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Knives and Shamanic Fissures: Fate, Character, and Face Reading
David Jee-Yoon Kim
(미국 콜롬비아대학, 인류학)
[한글요약]
‘신칼과 샤먼의 균열: 운명, 성격, 관상’
이 논문은 관상이 새롭게 인기를 끌고 있는 현상에 대해서 논하고자 한다. 요즘 새로나온 핸드폰 서비스 가운데 즉석으로 사진을 찍어 관상서비스로 보내면 몇 분 안에 결과를 알 수 있는 서비스가 있다. 이런 부류의 관상은 엄격한 의미로 샤먼적이라고 말할 수 없을 것이다. 물론 서비스 제공자도 굳이 샤머니즘을 언급하고 있지 않다. 이 일화에서 나는 “샤먼의 활동”이라 규정하는 기준이 무엇인가에 대해 새삼스레 생각해보게 되었다. 실제 무당이 했다고 해서 그것을 “샤먼적”이라고 필연적으로 규정할 수는 없을 것이며, 샤먼적 활동이라고 해서 무당에게만 해당되는 것은 아닐 것이다. 여기서는 이러한 문제들을 인류학과 관찰, 이론과 실천에 기초하여 논의할 것이다. 일단 전제로 하는 것은 샤머니즘을 규정하는 요소로서 무당 뿐 아니라, 단골 혹은 무당, 사용하는 도구, 이 모든 것이 참여하는 사회적 맥락을 고려해야 한다는 것이다.
나는 무당사이에서도 위계질서가 있다고 본다. 최정무가 일찍이 말한 바 있는 슈퍼스타 샤먼으로 유명한 김금화가 인간문화재로 존경을 받는가 하면, 동네에서 접하는 무당들은 낮은 계층에 속한다. 한국 무속에서는 김금화처럼 강신무가 다른 유형의 샤먼보다 진정한 무속을 계승한 것으로 인정받고 있는데, 이것은 민속학자들의 권위에 힘입은 바 크다. 김태곤을 비롯하여 민속학자들은 한국 무속을 강신무와 세습무의 유형구분을 이들의 활동범위에 따라 북방샤먼과 남방샤먼으로 구분을 하고, 대체로 시베리아 샤먼과의 유형적 친연성을 근거로 하여 북방샤먼인 강신무에게 한국 무속의 권위를 부여하였다.
김-하베이 영숙은 1970년대 초 정신의학적인 차원에서 샤머니즘의 치유에 초점을 맞추어, 여섯 여성무당이 신병 경험을 극복하면서 무당으로서 성숙하는 과정을 사회화의 개념을 가지고 분석했다. 여기서 사회화는 당시의 산업화과정에서 겪는 사회경제적 스트레스에 대한 적응과 부적응의 문제와 관련된 것으로서, 김태곤이 말하는 강신무의 원형적 접신능력이라는 것도 결국 이러한 시대적 상황에 대한 적응 능력을 시사한다고 볼 수 있다.
무당의 사회적 이미지는 이중적이다. 한편으로는 사회를 오염시키는 천한 존재(abject figure)로 사회의 질시를 받지만, 동시에 인간문화재로서 전통문화의 공연예술가로 추앙받는다. 무당들의 치유능력보다도 공연능력이 더 중요한 기능으로 인식되고 있다. 여기서도 무당의 위계질서가 나타난다. 무엇이 ‘진정한’ 무당과 무속을 대표하느냐 하는 민속학자나 사회적 인식의 규정에 따라 ‘상위’ 무당 혹은 ‘큰’무당과 ‘하위’무당 혹은 ‘작은’ 무당으로 위계질서가 생긴다. ‘무속의 전통구조’ 밖에 있는 무당은 진정한 의미의 무당이 아니고, 설익은 ‘선무당’으로 무시받는다.
그러나 주로 선무당을 연구한 나는 “무당의 행위라고 해서 모두 샤먼적이라고 할 수 없다‘고 주장하고 싶다. 이들 낮은 무당들은 대체로 무속전통의 법도나 규율을 따르지 않는다. 내림굿을 정식으로 하지 않고도 무당노릇을 하며, 신어머니 혹은 신아버지와의 관계도 처음 내림굿을 한 후에 지속되지 않으며 학습을 제대로 하지 않는다. 대학교육을 받은 어떤 여자 무당은 김동리의 소설 <무녀도>를 읽고나서 자신이 겪는 갈등을 이해하게 되었다 한다. 어떤 무당은 자기가 하는 굿을 매번 비디오로 찍어 되풀어보면서 굿 기술을 익힌다.
