MEET THE ARTIST SPECIAL: Urn from Inner Mongolia
— DON'T WE HAVE ENOUGH POTATOES NOW?
A conversation with Urna Chahar-Tugchi about
to find balance in life. And if that weak
can be strong.
Singer Urna from Inner Mongolia has quite the track record. She has sung in 80 countries for millions of listeners. Her voice is rare and spans over four octaves; according to Illustrated Science, most opera singers are in the two-three range, and five is considered the one-woman record.
It's no secret that we're starstruck when we meet this star in Berlin at Easter. But instead of talking about achievements and ovations, we get to talk about the very things that are close to our hearts and important to us.
We're talking about living a simple life, or perhaps even a simpler life. Simple doesn't mean empty, it's not the same thing. Look at nature. It's full of creatures, landscapes, and weather systems - and everything is connected.
— When I say simple, I mean connected like in nature or in a beautiful picture.
Urna says that we are increasingly distancing ourselves from the larger context.
— I think that's a shame for humans. We need this connection, like a tree needs water.
— If life is messy and overloaded, it might be difficult to feel the connection, we say.
— Feeling the connection is one thing. But there is an even more direct way. Namely, being the connection.
A conversation between a singer from the Mongolian grasslands, a writer from the Norwegian coast and a photographer from the British metropolis of London - conducted in English - must be said to put the language both to the test and into perspective. Even if we use the same words, it does not necessarily mean that we mean the same thing.
These nuances are not as small as they may seem. Words define and expand thoughts, which become feelings, which become actions, which have consequences for life itself and the course of generations. If you accept the idea that everything is connected, then you may agree that words are evolution, and then they can suddenly seem large and complicated.
We agree on "up" and "down" to put into words the deep connections.
— It's a simple philosophy, says Urna.
— Down below, call it the ground or the roots, we are bound together. The more we think and talk and are busy, the higher up from the roots we move. However, I don't think we ever become truly disconnected. That's too harsh a word. It means that something is broken, and I don't think that's possible.
She has had this mindset since she was growing up.
— I often get asked if I miss my homeland, and people might be surprised when I answer “no”. It’s hard to explain. I carry everything inside me. Especially when I sing, I feel a deeper connection. I am completely in my own world, and with my voice I share this world with the audience.
Woman or man, religious or atheist, three years old or 90 - it doesn't matter. People who have been to a concert or course with Urna often say that there is more going on than meets the eye, something bigger than words.
— There is energy everywhere, if only it weren't empty. When I sing, it is this energy that I share, and that the audience shares with me. We are all tied together down at the roots. Forget it!
Everyone has access to this connection. Urna sees it happen, again and again. Even with those who stubbornly claim they can't sing, or perhaps _especially_ with those who stubbornly claim they can't sing. When they get this relaxed expression on their face, like a baby face, then she knows the channels are open.
— I am so grateful that the audience gives themselves, each other and me the chance to be in this moment of energy and warmth. It is not so easy to describe in words, but it is.
— The way you think, this is not limited to humans, but is something that happens between animals and trees and everything that exists, I ask.
— Namely. That's the source.
She's looking at me. Really studying me. Do I get the context, or does she have to give me a little push?
— Don't you think music _is_ the connection, she finally asks.
"Making music," says Urna, and it can't really be said any other way. Music is an active word, and something most of us do, regardless of whether we are professionals or happy amateurs.
— When you make music, it comes from the depths of your heart, aren't you one? Can you imagine a deeper connection?
I feel my eyes filling up and overflowing. All the masks - the professional woman, the adventurer, the talking machine - dissolve and are washed away by the tears. I am left sitting in front of the Urn like a naked person.
"It's so powerful to talk to you and be close to you. I'm sorry," I say, embarrassed.
— There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm telling you that you should laugh if you need to. Don't hold it in.
Urna grew up on the Ordos Plateau in Inner Mongolia, between the Great Wall of China to the south and the Huang He River to the north, in a desert-like landscape about a thousand meters above sea level. The family had livestock and access to both milk and meat. They lived a life in harmony with nature.
— On a rare day when it rained, we were visited by people from the neighborhood. They brought instruments, and then we drank tea and a little alcohol. The instruments were passed from hand to hand, and we sang traditional songs. People have always sung together. Today we talk more and sing less.
Ever since she was little, she had a tendency to break out into her own melodies. Her mother noticed this and asked, "What are you singing about?" But no one put any restrictions on her. Urna felt free, and she takes that same freedom with her to gigs to this day.
— At every concert I sing a song that is born in that moment, together with that audience. Maybe I'll sing that song again, maybe never. It's not about improvisation, that's a misleading word. The songs surge up in me like water in a flood. My music is Urn.
