Changing Places, the Same Longing

I have been watching Shen Yun for years. Every year in a different place. This time it was Füssen. The ensemble was performing here, and we combined the visit with a few days of vacation. A few years ago we had already been in the area, at the Eibsee. Back then we also wanted to continue on to Füssen, but the weather had other plans. It rained heavily, and we eventually drove on. This time it worked out.

In the evening we sit in the Festspielhaus. The lights dim. Conversations fall silent. And then it begins.

It is this immersion in a world that feels light, almost carefree. Colors in all their variety, sometimes radiant, sometimes delicate and restrained. Costumes that do not merely adorn, but carry meaning. Movements that appear effortless and for that very reason reveal how much discipline lies behind them.

And then there are these stories.

Narratives from a culture that has grown over millennia. They speak of kindness. Of helpfulness. Of the question of what defines a person at their core. Of the struggle between good and evil, and how one chooses within it.

Sometimes the Monkey King appears, playful, powerful, and often with a gentle humor. His stories come from "Journey to the West," one of the most celebrated works of Chinese literature. Alongside these stand other narratives about monks cultivating themselves in the mountains. The entire production is seamless. Costumes, music, the animated video backdrop, and the dancers interweave, each element attuned to the others. The effect of this interplay is harmonious and striking.

The music deepens this impression. It is an orchestra that brings together Western and traditional Chinese instruments, and it is precisely this combination that makes the sound so distinctive. I look forward to it every year, above all to the solo of the Erhu player. Two strings, and yet from them emerges a sound of such fullness and depth. I still find it astonishing that this is possible.

I notice that I am not merely watching, but being drawn in. I take something with me. No grand resolution. Rather something that resonates. The impressions carry on, beyond the evening itself. It is the entire production that continues to reverberate, that brings order, that harmonizes. Especially because in everyday life there is so little room for beauty and inspiration. And perhaps that is precisely what remains: a feeling of calm and a measure of hope.

Perhaps that is precisely what brings me back every year. Not the place. Not the production alone. But something that goes beyond all of it.

Outside, things grow louder. More restless. The news tumbles over itself, contradictions multiply. And then there is this evening, which does not shut any of that out, but sets something against it. A form of stillness.

And at the same time, the other side. So much beauty on stage, and yet that very beauty is not permitted in China itself. The traditions brought to life here have been suppressed for decades. And still today, people are persecuted and imprisoned for holding on to them.

That remains in the background. But it is there.

And perhaps that is precisely why it makes a difference. Because you sense that what is being shown here is more than performance. It is something being carried forward. Even at the cost that the artists can no longer return to their homeland, because they keep alive, before the world, a culture that has grown over five thousand years.

The lights come on. And so I walk out again at the end, back into the night and back into everyday life. The impressions will stay with me for a long time.

B.