나는 이들의 무속행위를 ’자력 무속‘(self-made shamanism)이라고 부르겠다. 자력 무속은 벤야민의 이른바 ’모방능력‘(mimetic faculty)라고 하는 샤먼의 주체성 구성과 관련된다. 자력무당들은 전통적 무속관행에 고착되기 보다 주위에서 활용가능한 모든 방법들-예컨대, 관상과 사주-을 채택하여 활용한다. 이러한 실용적인 자세가 지향하는 것은 단골의 기대와 요구에 부응하기 위해서이다. 여기서 자력무당들은 소위 무속 전통의 진정성을 지키는데 중점을 두는 ’큰‘무당들과 다르다. 자력무당들은 모방능력을 활용하여 사회경제적 상황에 적절하게 적응하는 전문적인 창작가(bricoleur)이며, 이로서 자아창조의 기예를 수행한다 할 수 있다. 무속전통의 진정성이 있다고 전제하고 선무당들 때문에 무속전통의 진정성이 점차 쇠락하고 있다고 안타까워하는 인식 자체가, 스스로 배우고 비전통적인 점술을 포함하여 다양한 다른 방법들을 활용하는 자력무당들의 실질적인 관행을 저해하는게 아닐까?
다른 한편 이들 자력무당들의 점사의 권위는 접신상태에 의해 강화된다. 사람의 운명을 읽는 점술의 기술은 신령의 힘의 패티쉬에 지나지 않는다는 사실은, 이 경우에도 여전히 무당의 진정성에 대한 담론의 위세를 반영한다.
There should be a caveat here, considering this is a presentation for a 'shaman' seminar. This paper touches that peculiar practice called physiognomy, or gwan-sang―peculiar not because of any implicit exoticism (although this might explain some of its charm for modern consumers) but because of its proliferation and renewed popularity.1) Just last month, in fact, I became aware of a new mobile phone service, which allows the subscriber to take a picture of his/herself, and forward the image to a face-reading service. Within minutes the patron is given a reading of their face. In light of such a product, face reading, in and of itself, may not be considered 'shamanic' in the 'strict' sense. Indeed, the advertisement for the phone service makes no references or allusions to shamanism whatsoever. To continue with the caveat, I have struggled with the possibility that we might necessarily have to begin with some consensus on what 'shamanic'activity is. Because of the range of scholarship on this very issue, however, I would like to take a brief detour before proceeding through this perilous landscape, and instead state something more obvious. Just because a shaman performs an activity, does not necessarily make it a 'shamanic' one. Likewise, shamanic activities should not necessarily be reduced to the shamans themselves. It is perhaps this simple observation that highlights certain approaches to this piece, which is grounded in anthropology and observation, theory and practice.
By acknowledging this simple proposition that shamanic activity is not intrinsically connected to the shaman―i.e. the shaman is not the source or origin of shamanic power―we can open discursive spaces and allow more interpretive modes for understanding what shamanism is. In this particular case, I am persuaded, if not adamant about the thesis, which maintains the configuration of power in shamanism is a constellation events engaged from multiple angles (Taussig 1987, Atkinson1992, S. Kim 1998). Power in shamanism is a complicated relation of exchanges and activities, readings and writings, of which the shaman is only one component. It is more and more necessary to consider the perspectives of the patrons and/or patients, the materials and the social contexts/machineries that are all brought to the discursive table, which in turn, constitute the grounds for what might be considered 'shamanic' activity.
The roots for this essay come from my own experience with shamans dating back to the late 90s. As a college student majoring in theater, I had the privilege of studying with the shaman Chae Hi-ah, who was an apprentice, or sin-ddal, of the ubiquitous Kim Geum-wha, who is arguably the most renowned shaman in Korea today. The story of their relationship, and Chae's subsequent initiation has been widely documented in various forms of print and visual media, as well as in academic scholarship regarding 'superstar shamans' by Choi Chungmoo (1991, 1997). Along those lines, I was concentrating on what might be considered more traditional points of analysis―that is, those shamans who have been designated as official carriers of 'intangible cultural properties' and capable of performing formal kut with both expertise and aesthetic grace.2) As my studies progressed, however, I found myself more and more drawn to shamans who might be considered on the 'lower rungs' of what I prefer to describe as a 'shamanic hierarchy.' This hierarchy, in part, stems from numerous works of folklore scholarship exemplified by the works of the late Kim Tae-gon, whose influence cannot be understated as foundational in the field of Korean folklore and shamanic studies.
