On the surface, Netflix’s new film Emilia Pérez doesn’t sound like a natural fit for dance: The plot follows a violent drug cartel leader in Mexico who hires a lawyer to help plan a faux death in order to start a new life as a woman. Yet Damien Jalet’s choreography plays a major role in revealing the characters and the brutal world they live in. Here, ahead of the film’s November 13 release on Netflix, Jalet discusses how he collaborated with cast members, including Zoe Saldaña and Selena Gomez, to create movement that “raises the heartbeat of the film,” as he puts it.
How did you get involved with Emilia Pérez? I was in Mexico, actually, and had just got news that one of my tours was canceled because of a COVID wave. I was completely upset and told my partner it would be amazing timing for a cinema project. Less than 24 hours later, I got a call from director Jacques Audiard’s assistant. So there was a kind of a crazy alignment and evidence that it was meant to be. Yet the evidence quickly disappeared when I read the script—there was no real musical moment where they could dance. We had to invent it. And we had to find a dance language that would be right for this film, this reality, this context of violence.
Did you have any particular movement inspirations? In Mexico, you have a lot of street performers at traffic lights, and they have, like, 50 seconds to do their act and then to collect the money. So it’s entertaining, it’s uplifting. But underneath, there’s a real survivor energy, and a real sense of urgency. That’s something that I really wanted to inject in the film.
How did you integrate dance into this story in a way that felt authentic? It’s only when I got to know the cast that it came together. Because, obviously, dance can be a help, but it can also be an incredible obstacle for the actors. There is something about the visceral engagement you have when you dance—it can’t lie.
For example, with Karla Sofía Gascón, I think with her, a choreographic score would get in the way of her acting. A lot of the work we did with her was much more postural and about her physical transformation from [the cartel boss] Manitas to Emilia.
Then with Zoe, her way to be convincing is to get physical. Actually, there’s a gala scene that was not initially supposed to be truly a dance scene. It’s only when I understood how far Zoe could go that I stopped everybody during one meeting and I said, “Listen, I’d love to try something with her. Can you guys actually change the music?”
And Selena had a physical viscerality too—she would take movement really seriously, and really, really try to polish everything to make it as close as possible to how I envisioned it.
Zoe Saldaña as Rita in Emilia Pérez. Photo Shanna Besson/Pathé.
With both Saldaña and Gomez’s characters, dance functions as a way of releasing pent-up rage. Dance is used as a tool for resistance a lot in this film—a little bit like a weapon. In the gala scene, Zoe’s like a blade. She’s cutting heads with her gestures. With Selena’s character, there was really this cathartic sense of “What do I do with this anger? I’m going to dance it, and let it explode.” And it felt right for Selena, who is often presented as a polite, gentle girl, but she totally has that badass headbanging anger also in her.
How have people reacted to the film so far? The film is getting so many accolades and now is a contender for the Oscars. But there’s very little recognition for dancing in cinema. I’ve been watching a lot of films recently, and I see how much choreographers contribute. Dance is doing so much right now. We need to do more to fight for acknowledgment.
The reality of a dancer’s life is often more complicated than what we imagined as young students. We must become not just powerful artists but also skilled marketers, social media managers, and self-care experts. This, coupled with the need to pay rent and buy food, can create a heavy schedule of work and art. Time management and communication, essential to maintaining any career, are especially important in project-based work in the arts.
But when opportunities to work in our chosen art form arise, of course our first response is to say yes.
The tendency to overcommit is complicated. As dancers, we love what we do and want to perform. We think we can do it all. We often need multiple income streams simply to make ends meet. And in our post-pandemic world, there is also a subtle fear that life opportunities will again be taken away. As a result, we may want to take on everything while we have the chance.
But we simply cannot produce our best work or stay healthy when we take on too much responsibility. This is when we’re more likely to get injured or sick. We have to rush from one project to another, risking accidents, being late, not eating.
As a dancer, artistic director of a professional dance company, and choreographer, I am frequently seeking artists for hire. I always have candid conversations with dancers at auditions and before we begin the rehearsal process. We give them contracts to sign, which include the payment details and rehearsal schedule.
Most producers understand that artists are juggling demanding schedules—schedules they often have little control over—and are willing to compromise. Still, every cast includes dancers who are simply overcommitted. “Oh, I will only miss a couple rehearsals” is a common response, or “I can learn off video.”
In our ever fast-paced lifestyle and state of global trauma, we have lost the ability to step back and ask, “Can I fulfill my job obligations?”
We often overcommit with the best intentions, trying to balance a steady paycheck with freelance dance work. In those circumstances, communicating is key. Be honest and up front with everyone, including yourself. Let the production team know of work schedule conflicts ahead of time, if and when you can.
