When I was younger, I’ve only ever seen one Chinese opera performance in Guangzhou, China. I don’t recall much, seeing as I was possibly four or five at the time, but what I remember the most was the bright, melodic warbling that rang throughout the hall.
The singer’s lilting, almost nasally tone rose and fell as she sang in tandem to the Chinese orchestra’s rhythmic tune. The loud hum of the erhu accompanied her singing, and the clashing of cymbals picked up in speed, conveying a sense of tension and urgency.
A glittering whirlwind of blue, white and silver, she was a tall, imposing figure onstage with her platform boots, made more intimidating with the four patterned flags that stemmed from her back (indicating that the character was in full armour). She brandished her spear expertly as she played the role of a female warrior who rode horseback, also known as the ‘dao ma dan’ (which in English translates to ‘sword-and-horse woman’). Her face was painted in an opaque white, her eyelids a blushing red that spread evenly to the tops of her cheeks, making her almost doll-like. Her brows, however, were drawn in high arches, giving her