The folk-categorization of Korean shamanism, as often cited, is based on charismatic and non-charismatic divisions―the gangsin-mu/sesup-mu binary―and subsequently subdivided along regional lines. The north in this scenario is designated as ecstatic, with the ability to trance-possess, whereas the south is defined as hereditary, and in an "atrophied"condition (T. Kim 1998: 28). These distinctions are traced back in a diffusionist manner, which allow for comparisons― if not direct affinities―between the Korean and Siberian case (ibid: 23). Kim's work to a degree―if only in an analytical fashion―can be seen as a proponent of the ecstatic nature of shamanism, Korean or otherwise. Hence, the northern shamans and their rituals are attributed with authentic shamanic abilities/power. Whether or not this fetishization of one region was his intention, however, I believe is open to debate.
One might argue that Kim's research (which spans decades) mirrors trends that might be looked at in a more economic context. In the early 1970s, Youngsook Kim-Harvey was doing ethnographic fieldwork on the professionalization of shamans and their practices. Significant in her work is the presence of urban landscapes, the stories of mudang in decidedly contemporary contexts, and her emphasis on the therapeutic nature of shamanism.3) Framed within psychiatric discourses, it approached the phenomenon of Korean shamanism in relation to varying degrees of success and failure in regards to socialization, or even societal normalization (Kim-Harvey 1979). The emphasis is less on a shaman's ability to perform, but rather to heal―not only others, but themselves. One also can infer that her informants' personal traumas, highlighted by sinbyeong, or initiatory illness, are not simply subjective tales. Such struggles, in fact, can be read as modern allegories for the pains that accompany radical societal shifts brought on by rapid industrialization and other shocks to previously held notions of everyday life. Read in retrospect, Kim-Harvey's book anticipates the re-proliferation of shamanism, as it is held up as a mirror of a Korea that was, and is, in continual change. As these stresses build, shamanism flourishes as both a necessity and means; and as a consequence, shamanism as a business finds new meaning. Thus, Kim Tae-gon's apparent preference for ecstatic shamans with abilities to trance possess might have less to with any archetypal universality, but rather an uncanny adaptability to emergent societal pressures. Embedded in Kim's statement that southern forms of Korean shamanism have 'atrophied' is the suggestion that gangshin-mu are very much alive and protean.
By the time of Kim-Harvey's fieldwork, the economic and social landscape in Korea is already a fertile space for drastic changes. For the shamans in her ethnography, the mudang status is a degraded one, as throughout her text they are referred to as outcastes. At this same time, however, the shaman as a contaminated or abject figure, is undergoing a process of revision by folklorists who are documenting shamans and their rituals, instituting cultural heritage in the name of preservation and conservation. These activities will gain momentum in the 70s, and hit full stride in the 80s, with the recognition of more and more intangible cultural properties. It is this very rift, or perhaps a contradiction the shaman as a revered folk object, yet simultaneously chastised as a marker of the 'non-modern' or superstition which sets the backdrop for a shamanic hierarchy. What should be stressed here, however, is that hierarchy connotes not only organization, but also categorization based on exclusion or exception.
Choi Chungmoo notes that "while some shamans were honored as Human Cultural Treasures and became superstar shaman artists, the lesser-known neighborhood shamans were frequently harassed by the police" (1997: 26-27). In this respect, shamanic healing practices are relegated to a shaman's performance abilities. Throughout Choi's work, she refers to such shamans as musok yesulga, although in my experience few shamans, even if they are so-called 'superstars,' currently refer to themselves as 'shaman folk-artists.' If anything, what this indicates is that while some shamans may be at the top of their profession, they also know that it is hardly the art that matters when it comes to their actual patrons―from this point of view, function is not secondary to form. When Choi writes that neighborhood shamans were being harassed, she was referring to the 70s and some part of the 80s. In the year 2005, neighborhood shamans are far from being persecuted they are flourishing. But what should be emphasized, is that there is already a clear line drawn between the neighborhood shaman and the gifted artist. Stated in a more cynical manner, there are shamans, and there are shams.