Part of learning to say no is trusting the process. If we can’t take on a job, we need to remind ourselves that there will be other chances to dance, in a time and space when we can give our all. It can be challenging to cobble together a career from a collection of dance projects, but one of the upsides is that those projects tend to come in many different forms: long-term, short-term, minimal and longer rehearsal times. With creativity, and the support of understanding directors, we can find a good fit.
It’s not easy to square our financial and logistical realities with our artistic dreams. But approaching both our careers and each other with care and trust will help us find the right balance—allowing us to take care of our physical and mental health, and to show up for each project at our best.
Photo by Elliston Lutz, Courtesy Jordan.
Amy Jordan is a choreographer, author, coach, and speaker, and the subject of the documentary Amy’s Victory Dance.
There is a new book out that is a must-read for dancers, teachers and directors. It’s called Nourishing Dance: An Essential Guide on Nutrition, Body Image, and Eating Disorders by Monika Saigal MS, RD, CEDS, CDN. The research presented is essential to understand, but the best parts of the book are the practical, real-life tips from someone who understands our dance world from the inside. Here, two dietitians who have spent their lives working in this world discuss the book and how we can best help dancers.
I love how you start off the book by clearing up some potentially challenging terminology. The word ‘healthy’ can sometimes be tricky.
“When I say, ‘healthy eating,’ I mean eating in a way that is nourishing, enjoyable, and adaptive and that supports their physical and mental health and a peaceful relationship with food and their body (and this will look different for everyone).
When working with dancers, I like to explore what the word ‘healthy’ means to them. This conversation helps reveal things that a dancer might view as healthy that really aren’t (for example, restrictive or compensatory approaches to eating), and offers opportunities to challenge and reframe them so we can truly be supportive of the dancer’s health.”
What does being ‘healthy’ even mean when someone is pursuing a career in the high pressure world of dance? Your book goes into detail about this.
“I love discussing this with dancers! Although there will be individual variability on what this looks like in practice, being a ‘healthy dancer’ includes fueling your body for dance and life, caring for your body to help reduce the risk of injury, getting adequate sleep and rest, caring for your mental health, finding dance/life balance, and having/working toward a peaceful relationship with food and more balanced and resilient body image.”
After years in the dance world, I appreciated your statement that practicing good self-care actually improves not just the dancers but the dance world as a whole. How can we foster an environment that makes this easier?
Monika Saigal.
“Those who train and care for dancers need a better understanding of the consequences of not prioritizing and supporting dancer health and well-being, which can be enduring (e.g. quality of life impacts of injury, disordered eating habits, poor self-worth and body image). This is why I think it’s essential to provide education to teachers/staff and parents, not just to dancers. It’s important to understand what’s at stake if we don’t support dancers in caring for themselves and to recognize the inextricable links between physical and mental health, self-care, and performance. My book has many ways we can help — giving enough time to eat, shifting our language and messaging, and providing resources to get professional help from a dietitian and therapist are just a few.”
Your book beautifully illustrates the science behind why diets don’t work, and how they actually backfire in the long run. Your chapter, ‘Dancing in Diet Culture,’ is a must-read for all dancers. What is one main point you wish all dancers could understand about the ‘dieting cycle’?
“Most people go on a diet because they want to lose weight or believe a diet will help them feel better about their body or will make them healthier, but dieting almost always leads to the opposite. This isn’t because you lack willpower or did it wrong; it’s because diets don’t work.”
In your chapter, ‘Dancing on Empty,’ you address one of the number one issues I also see in my work which is energy deficits during their work day even though dancers get adequate nutrients later in the evenings. What does ‘Low Energy Availability (LEA)’ mean?
“LEA is the result of under-fueling, and it means that the body doesn’t have enough energy to fuel exercise plus all of its other needs (normal body functioning, growth/development, daily activities), which can lead to multiple negative health and performance consequences.”
I’m seeing many dancers with LEA have higher rates of injuries. What are you seeing in your practice with dancers who are consistently in an energy deficit?
“In addition to more frequent and/or slow-healing injuries, dancers with LEA can feel more fatigued or weak and experience digestive issues, sleep disturbances, greater stress, and diminished enjoyment from dance.”
Your chapter, ‘Gentle Nutrition for Dancers,’ provides some great ideas for how, what and when dancers can get what they need to perform and recover. What are your top tips?
“Plan ahead! Schedule time for grocery shopping and meal prep, stay well-stocked with quick and easy meal and snack options, and always have a few different snack choices in your bag. I find that ‘rules’ and misinformation about what dancers ‘should’ be eating interfere with eating enough, so embracing flexibility over rigidity and prioritizing adequacy over attempts at ‘perfect eating’ can also be helpful.”
How can nutrition affect concentration, focus and mental health?
“Many of us have experienced how it becomes harder to concentrate and focus when we get too hungry. We’re more likely to make mistakes, have a harder time learning, and can feel irritable. Under-fueling on a regular basis can contribute to anxiety and depression, decrease resilience to stress, and be the catalyst for developing disordered eating. It also impacts sleep (which affects mental health) and increases preoccupation with food which can have an additive impact on concentration, focus and mental health.”