She sings both traditional songs and her own compositions. The songs can be about practical things like making tea, or they are full of life wisdom on a deeper level. Knowledge is passed down from generation to generation, from mother to daughter.
We sit and talk about this transmission in different folk traditions, and again we come across words that pull in different directions. I say "teach away", she says "give".
— My mother carried me through life. I saw what she did, and I heard what she sang. Gradually, I did the same things she did, and I sang the same songs she did. It was completely natural. The word “learn” or “unlearn” is different. Our songs have been preserved from ancient times, long before we had books. When my mother put me to bed at night, she would sometimes tell me about the content of the songs. But it wasn’t about learning. It was about being and helping and moving through life.
Knowledge is not learned. It is passed on.
It's been a long time since Urna lived permanently in Mongolia. She still visits, but has lived most of her life outside her homeland.
At the age of 18, she traveled to Shanghai to study at the music conservatory.
— I didn't know a word of Chinese and understood absolutely nothing. It was a big shock, but I was determined to study, so I stuck with it.
She stayed in Shanghai for just over four years. After that, she lived in Berlin for five years, Bavaria for five years, and Cairo for five years before returning to Berlin and doubling the cycle. In round two, she has been here for ten years. She has no concrete plans to move, but has started packing up her things in the rented apartment. She senses that a change is coming.
— How is your life in Berlin?
— Fantastic. I drink coffee with extra milk, see?
She raises the enormous cup to her lips and grins contentedly. We are sitting in one of her favorite cafes.
— I travel more than half the year. I love to travel and share my music. Otherwise, I live a quiet life.
— Why Berlin?
— I don't really know, maybe because I've been lucky in Germany. It won't be Berlin forever, but I don't think about it that much. The more you think and the more you plan, the more things get in the way.
She is basically a nomad.
— It's about balance, I think. By nature we are nomadic, but we are moving increasingly upwards and further away from our roots. We want more, always more. More potatoes and more coffee. We use a lot of nature to produce what we want. You see the same thing in Mongolia, which is traditionally a nomadic culture. More and more people are becoming settled farmers, because we need thousands of potatoes. But could it be that we have enough potatoes now?
She says that the further we move from nature, the less we care about nature. We stop being the connection and eventually we can't even feel it.
— I can feel a sense of community with those I care about, without being with them. I can sit here on a cafe chair and sing, and the vibrations spread around. It may sound like a dream, but deep down in my roots it is possible.
It's not entirely far from our own cultural heritage. We also talk, for example, about premonitions, you know, the premonition you get just before someone knocks on the door - or as in Urna's case - just before her mother calls via internet-transmitted video call thousands of kilometers away.
Urna does not have children of her own, but she has four godchildren. They are the children of good friends: a Mongolian family and a Greek-German family, both living in Germany.
She tells how she became a godmother for the first time.
— The family was on vacation in Greece, and I was invited to visit. The child's father picked me up at the airport. As we arrived and got out of the car, we heard the child crying angrily. No one had managed to stop the crying, and the mother was completely distraught. I could see that she was tired. I took the two-month-old baby in my arms, and it wasn't long before he was fast asleep. It must be a sign, the mother thought, and asked me to be godmother. I had to think about that. I didn't know what was expected of me. I have a lot of love to give, but what if I forget the birthday, she says, laughing.
Lots of love was exactly what the parents wanted for the little boy. And the rest is history. As soon as she said goodbye to Førdefestivalen After her outings in an Easter-filled Berlin, she takes the kids to Bavaria for a few days.
— Why do you think you have such a strong connection with children and me and other people?
— I don't really know. I'm calm, and that's what kids are for. They're smart like that. And maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have strong roots.
But how do you get strong roots?
Urna believes that intuition is an important key. And then it helps to appreciate things and to be happy. Both parts depend on life being somewhat simple. It needs to be cleaned and washed, both literally and figuratively.
"If there's too much dust, things become blurry. And if you never clean up a bit, the dust grows into a big mountain that you have to walk around on. Then you risk the dust flying in all directions," she says, and we laugh a lot.
We are back where the conversation began, with a simple life - or perhaps rather - an even simpler life.
Many Mongolian singers make their mark in opera. They have such strong voices, it is said, because the sound has to be carried over great distances.
"If you feel free, you can of course sing loudly, but it doesn't have to be loud," she says.
"It's probably just a myth," we reply.
But it's as if she doesn't want to let go of the topic.
"Soft and quiet can be so powerful," she says.
A few hours later, as she sits along the Spree River in the middle of Berlin and sings to us, a song emerges from the depths of her being that is infinitely soft. The sound remains floating on the wind like a dandelion seed, woven but strong and viable.
"This song was born from our conversation about what is strong," she says.
And because we are convinced of the same thing as Urna, that everything is connected and vibrates with the same energy, we listen extra carefully and take it to heart.