Thus, the current state of the shamanic hierarchy can be seen as the product of state policy, and the subsequent institutionalization of a shamanic folk heritage during the 70s and 80s, supported by academic scholarship. Indeed, it could easily be argued that they are two sides of the same coin. Academic works, in particular those subscribing to the diffusionist model and also heavily influenced by Mircea Eliade, overlap with the idea that the shaman must also be a master of their craft. The icon for what might constitute the ideal shaman under such guidelines is the before mentioned Kim Guem-hwaa― northern shaman with impeccable performance abilities. While her performance skills are without question, considerable attention is also given to her life history― including the onset of initiatory illness, and her subsequent abilities to trance and divine.4) The distinction of hierarchy is no longer founded on a performance versus healing dichotomy, but has now entrenched itself into something more along the lines of pedigree and record. Shamans are considered as such, as long as they "keep traditional rules and ordinances, and are trained up to a certain level"(Y. Kim, S. Lee and L. Hwang 1999: 254). What constitutes so-called 'tradition' in this case, however, and through what acts is this rule of law created and sustained?
Again, Kim Guem-hwa provides a road map. It is well documented how she actively pursued those folk scholars who went into the field to document cultural properties, and in subsequent years enhanced her status by participating in numerous folk art festivals and contests (Choi 1991, 1997). Kim, however, is far from being a pawn of analysis, or simply a product of the tradition industry. She not only exercises her own agency within the boundaries of discourse; she is one of its producers. She is described as a woman who "has been given the undisputed authority to determine the authenticity of regional folk-culture"―so much so, that folklorists and other scholars often relegate authority to her in regards to what is considered authentic (Choi 1991: 53). All debates and discourses regarding the construction of authenticity, aside; there is a definite distinction, which marks 'real' and 'fake' shamans grounded around the concept of 'folk.' There is a separation between 'high' and 'low' shamans, or 'geun' and 'jag-eun' mudang. In the colloquial sense, these terms can signify age and experience, but also very much fame and reputation. Such divisions maintain that only the upper echelon of proper mudang can be designated as shamans. Lesser-trained mudang, many of whom specialize in divination, or jeom, while more prevalent in number, are pushed out of the equation, even if they attract a greater number of patronsin masse. They are portrayed as "forming illicit connections with people [who] depend on the current of the times and serve only self interest" (Y. Kim, S. Lee and L. Hwang 1999: 255). The presence of such mudang, are even perceived as a threat to "the structure of tradition in musok" (ibid.: 255), with musok, here, referring to 'shamanic practices.'5)
Those mudang outside the traditional view of musok, I was told by the shaman scholar Hwang Lucy, "are not really mudang," but should be referred to as 'seon mudang,' which is derived from 'seol-igeotneun mudang,' or literally 'unripened mudang.' One infers from this logic that such mudang are not really practicing musok either. She also warned me that such shamans are sneaky, and I had to be careful of their propensity for lie and exaggeration. As an anthropologist, I believe in a healthy dose of skepticism, but I was wondering which lies should I be wary of, and in what context? What Hwang's suggestion highlighted to me, was that I had to be very conscious of the question. In the context of this shamanic hierarchy, the discriminated neighborhood fortuneteller will view the fieldworker with suspicion, if not out right disdain.
The more gifted performer, on the other hand, will welcome you with open arms. On more than one occasion, while attending a shaman ritual, or gut, I have been summarily introduced in front of the patrons. Often times it is more on the sly: "Ah, the scholar has arrived." As an anthropologist, my presence validates the shaman's abilities and reveals her work as something that deserves academic interest. Kim Guem-hwa is totally at ease in this setting, and always ready to speak. She confronts you directly as a scholar and says, "ask me some questions." And admittedly, there is no one more eloquent about her own tales and biography; Kim has almost encyclopedic knowledge regarding the text of shamanic songs, the materials used in gut, including ritual tools and costume, etc. Her familiarity with the major deities within the shamanic pantheon is second nature. The gut she performs are, in fact, 'superstar' productions. My first encounter with Kim Guem-hwa was at a shamanic initiation ceremony, or nae-rim gut, which utterly changed the way I saw the world. But in retrospect, I note more and more the Australian television crew shooting footage for a special about amazing feats in the human world. Indeed, extensive television footage of her rituals can easily be found at the Seoul Arts Center video Archives.