Chapter 7 addresses injuries. What’s the most important message?
“Make sure you are eating enough, and, if possible, get support from a dance dietitian. I often see injured dancers decrease their intake excessively, usually related to fear of weight gain or misconceptions about nutrition needs during injury, and this can delay healing and even prevent full recovery.”
The UK’s The Spectator recently published a piece by the Japan specialist Lesley Downer, historical consultant for the Northern Ballet’s 2020 production Geisha. In her essay, Downer wonders why claims of cultural appropriation so dramatically affected the reception of the work, which has not been remounted since its premiere. You can hear her frustration as she questions the validity of negative responses from those of Asian descent—including from people like me, founder of Final Bow for Yellowface, which since 2017 has worked to improve Asian representation in ballet.
Geisha is an original fantasy created by an almost exclusively White creative team that follows two geishas who both get raped during the course of the ballet. It is the latest in a long tradition of ballets with “Oriental” characters and settings, often with the women dying tragically, but beautifully. (For examples and discussion, see Banishing Orientalism: Dancing between Exotic and Familiar.)
Phil Chan. Photo by Eli Schmidt, courtesy Chan.
I don’t find it helpful to impugn the intentions of the creators of works like Geisha. However, it is essential to consider the impacts of such works on audience members, performers, and our larger society. Kudos to Downer for collaborating with Japanese experts on the story she wanted to tell. What was missing was consideration of the consequences of telling this kind of story—yet again—for today’s diverse audiences.
The Final Bow for Yellowface movement has been having such an impact partly because we’re living in a time of cultural sea change. Representations of Asians on the ballet stage have historically been defined by non-Asians. But today’s audiences are ready to move beyond Orientalism and its worn-out tropes, created by artists of European descent for audiences of European descent. We’ve begun to insist that if we want to set stories and operas in particular cultures, members of those cultures—as well as those who will be affected by its telling—should be collaborators. Someone from Asia used to living in the majority and an Asian living in the minority will likely experience Orientalist works differently. Where someone from Japan might see a funny clown (what’s the harm in that?), a British Japanese person might see a generic “Asian” caricature, made the butt of many Christmas pantos.
When living in the minority, a Japanese Brit and a mixed-race Chinese American like me can both be seen as generic Asians. And storylines that reinforce certain tropes about Asian people—the submissive and highly sexualized geisha, the geeky and effeminate sidekick with thick glasses—have real consequences for us. They range in seriousness from taunts in the schoolyard to being scapegoated and blamed for a pandemic, spat upon, and attacked. The fetishism of Asian women has resulted in actual rapes and horrific killings.
I hope that we would think twice about presenting works that feature even the most sublime choreography, the most beautiful sets and costumes, the most poignant and authentic librettos, once we understand their power to reinforce a long pattern of “othering.” Some of us do not have the luxury of enjoying a fantasy onstage without being affected in everyday life.
My recent focus has been exploring ways to layer new stories over the choreography and music of classical works—Madama Butterfly, La Bayadère—that feature cultural caricatures created by European creatives of the past (who didn’t know better!). These works are so much a part of our history. The goal is to preserve the best of our traditions without the baggage, and without harming the Asians among us.
Boston Lyric Opera’s production of Madama Butterfly, which Chan directed. Photo by Ken Yotsukura, courtesy Boston Lyric Opera.
If there is a company interested in revisiting Geisha, why not rework the libretto alongside Japanese collaborators who are aware of its possible impacts? Aren’t there stories we could tell about Japan that aren’t tragic fantasies about beautiful and sexually submissive Japanese women? In the case of Geisha, a skilled and thoughtful reworking probably wouldn’t even have to change too much of the choreography, sets, or costumes. As someone who directed an award-winning production of Madama Butterfly last year for Boston Lyric Opera, I know firsthand that it is possible for a non-Japanese person to tell an authentic geisha story that both reflects artistic intentions and meets the times.
At historically Black colleges and universities in the American South, the real stars of any football game are the majorettes. Their signature dance style, created by Black women and femmes, has attracted a cultlike following. It’s all about no-holds-barred spectacle, combining the precision of a kick line with the winking sensuality of burlesque, boldly embodying the marching band’s tunes.
“The dancing is very explosive,” says J’aime Griffith, who is a professor at Grambling State University and the director of the school’s dance line, the Orchesis Dance Company. “You have to be able to see it from the other side of the stadium because we’re in a competition with the opposing band and dancers. We want to outdo them.”
More recently, majorette dance has entered the mainstream, taking center stage on reality television series, movies, and social media apps like TikTok. Along the way, the majorette community has been adjusting to the increased exposure, which has brought new challenges—and new opportunities.
Grambling State University’s Orchesis Dance Company performing at halftime. Photo by Trandon Welch, Courtesy Orchesis Dance Company.
