Author: Isabel González

Anna: 2024 was your fifth edition as the Artistic Director of the Moving in November festival. You took on the role in quite a challenging time—during the COVID-19 pandemic. Additionally, you are normally based in France. How familiar were you with the Finnish cultural context before starting this role? And what were your initial impressions of how the festival positioned itself regarding its audience? Was it focused on a specific community, a broader audience, or particular groups? And did you continue the existing approach, or did you implement changes?

Kerstin: Let me try to answer everything—please jump in if I miss something. In terms of the Finnish context, I wasn’t extensively familiar, though I had some experience. I had visited the festival in 2010 with an artist I was working with. At that time, the former artistic director mentioned they were still developing an audience for contemporary dance. However, when we performed, we had a good audience, which somewhat contradicted that statement.

Then in 2019, when I applied for the role, I had just been to Finland in February with two shows. So, I had a decent understanding of the community around such festivals. Before officially starting, I attended the 2019 edition of the festival, which gave me a clearer picture.

One important factor I noticed was that the festival had never really had the chance to actively work on audience development. It was mainly due to financial constraints—there was no full-time communication or press relations person. The general manager, Isabel González, and the artistic directors worked only part-time. This significantly impacted how the festival was integrated into the city’s cultural scene.

The festival relied on an existing audience: the contemporary dance community, plus some visitors who came through the collaborating venues. But when I started, I questioned this approach. At first people were surprised when I wanted to present more than two performances from an artist unknown to the Finnish audience. A festival should not only cater to known audiences but also introduce new artistic voices. Also showing works several times, contributes to develop an audience.

A key challenge was that Moving in November doesn’t have its own venue but collaborates with various spaces. However, these collaborations varied, and venues in the beginning often did little promotion for festival events. I insisted on changing this. I pushed for genuine cooperation, where venues actively engage in audience-building alongside us. We’re bringing an audience and in an ideal scenario the venues also reach out to their communities.

Another observation was that after performances, the audience would just leave immediately. This was unfamiliar to me—I’m used to festivals where people stay, have a drink, and talk. Audience engagement is crucial. I don’t organize festivals for myself or just for artists; I want to build a connection between artists and audiences.

That’s why we introduced the tradition of offering soup after each performance. Every evening is treated equally—there’s no grand opening night where one event is highlighted over others. For every audience member, their first visit is their “premiere,” and they receive a bowl of soup. Initially, people were skeptical—like, “Who are you to offer me free soup?” But now, they embrace it, whether they stay for five minutes or half an hour. It fosters a welcoming atmosphere where people can interact and engage with the festival beyond just watching a performance.

We also introduced “Soup Talks,” where people can discuss the performances. Additionally, we’ve presented projects that engage different communities—like works involving young people, students, and local groups. Last year, for instance, a project HORDE by Ingrid Fiksdal and Solveig Holte involved female-identifying teenagers. We started in April and presented it in August and November. This not only expanded our reach but also visibly increased engagement, including a rise in our social media following from new audiences.

Another key approach is transparency—being vocal about what we do and the themes we address. Clearly articulating our artistic vision has helped people understand the festival’s purpose. Each year, I meet attendees who say, “Why didn’t I know about this festival before?” That means we’re reaching new audiences.

We also maintain an open, inclusive atmosphere. For example, we don’t impose strict age limitations. If someone asks if they can bring their children, we describe the performances and let them decide. Many parents have told us they appreciate this openness and feel genuinely welcomed.

Moreover, we’ve been taking the festival to places it hadn’t been before. For instance, while Taidehalli (a contemporary art museum) isn’t on the outskirts of Helsinki, presenting performances there after regular museum hours allowed us to engage passersby who became curious and joined in.

I sometimes feel a bit “traumatized” by smaller Berlin venues, where success is measured solely by the attendance of the artist community. To me, that’s not enough. We’re funded by the government and the city, so the festival should serve the public, not just artists. Every new audience member we attract makes me incredibly happy.

Anna: So, if I understood correctly, when you first arrived, you felt that the festival mainly catered to an “art bubble”—people who create this kind of work. You saw a need to reach a broader audience. Was this driven by your personal belief in how publicly funded culture should function, or was it a practical necessity for the festival’s sustainability?

Kerstin: It’s all of those things. But personally, I have no interest in running a festival just for the art bubble or for my colleagues. I love that students and the artistic community attend, and we’ve actively worked to integrate the festival into university programs. But I also firmly believe that contemporary art is relevant to everyone, especially in today’s world where public and social spaces are disappearing, and people retreat into isolated digital spaces.