The neighborhood shaman's trust is more elusive. Many times I have used the analogy of feeling like a door-to-door salesman. I am often simply rejected from the onset, and told things like, "we don't like your kind." I often wonder who the collective "we" refers to― is it shamans in general, or a particular arrangement? Other times I am invited in, and without solicitation, I hear the familiar tropes and stories of initiatory illness and the ongoing struggle with spirits. Once they sense that I am not out to judge their aesthetic abilities, however, or determine their degree of divine inspiration― i.e. gage their 'authenticity'― they speak more uninhibitedly, often without the shroud of shamanism. I find the most rewarding stories to be those that have little to do with shamanism. One male shaman, or baksu mudang, told me how he lives separately from his wife and child, but still has a healthy marriage. His main concern is his son, and whether he should tell him the truth about his profession, instead of saying that he is "some kind of doctor." Another shaman, went into detail of how she was fortunate to have made money in real estate, and used that foundation to travel and study in Japan― it was there, in fact, that she received her shamanic inclination/calling, and now even has a clientele base there. Such stories for me reveal more about the context of a shaman's life, as well as their everyday affairs and societal pressures. Shamans are no doubt defined to a certain degree by their professions perhaps more so than in other fields of work. But as I mentioned at the beginning of this paper, not all activities of a shaman are shamanic.6)
For these shamans who are lower on the rung whose principal activity is divination there are far less concerns for keeping 'traditional rules and ordinances.' As a consequence, the issue of formal training can at times get sticky. Some of these shamans are elusive regarding specific questions that relate to their initiation ceremonies and pedigree. In this sense, Hwang Lucy's warnings are duly noted. After trust is earned, however, insights into their training― or lack thereof―is revealed. In some cases, these shamans can be described as 'self-made.' After receiving their initiation ceremonies, and identifying the major spirit who will guide them through life,7) these shamans are often left to their own devices. When asked if ties are still kept to their godmother/father― i.e. the shaman who oversaw their initiation process―some answer that they have passed away or that they have gone separate ways because of personal differences. This severing can be perceived as a gap; and as a result, the shaman must rely on other forms of available knowledge to round their practices. One shaman, graduate-school educated, was reading the well-known novel Mu-nyeo-do, the story of a young female shaman and her struggles with emergent social pressures―in particular, the conflict between shamanism and Christianity around the turn of the century. She explained to me that this was one the ways she gained insight into her own life and profession. Like so many in our society, she is also comfortable with technology and its mediums. In particular, she keeps video recordings of her own gut, as well as other shamans, which she says helps hone her abilities.
This idea of 'self-made shamanism' relates directly to the construction of shamanic subjectivity, which speaks to the mimetic faculty (Benjamin 1978b). This idea of imitation is perhaps at the core of 'shamanic activity, esp. if we follow the signifying characteristics laid out by the diffusionist model― that is, the ability to transform and to imitate the spirits, or even animals, thereby gaining a particular mastery of the form through becoming 'other.' What is unsettling to the discourse which insists Korean shamanic activity adhere to set forms of tradition and practice, is that shamanism in Korea― if not worldwide― is currently being inundated with what Adorno and Horkhiemer refer to as 'uncontrolled' forms of mimesis and imitation (1997:180). The troublesome irony, for some, is that not everyone can become a shaman― nor would they want to―but the tools are readily available if one needs them, or so chooses.8) Hence, the over-dependency, if not obsession with a particular notion of authenticity ―although not always readily recognized as a constructed concept― and the warning that something is threatening the very fabric of musok itself. Indeed, what could be more threatening to convention, than mudang who are self-taught, and extend their practices to include divination practices outside traditional spheres of shamanic activity?
These 'self-made' shamans are adept at sensing their clients' needs and wants, as it is vital for their economic success. Presently, fortune telling, whether in shamanic or horoscopic spheres, is a unique commodity with a powerful allure, which attracts a growing number of clients business is booming.9) It would not be an exaggeration to state that there are as many fortune telling establishments as there are convenient stores. Shamans have adjusted accordingly, and have integrated practices such as horoscopic divination, or saju, and face reading into their repertoire.10) In some cases, the shaman works together out of the same location with a fortuneteller who is responsible for the saju divination, or delegated other non-shamanic forms of reading. In other instances, however, the shaman him/herself has learned to perform these 'external' forms of fortune telling. The result is a kind of hodge-podge―the shaman, to borrow an anthropological/ cultural studies term, has become a kind of professional 'bricoleur.' This activity can also be considered collage, and in this sense, it is not simply an adjustment to economic currents and popular fad. It is actively participating in the craft of oneself. If shamanism is anything, it is malleable, fluid, and in flux― if there is joy to be found in shamanism, it is perhaps in such simple realizations as the "the self is really made-up." Is there some part of the 'mimetic faculty,' which is readily embraced, if not mirrored by shamanism, and finds a welcome space within its folds and niches? A shaman I met with, spoke with considerable pride that she had learned to read saju, and could offer it to her patrons. Yet what is it that she is offering to her patrons? Is it simply a matter of choices, or is there some interior secret to be revealed, which touches on this playfulness of copying and imitation?