The Evolution of Majorette Dance
In the HBCU legacy, majorette dance represents a combination of Africanist and European inventions. That aesthetic tension remains a pillar of the dancing, with today’s majorette choreography featuring an amalgam of jazz, hip hop, and ballet. Field routines—dances performed on the gridiron at halftime with the marching band—are as likely to include bucking, where the pelvis pumps front and back in a deep, wide stance, as they are a grand battement, a high balletic kick with pointed toes. Stand routines—a form of call-and-response danced in the bleachers just feet away from spectators—embody a similar formula at a lower vibration.
The Alcorn State University Golden Girls are hailed as the first example of HBCU majorette dance as we know it today. The squad debuted at the 1968 Orange Blossom Classic in Miami. Affectionately called “the mothers” by fans and other lines, their gold boots have become an iconic signature.
The first-ever line of the Alcorn State University Golden Girls. Courtesy the Golden Girls.
The Jackson State University Prancing J-Settes also played a formative role in the development of majorette dance. A collaboration with queer men, the team’s approach, called J-setting, is practiced widely today and mixes the percussiveness of West African dance with acrobatics. (Think Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies [Put a Ring on It]” music video, but with full-out stunts.)
The evolution of majorette dance reflects specific and sometimes conflicting agendas, says Dr. Thomas DeFrantz, a professor at Northwestern University and a leading scholar of Black studies and dance studies. “Many dance forms arise to help young people do what they need to do,” he says. “So majorette dance arrived to help young Black women be available to each other, be attractive to each other, be attractive to potential partners, and to be emblems of the community.”
Off the Field
But what happens when the dancing leaves—or is extracted from—the community that made it? Television series like Lifetime’s “Bring It” have brought majorette dance to a broader audience; Beyoncé’s HBCU homecoming-inspired performance at Coachella in 2018 put the phenomenon on a global stage. An Oprah- and H.E.R.-produced film about a Los Angeles–based ballerina turned majorette line dancer is currently in development. And the style has all but been absorbed into the digital zeitgeist via majorette-inspired dance challenges on TikTok.
That rising popularity has directly impacted the practice itself, says Griffith, who notes an inflow of commercial forms like heels dance, as well as more extreme tricks from competition dance and social media. Other dancers say the mainstream recognition is overdue, but has not come without its issues.
The Golden Girls performing a stand routine at an Alcorn State University football game. Photo by Dr. Kecia Ashley, Courtesy the Golden Girls.
“I do feel excited about it finally getting the spotlight,” says Sanaa Davis-McClain, a former captain of the Howard University Ooh La La! Dance Line. “But I also wish we could spotlight the teaching and the classes and the foundation.”
Howard University’s Ooh La La! Dance Line, with Sanaa Davis-McClain at front. Photo by Artina Austin, Courtesy Ooh La La! Dance Line.
Majorette dance has even made its way to non-HBCU campuses. In September 2022, a video posted to X (formerly Twitter) of a stand performance by the then-new Cardinal Divas of the University of Southern California spurred a flurry of reactions. The squad faces unique challenges—partly because HBCU culture isn’t sure how to feel about it.
The USC Cardinal Divas—founded by Princess Isis Lang, above with arms raised—faces unique challenges, partly because HBCU culture isn’t sure how to feel about it. Photo by Aziza Hutcherson, Courtesy the Cardinal Divas.
“People said that since I don’t go to an HBCU, I don’t have the privilege to do this, saying they need to be gatekeeping it,” says Princess Isis Lang, the founder and incoming assistant coach of the Cardinal Divas. That resistance to Lang, a Black woman, creating a team at what has historically been a predominantly white institution is a ripple effect of a history of white Americans co-opting, profiting off of, and failing to acknowledge the creators of Black cultural exponents.
The University of Southern California Cardinal Divas on the basketball court. Photo by @cancerblake, Courtesy the Cardinal Divas.
Giselle Edwards, a sophomore who dances on the Cardinal Divas line, measures the fullness of her experience differently. “My Blackness isn’t determined by where I go to school,” she says. “It doesn’t matter if I’m at an HBCU, USC, or a community college.” And many in the HBCU community support groups like the Cardinal Divas, including Dr. Kecia Ashley, the sponsor of the Golden Girls and a former squad member herself. “I look at other cultures attempting to emulate the style of dance that our culture does so well as a form of respect and admiration,” Ashley says. “And we love that.”
A Continuing Legacy
As the cultural landscape of majorette dance continues to shift, new growing pains will emerge. But there is an encouraging constant across its widening, multiplying contexts: Black women, who remain at the center. They continue to uplift its legacy.
“Being a majorette dancer has truly inspired me to go after my dreams,” says Davis-McClain, who is pursuing a commercial dance career in Los Angeles. “I think that in itself speaks to what kind of impact this culture is having on young ladies like me.”