Art can bring people together in a meaningful way. The artists we present reflect on contemporary issues—political and social realities—and their work should reach beyond a niche audience. I find it essential to bring new people into these conversations. Also, I’ve observed that many young people today struggle with direct social interaction. Festivals offer a rare opportunity for in-person engagement, which is more important than ever.

Anna: Regarding the idea of an “art bubble,” I don’t think there’s just one bubble—there are many, even within the dance community. They’re divided by aesthetics, approaches, and even ideological differences. Some forms of dance—like pleasure-based dance or social dancing—are often absent from platforms like Nordic dance networks. Have you considered crossing these divisions in your programming?

Kerstin: That’s a great question. When I took over, audience surveys indicated that most attendees came from dance and visual arts backgrounds. But this has changed over time.
One example of crossing into other dance communities was last year’s project with Fiksdal and Holte, which engaged teenagers with no formal dance training. Another is how you welcomed a jazz-dancer in the Audience Club.

I’ve also noticed that in Finland, people engage with performances more emotionally first, then intellectually. In contrast, in France, audiences often immediately assess a work critically. In Finland, I often hear responses like, “I was so moved,” before analytical reflections emerge. I find this openness to emotional engagement a valuable trait in Finnish audiences.

Last year’s festival projects like Stina Nyberg’s Skvallret (The Gossip), a choreographed city tour from the perspective of a dog and an artistic research on local dog-related gossip in the remote city area of Pihlajamäki or Pontus Pettersson’s Pancor Poetics piece with performers engaging in a cat practice at Taidehalli also broke through conventional audience expectations. The response was amazing—many attendees had never seen contemporary dance before but felt comfortable engaging with these pieces.
So yes, I think about these divisions, and through programming and outreach, we try to bridge different bubbles and create new points of access for audiences.

Anna: I wonder, maybe it’s a bit of a tricky question—talking about different aesthetics, the variety of styles, and inviting other bubbles. For example, if there were a more conventional contemporary dance piece with people in leggings doing synchronized movements, or a hip-hop dance performance that doesn’t maintain an expected reflective distance from the style, would you consider presenting something like that to attract audiences more familiar with those styles? Or would that feel like a threat to the identity or integrity of the festival? Where does this variety and experimentation serve the expansion of the festival, and where does it become a randomizer that threatens its public identity?

Kerstin: I would never invite anything that I can’t fully stand behind or justify within the festival. I mean, in the first year, we had a piece by Frederic Gies & Weld company called Tribute – the Outdoor version where you actually saw people dancing in leotards. You could view it through the lens of more traditional dance styles if you wanted to.

Anna: But Frederic Gies still maintains a certain distance from those aesthetics, right?

Kerstin: Well, I think he enjoys mixing ballet, jazz dance, everything he learned from choreographer Dominique Baguet, incorporating his own passion for techno and somatic practices. He plays with different styles and does it excellently. I think you can watch his work on different levels, but that’s true for many pieces.

I wouldn’t compromise the festival’s identity just to gain new audiences.

Anna: So the choices you make each year are more about maintaining the integrity of a particular program rather than fitting into a fixed identity?

Kerstin: Exactly. Each year’s composition determines what kinds of styles and formats fit into the program.

For me, it’s more important to bring people to the festival through what we do rather than to use the festival as a selling point to attract audiences who might not be interested in its essence. I also don’t believe the festival has to be for everyone. Some larger festivals have a more spectacular opening show before transitioning into more experimental works. I refuse to follow that model.

Anna: Why?

Kerstin: Because I don’t want to invite audiences with an opening performance that appeals to a simplified expectation, only to then disappoint them with the rest of the program. That doesn’t serve anyone. Instead, I’d rather find ways to help audiences navigate and access work they might initially perceive as too complex.

Anna: I’m also curious about your collaborations with different venues. From what I understood, in the beginning, you brought your own audience to those venues, but later you insisted on a more collaborative approach where venues also promote the festival to their audiences. Have you noticed if these collaborations have brought in new people? And do you see shifts in audience energy between different venues, or is it mostly the same core group moving from one place to another?

