How did Music Music come about within the Histoire(s) du théâtre series, which is a long-term cycle of performances launched by Milo Rau in 2018?
It began quite unexpectedly in fact. I was on a plane with Milo Rau who was also part of this serie, and he simply asked if I would like to be part of this series. I said yes quite instinctively, and later we spoke more in depth. What interested me immediately was the freedom it offers: each artist can propose their own interpretation of the history of theatre. For me, it became an opportunity to focus on music. It has always been central to my work, but it has not always been foregrounded in how the work is perceived. This piece feels like the beginning of a new period in my oeuvre—one that is still to be defined but clearly rooted in this special relationship. In that piece, I really wanted to explore music as an archive of memory. Because as a dancer or choreographer, your relationship to music is deeply physical. It’s not only intellectual, it lives in the body as an innate part. If you asked me to explain how to perform a piece, even after 25 years of practice, I might not be able to. But as soon as the music starts, my body knows. This is a kind of kinesthetic memory. The music immediately places you back inside the work. Now, I am returning to these pieces of personal music not to reproduce what already exists, but to generate something new. It’s quite haunting: there’s joy, sadness, a whole range of emotions.
What kind of music are you working with in this piece?
All the music comes from my previous works. It forms a kind of internal landscape. Some voices are particularly important to me, like Lula Pena, who’s a Portuguese kind of new fado singer whom I’ve used a lot in my work, in Caen Amour and The House of Bernarda Alba. She’s very important to me. There’s also an opera singer named Bejun Mehta, whom I used a lot in a piece called Tambourines and another piece called Education in Tambourines. So those are two vocalists, I would say, who both appear in this work.
Your work is often blends different inspirations and different traditions of dance, from the Japanese butoh to voguing. Is that still the case here?
My work is not fusion dance. My work has been about exploring the relationships between different traditions, their tensions, overlaps, and resonances in my own emotional landscape. But this research is a language in itself. It is less about combining influences and more about inhabiting a form that has emerged over more than twenty years in my own practice. In this piece, the question is not to invent a new style, but to deepen and sustain this one. Can it really hold itself? How does it hold itself with different kinds of music, with different relationships to music? As every time, the process begins with intuition. I am trying things out, exploring. Gradually, a structure emerges. Through repetition, certain elements become clearer, but there is always space for variation. I want to preserve those spaces where life can enter. It’s not about executing a fixed score, but about inhabiting it. That’s what makes it dancing, rather than just choreography.
You are alone on stage. And what does this solo format allow you to explore differently compared to your ensemble works?
A solo is, in many ways, much more difficult. There is nowhere to hide. Everything rests on your own body. It’s also a way of pushing this language further, seeing whether it can hold an entire performance on its own. When, I worked with ensembles; it took time to find a way to share my style with other dancers and talk with them so that they could interpret it in their own way and become more who they are as dancers, rather than trying to imitate. But being alone on stage for a whole show is something totally different. In a sense, it’s like a kind of embodied research. But beyond that, what matters most is whether it resonates with people, whether it creates a shared emotional space. I’m after this togetherness with the audience. And of course, it’s much harder when you’re there alone.
What do you want the spectators to feel or discover while attending this piece, Music Music?
I want them to have a fun time. It may sound simple, even ridiculous, but we need it at this moment, and there is also depth in it. I want the piece to move through different emotional states, but ultimately to offer a sense of joy. It’s not always the case that I want to make something this fun or this joyous. Sometimes I can be more on the side of tragedy. There’s a range of complex passions of course, but I hope it’s a fun piece. I cannot dance without deep emotions. And for me, joy is quite a deep feeling and not separate from difficulty. On the contrary, it acknowledges it. That’s what distinguishes it from happiness. Joy acknowledges suffering. We may pass through sorrow, but I hope we leave the theatre feeling that joy is still possible. If you think about it, theatre has always been both art and entertainment. Shakespeare was entertaining. The idea is not to simplify, but to create something engaging, something that invites the audience to feel, to be present.
After more than 20 years of creating, how do you look back on your own artistic history through this project today?
It’s overwhelming. My career kind of took me by surprise, and it still does. I started from a place where nothing was expected of me, and now I find myself seen and recognized. But I don’t experience it that way. I go into the studio today with doubts, with questions. It still feels very difficult, and I know the work is not finished. At the same time, I’ve had the tremendous chance not to do it alone. The dancers I work with, the dramaturgs, like Katinka Deecke, we’ve created important pieces together, Maggie the Cat, The House of Bernarda Alba, Juliet and Romeo. Most of them are still alive. Returning to these works feels like being surrounded by friendly ghosts. They are still performed, they continue to exist, in my memory, in my body. Above all, I feel a deep sense of gratitude, towards my collaborators and towards the audience. And I also feel that this piece is a kind of threshold, opening onto something new. It takes a lot of maturity to make a joyful piece. I don’t think I could have done that when I was younger. When you are young, you tend to take everything very seriously. And yet we live in a complex, sometimes harsh world. If you are generous with your audience, with your dance, there is also a desire to give something back. It doesn’t get easier, but it becomes more meaningful. Avignon holds a very special place for me. It was a dream to be present at the Cloître des Célestins, to perform in the Cour d’honneur. It is a space of encounter, of intensity. Presenting this piece here feels both like a continuation and a new beginning. I’m deeply grateful, and I hope I can do justice to this moment, and share it, fully, with the audience.
Interview conducted by Julie Ruocco in March 2026