One answer is that patrons are drawn to shamans because of their ability to access the spirits. This ability intensifies the reading, giving it a greater aura of plausibility. Even if the shaman is not working through the spirits the moment he/she is giving a reading, there is a shamanic context, which becomes the backdrop for all activity. In other words, a shaman's reading has a fetish of power that is lacking in the non-ecstatic diviner―the reading is traversed by the same discourses of authenticity that are traced back to the Siberian case. This perceived lack is best exemplified, not by shamans, but certain saju readers. Some horoscopic diviners I have met are eager to note that they have received the spirits, and while they do not consider themselves shamans per se, the story is revealing. Disregarding any attempt to determine the veracity of such claims, the fact that these readers connect themselves to shaman-like genealogies at least reminds us that spirit calling or― at least events that are interpreted as such― is not limited to the shamanic sphere. It also suggests, however, that some diviners are responding economically to shamans who have expanded their practices, by highlighting their own ecstatic experiences ―real or interpreted.
The cynical response to choice is that there is no actual differentiation between forms of divination― the desire to know one's fate and character is simply driven by demand. People are drones, who cyclically consume apparently newer forms to feed the same initial impulses, which are driven by economic uncertainties. What is consumer choice in this day and age, but choosing between Coke and Pepsi, McDonalds and Burger King? The commodity as a sign or brand determines who we are; it is our fate that controls our actions, and not the other way around (Baudrillard 1988). Under this model, the portrayal of seon mudang, as those who form "illicit connections"with their patrons for the sole purpose of monetary gain, resonates strongly. Embedded within such systems, however, is that residue of mimetic activity― the possibility for alternative constructions of knowledge and subjectivity. "The task is not whether to repeat, but how to repeat...”? (Butler 1990: 148). The trick here, is how to read the face of shamanism and its expanding knowledges and techniques.
While accompanying a young student who was having her face read by a shaman, she was told, "never put a knife to your face." No longer able to resist being a passive observer, I asked the mudang why. Her response was one of surprise―as if I was questioning the obvious. She continued that plastic surgery has a great effect on who you are and your future. But less obvious is this obsession with the exterior, the face, and what it signifies. Walter Benjamin notes that modern man is perfectly content with the idea that physical features such as a face or hand can reveal insight into a person's character, but the idea that these surfaces can reveal something about a man's fate or future, "seems unacceptable" (1978a: 304). In other words, reading the exterior of thing can reveal insights into its interior qualities. Yet, when this same activity is directed towards the future, towards a realm that is spatially and temporally outside the subject, the practice is somehow compromised. We should not forget here, that Benjamin was in fact critiquing the unwillingness, or inability, to extend the original analogy. The Modern Enlightenment subject is a sacrosanct space―a fortress or church―no matter how much you change the exterior, the interior retains untouchable and sovereign. This simple, perhaps nave, idea that a person can change their fate by cutting their face runs contrary to this notion. Indeed, a physiognomy of shamanism itself might reveal that it has always been about divination and mimesis. A horoscopic diviner, when asked to compare shamanism and saju, told me―in a typical yin and yang fashion―that shamanism was 'negative,' and 'saju' was 'positive.' This statement was surprisingly right on the mark, perhaps even more so because of her critical distance. There is a negative space inside shamanism, that produces at times liberating, at times tormenting, and even joyful forms―all of which are readily apparent when watching gut, and the various ghosts and spirits whom emerge. Shamanism is uncannily exterior, which is its most elusive, yet marked quality. It should be no surprise then, that shamanism is constantly transforming, adding layer upon layer of texture to its 'tens of thousands' of surfaces. Anxiety, however, might come from the chance that the face of shamanism might reveal a future as a hollow as a can of Coca-Cola.
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