Kerstin: No, I wouldn’t say it’s just the same people moving around. There’s a difference between a venue merely hosting an event and a venue actively engaging with the festival’s content. Early on, collaborations were thinner—venues functioned more as containers. But now, we have deeper discussions with all venues about the pieces we bring. No one has ever refused a work, but they are now engaging more actively

In my first year, I didn’t focus enough on this, but by the second year, we started asking, “Why didn’t you promote this on your channels?” and “How can we strategize together?” Since then, our collaborations have strengthened. And it’s not just with venues—it’s also with funders like the Goethe-Institut and the French Institute. Each venue does bring in different audiences, and there is also a core Moving in November audience that travels between locations. But I do feel that the audience varies depending on the venue.

Anna: I also wanted to ask about your plans for audience engagement. Based on what you’ve already done, is there anything you’d like to try but haven’t yet? Do you have a map of unrealized opportunities?

Kerstin: This year, we had a thousand more spectators than in 2023, which is a huge increase. We haven’t yet analyzed where exactly this growth came from. Right now, I’m still digesting everything. But reflecting on the past five years, I find it interesting how certain formats, like the Soup Talks, have continued to grow despite initial skepticism.

I’d like to analyze what has flourished and see how we can build on that. For example, this particular year, the Audience Club has primarily attracted art professionals. How could we create a format that speaks to those beyond this sector? Would spectators who aren’t from the art world even be interested in such a proposal? I don’t know.

For me, it’s about identifying what’s missing. In France, for example, festivals and theaters are often required to do audience outreach through workshops, set visits, and various activities designed to involve people more. I’m always uncertain about how these initiatives impact the actual experience of art.

One idea I’ve considered is adopting a German theater tradition—pre-show talks where someone explains why a particular artist was invited, why their work is important, and provides context. I had even planned to do this myself for the festival. But I remain unsure about explanatory actions that feel more didactic than content-driven. I tend to doubt them more than embrace them.

Anna: In terms of audience engagement, what tools do festivals use to measure it beyond ticket sales? Are there standard ways to assess both numbers and quality of engagement?

Kerstin: Surveys, mainly.

Anna: What kind of surveys?

Kerstin: We conduct post-festival surveys where audiences can reflect on their experience—what inspired them, what they disliked, and what they felt was missing. It’s always included in our thank-you newsletter, and a lot of people respond. Some even ask when it’s coming because they want to leave comments. And people write a lot—there are multiple-choice sections, but also open fields where they really express their thoughts. The survey is sent to everyone who bought a festival pass or a ticket where we have their contact details. It’s also shared via our newsletter, social media, and website.

Many festivals don’t go beyond ticket sales. But some install audience awards, allowing attendees to vote on performances. Personally, I find spontaneous spoken and written feedback to be the most insightful. The survey we conduct is particularly valuable.

This year, we also got precious feedback from the ushers working at Taidehalli, who wrote down the direct feedback that the visitors of “Pancor Poetics” gave. Such initiatives are so valuable and give a lot of direct insights. One key for me is to be present in the evenings, in the foyer and in the performances and to sense the temperature of the audience and to be open and approachable to get direct feedback, what happened a lot last year. For me this is really the most valuable.

Anna: What do you do with all this feedback? Does it affect how you shape the festival?

Kerstin: It depends. We have taken audience suggestions into account before. We also use the feedback for reporting. If we ever received consistent feedback pointing in the same direction, we would have to consider making changes. So far, that hasn’t happened.

Anna: In visual arts, there are many formats of engagement, including mediation. During exhibitions, guided tours sometimes go beyond being purely didactic, encouraging visitors to actively process their experience of the art in a public setting. I feel that, in performing arts, these kinds of formats are not as present. The most common ones seem to be public talks—artist interviews in front of an audience—or workshops where people get to experience the artistic practice firsthand. While these are great, they don’t happen as often as one might hope, especially in Finland. Public talks are normally also extremely superficial. What do you think about other formats of engagement? Do you see a need for them in the contexts where you work, or do you feel they might interfere with the audience’s freedom to experience the work on their own terms?

Kerstin: That’s a really interesting question. The way I see it, Moving in November is an 11-day festival, and there’s only so much you can add in terms of extra activities. We already do a lot with Soup Talks and others. If we do introduce additional engagement formats, I think they should take place outside of the festival period—before or after—rather than during. If I were directing a venue, I would be invested in creating a season-long thread that fosters audience engagement. A festival has a specific identity and rhythm, but in a venue, you also want people to feel attached to the space and its programming (like in a festival), rather than attending only when a big name is featured.

