In choreography, as in any art form, the work transcends simply moving bodies across a stage. It’s about moving hearts and minds, offering a window into emotions and perspectives that audiences may not know they carry within themselves. As I reflect on my journey as a choreographer, having set work across Asia, the United States, Central America, and Europe, I see how my evolution as an artist has brought me closer to the vulnerable, outspoken, and deeply authentic creator I always aspired to be.
Lately, I’ve been struck by the power of vulnerability in art. Choreography, at its core, is an invitation—a call to witness something raw and personal. It’s not just about beautiful movement; it’s about offering a perspective that reaches beyond conventional aesthetics to explore real emotion and unspoken narratives. Art doesn’t thrive on trends or surface-level engagement. And in this era of endless scrolling, I’m less interested in creating choreography that simply catches the eye. My aim is to craft something meaningful, work that resonates with those who encounter it, allowing audiences to find their own interpretations.
This comes with its own set of challenges. Artists are compelled to create layered, thoughtful work, yet there’s no promise of this understanding or recognition. A recent piece I created—a modest, low-budget work—holds a special place in my heart because it marked a return to an introspective style I hadn’t tapped into in years. At the heart of my recent work is love, the emotion that unifies all others—joy, grief, longing, passion, acceptance, and heartbreak. It was a reflection on love—love for others, love for myself, and love for a ragged world. Many embraced the emotional threads and simplicity of the work, while others struggled with its abstract, open-ended nature. This is the risk we take as artists: we pour ourselves into something intimate, knowing that not everyone will resonate with it - and that's okay. Yet, we continue—because we must—moving forward even if our intentions go unnoticed or are misunderstood.
I feel the artist’s journey is often shaped by cultural expectations and local perspectives. In Asia for example, strength in the restrained, precise movements underscore an appreciation for form and control. In Central America, dance is deeply rooted in community and shared experiences that shape its storytelling. Europe taught me to question social norms and embrace art’s power to challenge and provoke, while in the United States, balancing heartfelt expression with commercial demands continues to presents its own set of challenges. These influences, and others, have shaped who I am as an evolving dancemaker.
Many have said that creating meaningful art can feel isolating, yet profoundly rewarding. I believe this to be true. Artists of all disciplines sacrifice, driven by a hope that our work will connect, even if we are not celebrated for it. To be an artist—choreographer, dancer, painter, writer—means continuously placing our hearts on display, fully aware that they may or may not be embraced. But we do it anyway. For those rare moments when someone in the audience feels something unspoken yet deeply understood, we know we have succeeded. This is the quiet power of art. We move forward, not for applause, but for connection, for those moments when our vulnerability transforms into strength, and our art, if only for a moment, becomes part of someone else’s story.
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