The Golden Girls performing a field routine at an Alcorn State University football game. Photo by Raphael Photography, LLC, Courtesy the Golden Girls.
You’ve heard it before: most people don’t move their bodies enough these days. Office workdays are long, and the television calls once they’re done. (We all need to decompress, right?) Could the concert dance industry be part of making positive change there? Through initiatives like the partnership between Breakthru and Mark Morris Dance Group (MMDG), that’s already happening.
Breakthru creates two-minute movement breaks that anyone can do at their desk, at any point in their day. Their collection now includes multiple interactive breaks that lead participants in movement inspired by Mark Morris’ vocabulary, anywhere they access the internet (with more breaks likely on the way). Dance Informa speaks with Mark Morris and Breakthru Founder Melissa Painter to learn more about the partnership, what it’s already catalyzed, and where it all goes from here. Let’s move!
A partnership comes to fruition
Why did Painter create Breakthru? “There’s a slow-motion disaster happening all around us… our sedentary behavior is linked with every chronic condition out there. And technologists are creating things that make us more like robots and less human,” she affirms.
Breakthru’s Joyful Freesia.
Yes, there’s been some resistance from the kind of people who “think that their bodies are for walking their brains around.” She responds to it by noting how “everyone has had a good idea when taking a walk,” for one. For two, she calls people to observe their breath while checking emails. For most, it’s short and shallow – which established science tells us is not conducive to whole-person health (something Morris also emphasizes). Clearly, embodiment at work matters…and is sadly in short supply.
Breakthru seeks to meet that need: through bite-sized, science-backed movement breaks – those that people all over the world are now experiencing through Slack, Google Chrome and Microsoft Teams. Painter has also been a lover of Mark Morris’ work since she first experienced it, when she was only a child. Yet, that personal passion and her professional mission only intersected when Breakthru’s data showed that individuals working for MMDG were using the program. In an amazing synchronicity, just as people with Breakthru reached out to MMDC, the same happened vice-versa. The enthusiasm to partner was mutual.
Morris notes that when COVID lockdowns hit, he certainly wasn’t the first lining up to create dance films; “I’m a theater artist.” The two dimensions of virtual meetings felt all too flat. Zoom rehearsals and classes could be plain “deflating.” Yet, if the company wanted to keep its work and impact alive, it had no choice but to translate it to virtual media.
The company pivoted to offer its Dance for Parkinson’s Disease program virtually. People all over the globe participated, demonstrating what the scale of such an offering could be. The ground was fertile for something like the partnership with Breakthru, long after lockdowns lifted and we could move together in space once again. “We’ve been doing what Breakthru is after for a long time…just in different media,” Morris says with a smile.
Painter agrees; as far as she sees it, the two companies have an aligned ethos of movement for all – not just the most thin, young, athletic and well-resourced among us. “At Breakthru, we want to convey that there’s no one ‘right’ way to look while moving. Mark conveys that in his work,” she says, with a smile of her own. “This wasn’t about wanting to work with any dance company…we specifically wanted to work with Mark’s company, because of their philosophy of movement and spirit of accessibility.”
Dancing at desks
All of that is evident in the final microbreaks that they’ve created. Motion capture technology recorded the dancers moving through adapted forms of Morris’ choreography. As in all of Breakthru’s breaks, the person is anonymous, only their physical outline legible – in the spirit of there being as many “right” ways to move as there are people moving. Morris, for his part, affirms that “that’s just the way we work. I trust the dancers to extract and distill my movement” in ways that resonate with their strengths and feel right in their body.
Mark Morris. Photo by Beowulf Sheehan.
Additionally, as with all Breakthru breaks, “users choose the break based on how they want to feel at the end,” Painter explains. The Grand Duo breaks is a “Centered Microbreak,” L’Allegro a “Confident Microbreak,” and The Look of Love a “Joyful Microbreak.” Part of that aim toward a particular mood is a specific color palette – also part of each Breakthru break. With the Look of Lovebreaks, for example, Breakthru graphic artists converted the warm colors of the costumes for the work (by Isaac Mizrahi) into the break’s design.
There are many lush flowers that shine in those colors. The soundscape is filled with bird calls, strong winds, and flowing water. That’s all quite intentional, too. “We’re trying to give people a connection to nature during their workday,” Painter says – which, she argues, is another thing sorely lacking in modern professionals’ lives, to detrimental effects on whole-person health. Morris and Painter underscore how concert dance and dance pedagogy reflect such connection to nature: through imagery, kinetic qualities and more.
Why it matters
Morris couldn’t be clearer about why what Breakthru is doing matters. “We’re on our phone all day long, and it’s physically dangerous, the way we curve over for hours…not to mention the isolation and loneliness.” Yes, movement and embodiment matter. Above and beyond that, can dance-inspired movement offer something which push-ups and sit-ups can’t?