One format I find particularly interesting comes from the visual arts and is used in a long-standing festival in France. In this approach, groups—often schoolchildren or teenagers—attend exhibitions, not to be told what the work is about, but to share their impressions. The key is that their perspectives aren’t corrected. Afterward, younger children exchange ideas in their own words and even recreate what they saw. It’s fascinating to witness this process with visual arts, and I believe it could work just as well with performance pieces. The question then becomes: what tools do we use? Are participants building something? Playing? What does the engagement look like in practice?

For me, engagement should be content-driven. If I were running a venue, I’d incorporate breakfast talks, midday discussions, or casual coffee break conversations—spaces where audiences feel invited to take part in the dialogue around art. I want people to feel at home in the theatre, much like they do in museums when they’re encouraged to sit on the floor, draw, and truly inhabit the space.

Anna: What are your thoughts on focus groups—people from outside the performing arts providing external perspectives during the creative process? At a recent Big Pulse Alliance conference, some artists expressed interest in involving outside perspectives earlier in the process. The idea was that this could ease the pressure around premieres and cultivate a different relationship with audiences. What’s your take on this?

Kerstin: I would never impose this on artists. They should decide for themselves who they let into the studio. That said, I’ve seen formats where audiences engage with works-in-progress. For instance, at Kunstencentrum BUDA in Belgium, they have a “friends club” that regularly attends rehearsals and follows the programming over time. It was interesting to see how they perceived the work, though I have to say the discussions afterward weren’t always the most insightful.

Anna: Maybe they weren’t facilitated well enough?

Kerstin: Possibly. The artists I worked with were always careful about which feedback to take seriously. There’s often a flood of reactions, and you have to consider the background of those providing input. Where is the piece ultimately heading? Sometimes, the feedback isn’t particularly useful for the artistic process, but it can still be a valuable experience for the audience members involved.

Anna: A tricky question—what do you think is the role of the audience in contemporary performing arts? Beyond attendance numbers, do they have a deeper function? Especially since audiences are rarely asked for input or given much influence.

Kerstin: Well, the ways I just described—creating attachment and integration—are how audiences play a role. I’m not sure if that involvement needs to happen during the creative process, but I find audience feedback after a performance incredibly valuable. Ultimately, who are we creating for? Is a festival for industry peers or for the people of the city? Can it be both? If no one shows up, there’s no festival.

Anna: Should audiences have a say in programming? Could they influence what is selected for a festival or a season?

Kerstin: In a way, they already do—by choosing to attend or not.

Anna: But that’s something you only realize after the fact. Some theatres have experimented with democratic models where audiences vote on the season’s programming. Are you interested in these kinds of experiments, or do you see them as a threat to artistic freedom and curatorial expertise?

Kerstin: It depends on how far you take it and how seriously it’s integrated. These experiments are intriguing, but I see them as more suited to venues than festivals. A venue has a clearer identity within its city and can sustain long-term audience relationships. If you ran a theatre with a text-based repertoire, for example, letting audiences vote on which plays to stage could yield fascinating results. Would they pick five versions of Hamlet? Who knows!

Anna: In your experience working with artists, do you find that contemporary dancers and performing artists are interested in their audiences?

Kerstin: That depends a lot on the country.

Anna: Can you elaborate?

Kerstin: In France, artists are highly engaged with their audiences. There’s a deep-rooted tradition of theatre-going and cultural exchange, and people grow up attending performances. There’s an understanding that performing for colleagues alone isn’t enough. In contrast, Berlin has long been a scene where artists create primarily for other artists. There’s often talk about needing a broader audience, but not always a sense of responsibility to cultivate one. (I am generalizing here a bit.)

Anna: How does that difference manifest in the work itself?

Kerstin: It can result in primarily self-referential aesthetics. I’m not saying every work should be for everyone, but in France and Belgium, artists don’t necessarily see their field as a niche. The professional infrastructure also plays a role. In Germany, independent artists have historically been treated as if their work is a “hobby”, whereas in France and Belgium, forming a company and establishing a board is standard practice. This creates a more professionalized environment where artists must articulate their work beyond their immediate circles.

Anna: What’s your impression of Finland?

Kerstin: It reminds me sometimes of Germany in the early 2000s, when looking at cultural politics. The funding structures don’t yet offer long-term stability. While there have been attempts to introduce multi-year grants, these were revoked, which is concerning. There’s a lack of understanding that artists—and festivals—need to plan ahead. It’s unrealistic to operate on funding decisions made in March or April for the same year. Its also underestimated how artists work and research and develop a practice, this needs time and resources and continuity.

Anna: If artists had to be concerned about ticket sales, would they be more audience-conscious?

