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• Let me begin with something personal. As a maker, I’ve discovered a few principles that guide me: being instead of pretending, listening instead of just hearing, and seeing instead of merely looking. These are not principles that I’ve perfected or that I can fully achieve, but they are practices I aim to cultivate—both inside and outside the studio.
   

• This place, both within the studio and in the environment outside it, offers so many opportunities to explore and deepen these practices. The proximity to the studio is both a challenge and a gift: on one hand, you never really leave the workspace; on the other, it allows me to immerse myself fully in the material.
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• Here, I can take the time my research demands. My process right now calls for slowness and patience to achieve a certain kind of quality. It’s not about fast production. It’s about embracing the struggle, staying with it, and allowing answers to emerge from a deeper place.
  This approach mirrors not only my principles as a maker but also how I engage with this space, letting it shape and support my practice.
   

• I think I would most accurately describe myself as a composer—not in the traditional sense of composing with music, but rather composing with bodies and space.This, however, brings a certain struggle, because it raises the question: What is it that you’re making? Is it dance? Is it theatre? Or is it something in between? I’m not sure there’s a clear label for it, or whether something like ‘physical theatre’ or ‘dance theatre’ captures it accurately. I feel none of these terms fully reflects what I mean or do. So, for now, I hold on to the idea that I’m composing with bodies and space. And yes, that feels closest to the truth.​​
   

• For me, the central question at this moment relates to how I see myself as an author or artist—specifically, how to compose bodies in space and what kinds of images and stories emerge from that composition. A significant question I’m grappling with is how to navigate the effect of a performance versus the experience of the performer. Are they the same, or are they different? And if so, how do we move between these two? It’s something I’m still trying to articulate and describe, but for now, this tension feels central to my current exploration.

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• I have a tendency to be quite perfectionist about the images I create. That’s why I describe my work as composing bodies in space. Looking back, I’ve often relied on very strict rules to ensure a certain image appears. I never really tell the performers how they should feel; instead, I give them physical tasks—ways to navigate through the performance. But now I find myself questioning: How much control is needed from the outside? How can I arrive at a point where I no longer dictate the exact actions but instead work with principles and limitations? This would allow the images to appear naturally, in their realness and fragility—perhaps not always repeatable, yet still holding the same aesthetic, clarity, and sharpness that I value as a maker. I think the struggle lies in balancing composition and improvisation. How can I compose an improvisation in such a way that the images emerge organically, without predefining them? This approach feels like it touches something more real, something closer to life. It’s a challenge, though, because as a maker, it means letting go of a lot of control. And when you have strong preferences for certain aesthetics, as I do, there’s always the tension of ensuring the work still aligns with that vision. But this struggle—between control and freedom, between perfection and realness—is something I’ve been discovering more deeply over the last few days.

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• My personal routine is very clear. I always start my day with exercise—here, I go for a swim—and then I do my writing. Writing is an integral part of my practice, both in the studio and for myself personally. Before coming to this place, I had already developed a specific routine, which I wouldn’t call a warm-up in the traditional sense. It’s more like a tuning-in practice. It’s about getting to know each other, arriving at a shared understanding, listening, and creating a sense of togetherness. Here, I revisited that routine. I took my old one apart, questioned all the exercises, and worked to refine them—also in conversation with the people working with me. It’s about understanding the effects of these practices and piecing them back together in a new way. This routine isn’t fixed or permanent. It will always evolve and shift depending on the people I’m working with and how I change as well. But for now, I aim to reach a point where the routine requires minimal explanation, where everyone knows how to move through it. From there, we embark on a shared journey that creates a common language and fosters awareness of one another.

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• I think this space is absolutely perfect for my minimalistic aesthetics—the clean, white space aligns beautifully with my work as a maker. It has a significant influence on how I navigate between my physical practice, my writing, and my reading. The studio itself plays a key role in this. I have a library just behind me and a movable desk, which allows me to adapt the space. If I want to focus on more serious writing, I can place the table somewhere specific, but I also have the freedom to move around in the space. For my listening and seeing practices, this place is incredible. There’s a profound silence here, but at the same time, there’s so much to hear and see. The large windows allow an immense flow of information from the outside world—it’s visually and audibly rich. At times, it can feel like a lot of information, which makes it an interesting and welcome challenge to navigate.

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