“Through our research, we spoke with thousands of movement experts. They were clear that the lack of creative, generative movement in people’s lives is extreme,” Painter notes. “There’s nowhere near enough folk dancing, social dancing, dancing in community…and free play!”
No, people moving along with these breaks aren’t necessarily going to get the “technique” right, she affirms. Yet, what they are doing is creating something — their own version of the movement, according to their body’s capacities and needs. That is a form of play in and of itself, Painter believes. The testimonials from worldwide users validate that; “they’re saying things like ‘I feel like I’m on the playground again!,’” Painter adds. We may think that, as adults, we don’t need that in our lives – yet our daily experience can be much richer for it.
Melissa Painter of Breakthru. Photo courtesy of Painter.
“After such incredible reception from the first set of breaks, we hope to deepen this collaboration,” Painter shares. As part of her “massive dreams and visions” for the company, she shares, she’d love to explore longer classes and group formats – perhaps something that MMDG could be part of. “We’d also love to stretch into serving more generations, all ages of people…which reflects what Mark has done with his company.”
Painter maintains that the hunger for what they offer is out there. “People have an innate desire to express themselves through movement and to connect with other people. We see it across the globe, throughout time, and through human development,” she believes. “It’s a huge reason why all of these social media platforms, for all of their harms, went viral in the first place…people shared dance.”
Morris highlights the place of creativity without judgment, without unnecessary expectations. “We can let go of the idea that it’s ‘serious’ or ‘frivolous’, ‘hard’ or ‘easy’….that doesn’t have to matter.”
Stroll through New York City, Chicago, or Western Massachusetts in the next month and a half and you might encounter a somewhat mysterious provocation on a poster, or in a window:
“Exorcism = Liberation”
“I came here to weep”
“What is your first memory of dirt?”
Yanira Castro, the multidisciplinary artist behind those slogans, hopes you’ll be intrigued enough to scan the QR code accompanying them—and that, from there, you’ll listen to the three transportive audio experiences that compose her public art project, Exorcism = Liberation.
Conceived in response to the upcoming presidential election “as an act of intervention,” the audio pieces explore grief, climate disaster, connection to land, protest, and more. Each is deeply informed by Castro’s Puerto Rican identity. “That’s the real origin story of this project,” she says. “The place of my birth—its relationship to the United States, and its lack of self-determination.”
Castro and her team, a canary torsi, worked with mostly Puerto Rican artists on the project, which can be accessed both online and through the many posters, banners, and signs throughout the three locales Exorcism = Liberation calls home, each chosen for its significant Puerto Rican population. Castro will also be hosting “activations” in each city through early November, including dinners, performances by dancers Martita Abril and devynn emory, and a storytelling event featuring local teens.
Castro spoke about Exorcism = Liberation, and the impact she hopes the project has ahead of the election.
Yanira Castro. Photo by Josefina Santos, courtesy Castro.
What is the origin story of this project? Coming from a place where the people are colonized and don’t have access to the vote, it is important for me to be thinking about what that means, that a community gets together and makes decisions about its future. But we don’t really talk about it that way. We talk about it as an individual event—“my vote.” So this idea of communing around election time and thinking about what the community is and how we want to support one another is really critical for me.
Most people will be engaging with this project wherever they encounter it, while others will have a more collective experience at the activations. How do you imagine the work landing differently in those two settings? I think when we attend performance, there is a temporary community coming together, and there’s something very powerful about that. The audio scores offer very simple gestures; maybe it’s opening your hands on your lap. So seeing a group do it, and being a part of a group that’s consciously doing this thing together is one kind of experience. But if you’re listening to one of the scores out in public—let’s say you’re riding a bus, and it asks you to open your hands, and then it asks you to look around and see if anybody else has their hands open. You might see people who have their hands open and wonder, Are they listening to what I’m listening to, or do they just have their hands open? But the idea is that this is a community, this is your neighbor, and you might be thinking or doing the same thing. It’s trying to make that connection.
I’m curious to hear more about your interest in exorcism. Do you see weeping—as in the slogan “I came here to weep”—as a kind of exorcism? There’s been research done that when we have a real weep session, there is a relief and a letting go inside of our bodies that then allows us to be more open to something else. So in that way, for me, it’s an exorcism. In Puerto Rican culture and in other Latinx cultures, we have this word “sacude,” and it means cleansing. But like many problems with translation, it’s more than that. There’s a spiritual connection to that word and an exorcism connection to that word.
In Puerto Rico, right now especially, there’s a lot of tension around the American presence on the island. It’s very fraught. So this idea of expulsion is also something that’s in my mind when I’m thinking about exorcism.
How do you see this project speaking to the current election? For me, the election is very superficial. It often sounds like, What do we need to say to get that individual voter to feel invested enough in order to vote for me?—as opposed to thinking about what we want to create for the future, or, even more importantly, a recognition that what happens in the United States affects so many people outside of the United States. We’re not asked to consider our effect on one another.
