What is the starting point of MULJIL and why did you choose this title?
The Korean word “muljil” refers to diving activities by Haenyeo, the female divers of Jeju Island. I saw an interview of a woman who dives every day without oxygen tanks to bring up precious shellfish from the bottom of the sea. Each time they enter the water, they know they could die. Their breath is limited. If they become greedy — if they see expensive seafood and try to catch too much — they risk not coming back to the surface. So they must constantly choose between staying below or coming back. Between life and death. Listening to her, I realized how much it resonated with our societies. South Korea has a very high suicide rate across all age groups. Many people live on this border — either they let themselves sink, or they survive. We don’t always see depression on the surface, but many struggle in silence. That’s why I decided to create this piece inside a water tank, with the water line just under the nose of the performers. It’s a symbol. Do I go under, or do I come back up? The performers hesitate, holding their breath. That hesitation is the core of the piece.
In your piece you introduce four figures. What do they represent?
There is a pregnant woman, a queer person, a worker, and a woman obsessed with physical transformation. They represent different forms of contemporary fragility in Korean society. The worker refers to labor accidents. Because of financial pressure, safety regulations are often ignored. Workers should operate in pairs, but sometimes they work alone to reduce costs, which leads to accidents. People die because of capitalism.The queer and transgender person embodies another struggle. South Korea remains very conservative. Many LGBTQ+ people cannot come out at work. They risk harassment. They cannot marry. Their existence is still questioned. The pregnant woman represents gender inequality. The moment a woman becomes pregnant, her identity as a woman tends to fade and becomes just a role, mother or wife. And the woman obsessed with physical transformation, through her link to cosmetic surgery, reflects the immense pressure created by social media, the idea that young women must be “perfect,” and must correspond to narrow standards of beauty.These figures are not individual stories. They are states of existence. I do not illustrate specific biographies, but expose conditions. The performers are portraits of our contemporary world and its obsessions: beauty, procreation, sexuality, work.
Your work also creates a powerful parallel between the divers and refugees. How did this connection emerge?
Before this project, I worked with refugees in South Korea. At that time, many young South Koreans were saying that Korea was “Hell Joseon” in reference to the old dynasty, as if the country were unlivable. Many wanted to leave for Northern Europe. At the same moment, refugees were arriving in South Korea with hope, hoping to build a life there. It felt like two opposite movements coexisting in the same space. Some people wanted to escape; others had just arrived, often without real governmental support. I wanted to make their presence visible. In 2017, few people even acknowledged that refugees lived in Korea. As artists, we can reveal what society prefers not to see. In the performance, professional actors first enter the water. Then members of local communities replace them. The audience is then invited to join. We sit face to face, with the water tank in the middle, like reflections of one another. The stage becomes a mirror. The audience looks not only at the performers, but at each other. The heart of the performance is this encounter. This recognition of what we have in common. Through this work, we aim to expand the questions we must consider together through regional touring. As an outdoor performance, it was designed as a roaming piece that is not confined to theaters, but can be staged wherever it is needed.
Inviting the audience into the water is a radical gesture. What are the reactions?
Festival directors often have doubts about that part (laughs). They say: “The audience won’t go in.” But they do. Even in Italy, with people dressed for the opera, in suits. We did an outdoor performance. They watched, and then they entered the water anyway. It was incredible. Sometimes I worry about older spectators entering the water, but when participants follow the performers, they want to fully experience it. Standing in front of the water, they accept sharing the space and immersing their bodies together. I do not want to impose a single interpretation. I give clues. Some see rebirth; others think of refugees crossing the sea. Many cry. A friend once told me that the piece touches something very deep, beyond language. I also remember one occasion when an actor entered the water holding the hand of a spectator who had chosen to participate. Afterward, that person said: “I am so grateful. I never thought I could do something like this.” For spectators too, this becomes a powerful experience. Following someone into the water, holding hands, and performing MULJIL together is something that cannot easily be experienced in everyday life.
Your collective Elephants Laugh delves into social issues and highlights marginalized people. How do you work with these different communities?
When we work in a city, we spend several days with local participants. We encourage them to bring their own ideas and emotions. MULJIL becomes a space of encounter. Their feedback is absorbed by the company and becomes another driving force for the performance. The choreography evolves each time. If it were not the case, I could not continue touring. After the performance, something often shifts. Participants gain confidence. They feel seen. I remember working with an Afghan journalist who had been threatened with bomb attacks, and with Iranian women who had demonstrated for gender equality and had to flee their country. Sharing the stage with them is an honor. But whatever the intensity of the exchange, I never use personal stories, and I never ask for them. The balance I try to maintain is to make people visible while protecting their privacy.
Interview conducted by Julie Ruocco in February 2026