Kerstin: Of course, but that’s the other extreme. Hyper-commercialization isn’t the answer either. The more interesting question is: how can we be audience-aware while maintaining a funding structure that supports artistic integrity? The key lies in balancing financial realities with creative freedom.

(the interview was a spoken conversation)

Originally published in Audience Club’s blog on 12.03.2025.

The second part of the Moving in November festival kept intervening into the oppressive gaze and exposing the urgency to defend dignity, freedom, and the right to define own terms of being alive. Giving the space to systemically “othered” groups to speak for themselves, the festival program acknowledges the right to claim own (hi)stories and experiences of the world.

While Whitewashing,blackmilk and IL FAUX stage a collective and personal reimagination and reclaiming of the Black identity, amplifying anti-colonial voices already resonating through the festival agenda, The Making of Pinocchio breaks the stereotypical perceptions of trans-persons. This commitment goes hand in hand with human-decentering tendencies and accommodating other-than-human perspectives, that necessarily aim to remind us that the category of “human” is deeply problematic in circumstances where human experience is being fenced and reserved for the privileged mid-aged, heterosexual, mid-class, first-word societies.  Performances like Skvallret (The Gossip) and Mycoscores/Choreospores add up to the commitment to keep aware of blindness that comes with that exclusivity of “human” experience, and to stay curious about other ways of sentient and conscious life- as seen among, for instance, dogs, or fungi. Finally, in GRIT (for what it is worth) the focus lands in the importance of individual and collective resilience and the act of remaining responsive and present in the abruptly changing geopolitical and natural climates, and times of crisis on so many levels.

GRIT (for what it is worth) by Milla Koistinen expands the poetics and politics of more-than-human performativity, in an intense physical encounter between a performer and a disproportional object. One hour of performance stretches into object-oriented representation of endurance and resilience through a dynamic interaction between two bodies that counterweight and balance each other. Like in her pervious works (e.g. Breathe), Koistinen develops a unique dance expression based on energy shifts, mimicking and an embodied dialogue between a human body and a voluminous material mass.

Throughout the performance, the boundaries between tension and release soften and transform through states of suspension, listening and trust. The interplay with a bright yellow curtain-alike macro-object allows the body of the performer to explore limits of physical strength and endurance, in a delicate yet playful way. The experience of the piece made me think of “sympoesis”, a concept proposed by Donna Haraway, originating from microbiology and claiming that bodies always and necessarily respond, change and adapt to their environment, and no organism is self-sufficient. Bodies never act alone.

The intuitive dialogue and the trans-corporeal encounter continue, however in an utterly different materiality and conditions of exchange, in Mycoscores/Choreospores by Maija Hirvanen. The one-on-one reading sessions during the festival are based on the deck of cards and publication with the same title, exploring embodiment and movement across human and fungal knots and connections.

Written scores and corresponding images carry embodied propositions for thinking and moving in response or association to the cards. The cards themselves invite multi- sensuous interventions, so my tactile curiosity gets activated alongside the sight. I get two cards: touching and spreading, and the one -on-one reading session unfolds as a conversation between Maija and me, mediated and guided by the cards. Slowly, we open realms of ecology, dance and everyday life.

When I think of touch, I think of physical contact as much as being touched by an emotion or a gesture; I think of pleasure: other bodies, skins; intimacy of getting to know the other by discovering its own unique sentient qualities: shape, scent, texture, taste… Affecting and being affected, and spreading affection. Spreading bodily fluids, spores, but also nutrients and information. Touch as an energetic transfer, and a passing of an impulse.

The tips of my fingers are sliding down the thick paper edge of a touching card. I recall the pleasure of touching moss and fruiting mushroom bodies last autumn.  I can visualize changing of molecular structures through the physical contact- touch- or exposure- therefore the spreading.  I envision furious, uncontrollable spreading of ideas and political movements, with no exception of absurd, harmful and violent ones. At the other hand, and despite all, spreading care, agency and hope that the better world is possible.

I tap into own feelings of being touched by performances I get to see and encounters I am grateful to have; being a part of a joyful spreading and amplifying of the resistance, hope and healing through the act of coming together and being rejoined by movement and dance.

The sincere beauty of love for another human being is what characterizes the piece The Making of Pinocchio by Rosana Cade & Ivor MacAskill . Playing with the familiar reference, the performance is a story of warmth and intimacy between friends, lovers and theatre makers. In this emotional journey of self-affirmation, self-discovery, unconditional support and companionship, the tale of Pinocchio is recreated, and narrated from another perspective, the one heard less or forcedly made not heard at all: the trans perspective.