All of the materials in this project are election-type materials, like stickers and pins and lawn signs. Those are some of my favorite objects, because they’re movable, so the public can decide where this project goes. In that way, the project is being carried through time and space to others that I can’t possibly know about. The public isn’t just listening to the work, but they’re taking it out and dispersing it.
One of my favorite things is thinking about these lawn signs, right next to these election signs, and people just taking a moment to stop and have a contemplative five-minute experience, and think about how we are deeply connected, and how deeply our choices matter. What world do we want to create and live in?
The new Hulu reality series “Playground,” with Megan Thee Stallion as an executive producer, is equal parts dancing and drama. The show’s namesake is Playground LA, the Los Angeles dance studio owned by Kenny Wormald and Robin Antin that serves as a frequent backdrop for viral class videos. “Playground” follows a group of the studio’s standout dancers as they navigate Los Angeles’ cutthroat commercial dance scene. There are rivalries, situationships, and real-deal auditions for Tinashe and Megan herself—all packaged in a format reminiscent of early-2000s reality shows.
Dancer and choreographer Dexter Carr, one of the show’s stars, took a moment to talk all things “Playground.”
Prior to filming “Playground,” were you a fan of reality television? Oh, 100 percent. To this day, I’m a reality TV junkie.
So, was filming this show what you expected? Did the cameras change the dynamic in the studio? It was basically like what I expected. They wanted it to be authentic. On any given night in class at Playground LA, you’re going to see people doing extraordinary things with their bodies; the cameras just captured what we always get to see.
Having our private conversations filmed didn’t actually amplify anything. We’ve all known each other for years, and we just committed. We had a meeting before filming where we were like, “Are we really going to do this? It could get a little ugly.” But we have so much love for one another and are so passionate about what we do, so we were totally down for the world to see the realness.
How was Megan Thee Stallion involved? We were all freaking out when we found out she was holding an audition. She was so honest and genuine. She really wanted to speak to these artists about more than just being backup dancers for her. She wanted to know about their artistry, how they’re pushing themselves to be better people, to make an impact on the world.
Why do you think it’s important for mainstream media to showcase the dance industry? Often, dancers are told to “shut up and dance.” If you’re a background dancer, you’re told to never talk to the artist. If something goes wrong in rehearsal, you just brush it off and deal with it later. Even on a platform like TikTok, people are choreographing these dances, but the people profiting off of the moves are never the original creators. So when we were brought on this show, we didn’t know if people would love it or hate it—but we did know that people would get to see what we do outside of the studio, that they’d hear our voices and opinions, and that they’d know where we stand.
Is there anything else you want audiences to know? If you’re watching the show, watch it with an open heart and open mind. We don’t always handle everything perfectly—there are some moments that I’m not super-proud of—but everything is real, and it happened, and all we can do is grow and learn from it.
Bronx-based dancer, director, and educator Kayla Hamilton is at a transitional moment in her career. Her largest ensemble project yet, How to Bend Down / How to Pick It Up—a multidisciplinary performance exploring histories of Black disability, while imagining a liberated future—premieres at New York City’s The Shed next week before embarking on a U.S. tour in 2025. She also recently launched Circle O, a cultural organization described as “by and for Black Disabled and other multiply marginalized creatives.” In addition to these firsts, Hamilton recently received several awards, including a 2024 Disability Futures Fellowship and the 2023–2025 Jerome Hill Artist Fellowship.
Even as she gains momentum and institutional recognition, Hamilton remains deeply connected to her roots. The name Circle O honors her family in Texarkana, Texas, where her grandfather, Oscar Hamilton, was the principal of an all-Black elementary school. Hamilton only just wrapped up her own 12-year career as a public-school educator—a path she pursued in tandem with her dance work. She’s now poised to bring her powerful artistic vision to a national audience.
Kayla Hamilton. Photo by Travis Magee, courtesy Hamilton.
I imagine you’re in full production mode for How to Bend Down / How to Pick It Up.What has this process been like for you? I’m nodding my head and my body is rocking forward and back from the hips. I’m looking out the window. I just had a visceral response to that question. The way my body is responding is the real answer.
I learned a lot about myself through this process, and I learned that the work I want to put into the world is a life practice. It’s beyond just dance, because we’re undoing ableism inside the practice. Dancers come into their training to get it right, to make it perfect, but disability is the method and the subject in this process. We’re really good at being with disability as a subject in the United States. But there’s a lack of understanding of disability as a method, too.
How does disability as a method show up in How to Bend Down? When we ask folks for their access needs, we’re also asking for access intimacy with oneself. You don’t have to be Disabled to experience ableism. There may be parts of ourselves we let go of in order to be like others. And while you may be able to mask your needs and desires, go along to get along, where does that leave people who cannot make their access needs fade away?
