When I make a performance, I think about making a place. My worlds have a coherent internal logic. All of the elements make sense in relationship to one another, no matter how bizarre they seem from the outside. It’s an immersive experience. Just relax, there’s nothing to solve. It’s like when you travel to a foreign country and find yourself in a situation where you have no idea what’s going on, but everybody else seems to. I love the part that’s mysterious to me.
In person, I’m not very funny. But I make dances that crack me up. I like what laughter does for audiences; it breaks the ice, makes them comfortable, and opens them up to experience other, more difficult emotions. That said, I don’t try to predict what audiences will find funny, and I’m always surprised by exactly when people laugh.
In person, I’m not morose, violent, or bleak, either, but I do keep coming back to dark places. I’ve used fake body parts, stage blood, and mimed murders and drawn on childhood violence, mythological violence, and political violence. I’m deeply troubled by violence, particularly by how it can seem alternately real and unreal. That said, this fascination is also linked to my sense of humor. When do we need humor most, and when is it funnier, than when we’re scared?
Improvisation is an important part of my work. I love to see performers actively figuring something out. It’s real. Right now I’m experimenting with tight game structures and also very open ones, relying only on ideas about movement initiation. I’m searching for a framework that gives performers plenty of space to make unexpected connections, but at the same time plenty of support, so they don’t feel adrift in possibilities.
I work with types of performance that you might not immediately describe as dancing. I’ve used voiceover, bad mime, tableau vivant, oration, and song. I’ve even played children’s games like “Telephone” with the audience.
I also work with abstract movement. My language is contorted and fluid, awkward and elegant, spasmodic and languid. I’ve been initiating flings and flicks from the tips of my toes and fingers, exploring a supreme looseness that’s my second nature. Ball-and-socket joints fascinate me. I’m honing a disjointed, disconnected body, a strong contrast with the integration I’d practiced for years as a dance student.
Recently, I’ve expanded my investigation to include other dancers, and I’m fascinated by how differently my ideas are expressed in their bodies. I’m learning from their interpretations and discovering an entirely new dimension to my movement. It’s like translating a poem from Spanish to Japanese and back to Spanish—and having an entirely different poem.