the entire performance: the theme of solitary perseverance. The monks confront death by the river, the practitioners maintain their unwavering hearts in the face of persecution, the girl infiltrates the academy alone, and Kangxi travels incognito. Each central character finds themselves isolated at pivotal moments, upholding a certain belief without any external support.

This is not merely a narrative coincidence; it reflects Shen Yun's profound insight into the human condition: all truly valuable perseverance is often experienced in solitude at the moment it occurs. There is no applause, no support, only an inner conviction of something significant. The golden monkey practices martial arts alone on the cliff, Zhang Guolao plays among mortals in solitude, and the monk stands alone at the moment he guards the golden Buddha by the river.

Through these stories, Shen Yun conveys that solitude is not a weakness, but rather a shared experience of all great perseverance. Miracles manifest in solitude, karma operates even when unobserved, and the way of heaven does not require an audience. This serves as a particularly valuable reminder in our noisy contemporary world.

Epilogue: That riverbank, and what comes next

As the performance came to an end, the Spanish audience rose to their feet, applauding and cheering, while the performers took their bows three times, reluctant to leave the stage. I was reminded of the great river that obstructed the monks' retreat in 'The Fateful Encounter.'

The riverbank represents the point where all human effort is exhausted. In that moment, what can sustain you is only what you hold in your hands, and whether you genuinely believe it is worth holding onto.

This is not just a performance. It is a state of being, revealed through the medium of performance.

As I sit in the theater in Madrid, I reflect on all those who choose to uphold kindness even in difficult times— not necessarily practitioners or believers, but ordinary people who, at a pivotal moment by the river, decided not to let go. Different eras, different individuals, and different stories all convey a shared human experience: we will all face that river, and we must recognize that what we hold is worth holding onto. This world is bigger than we perceive, kindness will not vanish into the darkness, and those who stand firm are ultimately not alone.

As I exit the theater, the night breeze of Madrid greets me. I still have the program in my hand, which features the titles of twenty performances— some that made me laugh, some that left me in silence, and some that I felt a gentle touch from in the dark. This is why I return every year.

Written in March 2026, Madrid

(Adapted from Dajiyuan) △