I’m trying to recognize the whole person, each person as a human being. It makes it harder in process, because I’m not asking you to get the step “right” in rehearsal. I’m asking you to deepen into what your body is feeling, instead of pushing through just because that’s what the director asked you to do. You may dance differently every single day, and I’m okay with that.
Do you find that there’s tension between the approach you’re describing and the social and professional expectations to produce something that’s recognizable as a dance performance? Yes, absolutely! How do I make it transparent that what’s happening in my process is what’s happening onstage? I’m doing this work to make space for every body to have access to dance as an art form. To accomplish that, we have to break away from ideas of mastery, beauty, and perfection.
We’re usually told that there’s only one option or one way to access something. I’m trying to provide multiple access points within a creative experiment. The audience can learn something about themselves, as well.
In the spirit of multiple access points, would you be willing to share some sensory impressions from your rehearsal process? People sitting in circles, including our American Sign Language interpreters. You would hear someone say, “Did you drink water yet?” You would hear that repeatedly. Blue floor cushions and a fuzzy blanket. The smell of Tiger Balm. Laughter. You would hear, “Where are we starting from again?” You would hear Spanish language and Southern accents. A range of ages. COVID tests and masks. You would hear a lot of, “Huh! Oh…okay…hm…I see. So what you’re saying is…? Wait, hold up.”
I saw on your website that one of the questions Circle O poses is how to find joyful and playful expression while simultaneously holding the “crushing generational weight of systemic violence and oppression.” Are you navigating that question in How to Bend Down? Some parts of the show are heavy, but we use humor to tackle those ideas. Can you imagine how tired I would be without humor? Intergenerational strength, Black, Disabled ancestors, and enslaved people gave me the strength to do what I do. There’s somebody around me, in my ear and heart space, whispering, “Push people.” I can’t go through life without pushing joy—otherwise I would burn out. And I’m not going anywhere, so I need to laugh and play.
What do you feel yourself rooting into, amidst all this growth and change? I’m rooting in love. I’m rooting myself in my own growing edge of curiosity—whatever I’m asking of others, I’m also asking of myself. Dance is healing and spiritual, and I want every body to have access to that. I try to create containers in which people feel cared for, seen, and valued, so they can begin to dismantle hierarchies. Nonhierarchical structures in a rehearsal process are enough to shake the room. With freedom comes responsibility and accountability. I’m asking, “Do we want it?”
Ballet de Lorraine’s Tristan Ihne has been dancing professionally for nearly two decades. But on July 26, he gave a performance unlike any he’d done before: Along with about 200 other dancers, he danced atop a golden platform filled with water next to the Seine river in an 8-minute piece by Maud Le Pladec, as part of the Olympic Opening Ceremony in Paris.
“The best part for me was to feel the energy of the group,” he says. “Here we were together with generations mixed and training styles mixed. It was amazing.” He’d never taken part in such a large performance, or danced for such a massive global audience. “There’s nothing to compare it to,” he says.
That group energy led not only to a memorable spectacle but also to a different kind of French tradition: the threat of a strike, filed by the French performing artists’ union SFA-CGT. When the dancers began rehearsing together a few days before the ceremony, they realized the amount they were being paid for broadcast rights varied widely—from 60 to 1,600 euros. The protesting dancers also wanted traveling and housing expenses paid for. “The collective agreement specifies that if you hire someone coming from more than 40 kilometers away, they should get their expenses covered,” says Ihne, who participated in the protests. In the end, event organizers met some of the demands, and the dancers dropped their threat to strike.
Dancer Magali Brito in her Marie Antoinette hair and makeup. Photo courtesy Brito.
Dancer Magali Brito—a performer with aerial dance troupe Compagnie Retouramont, which performed during the ceremony on the scaffolding of the Notre Dame Cathedral and with the heavy-metal band Gojira in beheaded Marie Antoinette costumes—says that while she feels for the dancers, their raise seemed relatively minor compared to bigger issues surrounding the Games. “I would have liked to have a strike about the rights of a lot of people in Paris that were completely distorted,” she says, highlighting the thousands without permanent housing who were sent out of Paris ahead of the Games.
Still, she was happy to take part in the ceremony—even if not everything went exactly to plan. For instance, Brito says she and the other dancers of Retouramont were supposed to be suspended along the walls of the building during the Gojira concert. “But after security problems, they didn’t authorize us to be hanging on the walls, so we just did some poses in the windows with costumes,” she says.
There was also the infamous rain during the ceremony, which caused major problems in particular for dancers of the Moulin Rouge, who were performing on a slick surface right at the edge of the river. “For us, it was okay because we were going to perform in the water anyway,” Ihne says. “But for other dancers, it made it more difficult—I give them even more credit.”
Brito says that for her and many of the dancers, any extra challenges were worth it to take part in a ceremony that made such a statement. “Politically, it was quite important to be able to participate in this event,” she says. “In France, we just had new elections, and it felt good to be able to take part in something showing people of every color, every body type, and every gender.”