The stage set reveals the backstage, with filming of played sequences and therefore breaking the frontal linear vision.  At the same time, it breaks gender assumptions, ideas of normality, and socially accommodating ways to live and love; it exposes the reality of gender transition as it is and as perceived by the outside eye.

In the joyful and humorous tone, yet carrying the weight of vulnerability and self- inquiry, the performance tracks the story of a puppet who wants to be “a real boy”.  It poses a question, what is real, what is takes to be real? What is the feeling and the narrative behind the real? And, eventually, whose story is it?

This immensely seducing and deeply moving confession opens space for revealing a fakeness of the real, letting go of dramaturgies of life written by others, and instead, choosing (self)compassion and attendance of one’s own truth.

Another take on changing the perspective and entering into the reality of another being, is the performance Skvallret (The Gossip) by Stina Nyberg. This entertaining, colorful and participatory intervention is accommodating different, other- than- human experience, and specifically: the one of a dog. The performance is set as a rhythmical and engaging performative multispecies walk in the streets and public spaces of Pihlajamäki, the suburbs in Northeast Helsinki. It follows traces of everyday movement of neighborhood dogs, zooming in their dwelling between grey residential units. Reenacting the space from the eyes of a dog opens new sensuous worlds, hidden signs of communion and tactics of finding joy in the mundane.

The walk concludes with a warm shared moment at Pihlajamäki community center, connecting back to our human experience and the figure of the dog as a human companion since times.

Skvallret (The Gossip)  is the tale of keeping up with the change and staying together in at times cruel and grey reality, or, as put in the lyrics of the local anthem Kaveria ei jätetä (Don’t Leave Friend Behind) by Anssi Kela. It carries a genuine message of loyalty and companionship, leaning on a friend: a tree, a streetlight, a human, or a dog.

The remaining three performances followed up questions of black identity and the urge of dismantling harmful, stereotypical representations and disadvantaged social positioning of people of color.

blackmilk by Tiran Willemse brings an embodied investigation of the common portrayal of black male masculinity. In virtuous dance technique with a focus on hand movement, the piece appropriates and performatively interprets the figure of drum marionettes, white female ballet dancers and black rappers. Willemse seeks to compare the presentations of black male masculinity in African and Afro-American communities, inhabiting diverse possibilities of working with the internalized gaze. Electronic tunes, dim lights and the unrevealed face at the beginning of the performance support the overall atmosphere of dark melancholy. Gradually, the performer engages into sequences of captivating movement, while trying, testing and figuring out own expression and centered presence in own skin.

Hand in hand, the performance Whitewashing by Rébecca Chaillon examines the systemic stigmatization and exotification of black female body.

The stage opens with the stereotypical appearance: the black cleaning women.
The extended intro underlines the purposeless of washing, as the coffee drips and the stains remain on the white floor, alluding to a staining endurance of the white gaze. Yet, in own gaze of performers, or an absence of it, one reads rage, tiredness, resistance and care.  The powerful scene of washing off the white paint from the body of the woman, by another woman, suggests the perpetual effort of facing the oppressive mechanisms of racism imposed on Black female bodies; the washing as liberation, the emancipation, the struggle lived and fought for women, and by women.  The washing unfolds as a gesture of care, support and loyalty, and as the statement on the irresistible power of the Black community. In a while, it extends into the act of braiding hair: plotting resistance and claiming one’s own identity and bodily integrity. The powerful symbolics builds up as the braided hair joins the hanging rope, with magazine images of black women attached. This extended body constellation emphasizes the exotic and the fetish in the reception of the black female body: their “bitter” beauty, “bitter as coffee and soft like coconut oil”.  The smell of burned rope and hair fills the theatre space: the chains fall, and the heightened feeling of strength and dignity radiates from the stage: two women, anti-victims, hold each other in a soft, but furious embrace. The series of poetic monologue scenes close the performance, awakening the desire and shouting out the lust for life and a release of death, and the unhindered urgency to strand against the violent, harmful and deadly gaze of racism.

The final performance IL FAUX by Calixto Neto addresses the racist social structures in past and contemporary Brazil. Starting off from the Pardo as a type of the brown paper and skin color category assigning non-whiteness, Neto explores the term that systemically cancels, or makes invisible, the Black lives, in order to sustain the white privilege at the top of the society.

The performance utilizes performative techniques of manipulation and ventriloquism to showcase the harmful dissonance between what Black bodies can be, and the social roles and positions they got assigned to.  By the means of the playful, yet melancholic reenactment of the wrap paper marionette, fragmented movements and performative sequences carrying the meme aesthetics, the piece brings forward the emptiness of the representation of Black identity and the historical replication that maintains the discriminatory patterns and keeps the status quo. It, nevertheless, comes with the immense urge to intervene, break it down, stop, disable, interrupt, to release the body from the confines of discriminatory schemes and administrative boxes.

The materiality of paper that takes over the stage, becomes, through the interplay with skin, the expression of Pardo as a collective social body.  Despite being performed as the solo piece, the performance speaks the polyphony of oppressed voices and carries the passionate spirit of the Black community.

IL FAUX significantly adds up to the festival’s effort to give space to voices of resistance, decolonial movements and breaking up with historical injustice; to create conditions for deeply personal storytelling with an immense power to contain the collective; to keep celebrating life, the right for self-determination and the freedom of choice.

It, once again, asks to reexamine the real, and to unfearfully claim own truth.

Nina Vurdelja

Nina Vurdelja is a performance researcher and cultural worker of international background, based in Tampere. Her interests reside around more-than-human sensuous encounters and ecologies of being together. She has been doing Ph.D. studies at Tampere University, dwelling in meeting spaces between culture, art, and philosophy.

Photo: Petri Summanen from Mycoscores/Choreospores by Maija Hirvanen

It all starts with presence. Witnessing, from the seat in the audience, on streets, together, or in moments of stillness, alone. Presence as being in the present moment- as connecting with the body, and bodies of others; attending to the past, and asking questions.
Presence as a necessary grounding and listening to the world in trouble.

This year Moving in November comes back to deep, powerful presence in many ways: as anti-colonial statement in A Plot / A Scandal an indigenous migrant manifesto in Soliloquio (I woke up and hit my head against the wall), autobiographic storytelling in Turn Turtle Turn, warm intimacy of LIVRE D’IMAGES SANS IMAGES, (un) pleasant strangeness of the more-than-human encounter in The Second Body and Pancor Poetics. The festival explores presence in a multitude of manifestations, but never singular, uniformed, definite, or predictable.

I notice in programming of this year festival the groundbreaking intensity of one-person form: a body that stands for one as much as for the the collective being, a voice that amplifies silenced stories of many, a skin as a porous surface that connects, rather than separates.
This one-person form carries sharpness and directness.

In bitter times of the ethnic cleansing, catastrophic climate events and the right-wing uprisal, the moment of looking each other in the eyes and reflecting upon one’s own position in this reality turmoil is urgent, uncompromising and non-transferable. It is the question of non-negotiable responsibility and the basic human ability to reflect what has been going on, for way too long by now.

A Plot/A Scandal by Ligia Lewis throws us into the heat of historical resistance, confronting the white gaze by returning it in an absurd, at instance silly and playful manner. The Revenge comes out as a black woman drag-ing John Locke or heating up the Enlightment in the microwave oven. Evoking the dance of freedom from rural Dominican Republic, based on Ligia’s family history, develops into a transgenerational and cross-geographical call for justice. Mingling and clashing with the ridicule, the excessive and the parodic, A Repair? (yes, with a question mark) keeps blinking in a blood-red neon color.

Soliloquio (I woke up and hit my head against the wall) by Tiziano Cruz carries on with the anti-colonial historical struggle, giving space to the diasporic and in-land immigrant Latin American community. Their rhythmical, festive procession through the streets of Kallio, breaking the November grey with the colorful palette of homelands, is the prelude to the solo performance bringing further the story of the life far away from home. The power of the community shifts towards the solitude of the immigrant, nomad, lifelong traveler, one who leaves, and exists in inbetweeners of border crossings, administrative procedures and Zoom calls.

The black and white letters as a stage background make me think of the rigid and oppressive societal structures of the first-world neoliberal-capitalist nation states: their systemic, anonymous exclusion and marginalization. It appears as a counterforce to the colorful, flowery armor covering Tiziano’s body, a costume threaded and knotted from the personal history of belonging to the indigenous community.

The armor is the reference to family and land one leaves behind, a shield from the world on the journey far off the place one calls home, the spiritual protection and the source of courage and strength to carry on, to resist and endure the uniformity of spaces made for the privileged. There is an immense power in this exposed, vulnerable embodiment; in the way that the piece speaks humanity, pride and dignity, in spaces where the unconditional right to these is often, and still, put into question.

Tracing of the personal history in gentle referencing to the collective and universal continues in the Turn Turtle Turn by Oblivia. The lecture- performance borrows the title, music scores and content inspiration from the Oblivia’s recent large-scale music theatre piece. Zooming in the memory, the piece reveals the delicate details of one person-sized miniature. It exposes the formation of the way one experiences own relational being in the world: being a parent, daughter, lover, companion, a woman, and much more;
Departing from the recognizable absurdity of Oblivia, Annika Tudeer dives into the poetic sharing of the story of one’s own- a deeply personal tale unfolds within the triangle in-between the bar tables; in the reflection of the stage lighting in the glass; in between a sip of the water and the next inhale; in the closing moment of voluminous dress caressing the floor of the black box. Somewhere in the grasp of the thin air in-between the protagonist and the audience, in the short distance in-between her hands and the script-paper on the table- the hypnotic move takes place from the familiar physicality seen in Oblivia’s works, towards the genuinely warm monologue, auto-portrait and a lecture-performance.

The in-between is less a label and more an intuitive quality of LIVRE D’IMAGES SANS IMAGES by Mette Edvardsen. The piece unfolds across forms of expression: the drawing, the vinyl, the performance. An interplay of fragments of throughs, associations and memories, the warm presence of two female performers, Mette and Iben corresponds with the “stage without stage” setup and a circular-shape seated audience. The conversation takes place not only between mother and the daughter, but also between the imagination and the verbal expression, the meaning and its echo in the white room; the past event and the memory of it; the sound source and its analogue recording; The piece works with the intuitive and felt as much as represented and spoken out. The dramaturgy resembles the work of memory: a dreamy, hyper- sensual state, filled by blurriness of what is remembered and forever lost;

The gallery settings of the piece amplify the smallest details of the performative situation: the gaze travelling in the form of the circle, the sound of the black marker on the white surface, the scent released in the act of drawing.  Like in The Picture Book Without Pictures, the performance let us contemplate upon what (else) is there, other than what is accessible to senses.

Pancor Poetics by Pontus Pettersson is an interactive performance installation taking over the rest of Taidehalli. While moving around a mini-golf, having a coffee, or spending time with the books, images or other artifacts lying around, one encounters performers moving through the space with lazy-alert movement and the confident, nonchalant presence of a cat. It is an invitation to be otherwise, to inhabit the public space with free, unbothered aliveness, to shake the habitual and try out new ways of relating to each other and the material world of the gallery. The comfortable temperament of the event allows to rest, to play, to contemplate, to be unproductive, to be curious- to remind the body how it is to act instinctively and intuitively. This performative mimicry of a cat teaches how to sense, to respond to and cherish the multispecies connection, and how to inhabit the world in many different passible ways, even ones that escape the language, the logic and the order of a human-dominated world.

Following the tread of the encounter with other than human, with the corporeality of a different kind, this year’s festival hosted the dance performance The Second Body by Ola Maciejewska. The opening image in the bright-white, black box is the embrace of the women and the block of ice, the sensation of cold, discomfort and tension. In a minute later, there is warmth, empathy, closeness. Observing energy shifts, and how both bodies change, behave and affect each other feels like witnessing a relationship, a close togetherness. Being able to see melting, cracking, shape-shifting of ice, and, on the other hand, shivering, color- changing skin of a human performer, unpacks the hybrid corporeality of two radically different, yet closely connected forms of aliveness. The duration and pace of the piece suggest slowing down, getting in contact with frequencies of life and organic movement that are different that our own (human), yet there is so much what is we share: we are all bodies of water.

The staged encounter frames the enduring sensuous entanglement, proposing the dynamics beyond performer-object duality; instead, the materialistic rigidness dissolves and cracks in a touching compassion, and empathic witnessing for human and nonhuman for just what they are, with all their powerful and moving presence.

In that state of careful, curious and caring bodymind, I anticipate the rest of the program and its way to shake, twist, warm and comfort-like a good soup- our shared November days.

Nina Vurdelja

Nina Vurdelja is a performance researcher and cultural worker of international background, based in Tampere. Her interests reside around more-than-human sensuous encounters and ecologies of being together. She has been doing Ph.D. studies at Tampere University, dwelling in meeting spaces between culture, art, and philosophy.

Photo: Kerstin Schroth from the performance LIVRE D’IMAGES SANS IMAGES by Mette Edvardsen