I believe I first saw you in the basement of a museum, somewhere between the first and the recent hundredth performance of Love Will Tear Us Apart. I remember the unusual composition of that piece—the episodic structure woven around pop-music vignettes, the gradual build-up toward the titular choreography, and the flush on the face (which I don’t recall) of the man you led onto the cold stage floor, where he became a prop, a partner, a mirror, a target of your piercing gaze.When I think about your dancing, I think of virtuosity, strength, beauty—a movement that is deliberate and precise. I also think of music as a foundation, a backdrop, a counterpoint—even when that music is silence, breath, the rustling of costumes, or the muffled creak of the dance floor.With that in mind, I’d love for us to accompany every question in this conversation with a soundtrack (a description, a link, a sonic image…) that resonates with the question in whatever way makes sense to you. And so, here they come: 5 – 6 – 7 – 8.
8. Let’s start at the beginning: how did you come to dance, and what would be the soundtrack to your earliest memories of movement?
I believe all children dance, and then, at some point, choosing formal training and dedicating daily time to it marks the real beginning of dancing in this sense. The first time I consciously registered the freedom and joy that dance brings me was around the age of eight or nine—back then, it was school choreographies and contemporary dance classes at the Blagoje Bersa school in Zadar.
Mostly, I danced alone, to my parents’ vinyl records, and I believe those records would define the soundtrack of that period. Between the ages of ten and fourteen, music first touched me in a deeply personal way. Interestingly, dance wasn’t just about embodying rhythmic patterns or musical values—it became an extension of my bodily expression in my own way. I think that still holds true today—it’s the way I hear music and sound.
7. You have a rich body of work as a performer, co-creator, and choreographer. Do you remember the first time you chose or created the sonic landscape for your own dance? Have you always co-created your pieces?
Soundtrack: the music of that moment in history.
To me, performing is already a form of authorship, so I don’t recall a specific moment when I first intervened in the content of what I was performing—it has always been interconnected in various ways. I choreographed all my school performances myself, and in dance school, I was fortunate to work in an environment where every piece was created from within us—we all generated our own movements based on given themes.
We often brought in music that inspired us, usually popular songs we liked at the time. The first time I decided to create something for The Young Choreographers’ Platform, I took it very seriously. But in that seriousness, I think I lost my initial instinct for movement. I used music and a concept that I thought needed to meet certain formal expectations—and, of course, it didn’t communicate anything. Since then, I’ve been uncompromising in following what I feel. I use music either as a catalyst or as atmosphere, and in the realm of sound, I’m particularly drawn to ambiguity and the collective experience of merging all performance elements into one.
6. You’ve been building an increasingly profound and extensive career as a dance educator. How would you say one learns to dance? How much do you draw from your own experiences as a student, and in what ways do you consciously move away from them?
Soundtrack: music you always—or at least most often—use in your classes.
I have a deep passion for introducing people to the principles of movement and how the body can nourish a person. But I don’t believe you can teach someone to dance. Dance is such an intimate experience that it emerges solely from the individual and their willingness to surrender to movement.
To me, learning the execution of specific movements and truly dancing are two entirely different things. Dance is what reaches me as a spectator, whereas the execution of movement—its precision and skill—can just as easily belong to sport. I believe virtuosity begins when technique merges with that surrender, and the prerequisite for that is developing an awareness of one’s own movement.
In Zadar, I was lucky to have a very open and creative approach to dance, thanks to my teachers, Nives Šimatović Predovan and Sanja Petrovski. Later, I sought a more formal understanding of the craft through my studies in Zagreb and Salzburg. Both approaches are crucial, and I try to intertwine them in my teaching. However, I deliberately move away from traditional hierarchies in education—authoritative teaching styles or the presumption that there is only one correct way. For any kind of creation—and dance is, at its core, creation—a person must feel safe and supported.
5. Sorry, I somewhat forcefully imposed music as the central motif, following my own assumption and association, and relying on the organic connection between the art of sound and the art of movement. But how alive is that connection for you? How much does it mean to you? How does it resonate?
Soundtrack: The music you have always danced to.
It is definitely alive for me. Their principles are very similar, and I think they belong to a distinct category because what music/sound and movement do (not necessarily together) is magnificent. Both arts open up a kind of mystical space that we rarely enter in our everyday lives, yet it is an essential part of us all. I would certainly place them in a special category, perhaps alongside poetry.
I’m not a fan of “descriptive” dancing to music. Even when I move “to music,” it’s more about absorption and synergy than being enslaved by rhythm. But what I love about music and sound is that they create spaces, which is why they feel deeply connected to the body—both generate a small bubble of the present moment. These spaces can be architectural or emotional…
4. How do you choreograph without music? What are your primary impulses when it’s just you and silence on the dance floor?
Soundtrack: The sound of your favorite silence.
Time is something I consider extremely important, and I think it runs through all the previous questions, as well as all the roles—performance, choreography, pedagogy. Rhythm and dynamics define how I perceive the world. A movement sequence or improvisation has a strong existence in time for me—that’s where my artistic expression originates—while space is something I think about.
Silence comes in many forms. Beyond absolute silence, which offers a blank canvas for new creation, I love weaving it into the body—through a meaningful gaze or a dynamic whirlwind in a performance. Silence carries listening, and without listening, nothing happens.
Sounds: the call of an owl, waves crashing against rocks, a forest…
3. You have a pretty packed schedule. Do you manage to think creatively in the gaps between classes, rehearsals, and travels? What occupies you most in your professional life right now?
Soundtrack: Your current inspiration.
I’m really an all-or-nothing type—I’m either caught in a merciless 12-hour schedule (which I ultimately choose because I’m interested in everything), or I spend two months in the woods by the sea, avoiding all social events.
Within this rhythm, there is always space for creation. I don’t believe in setting aside special time for artistic work. The best ideas and images have come to me while cleaning the bathroom or vacuuming—when I wasn’t consciously thinking about a concept. You feel the need to create, so you do it, discovering details and nuances through friction with people and responsibilities.
Right now, I’m most occupied with how to open up that window of movement (the one we talked about before, which involves surrender). This interest extends to both my pedagogical and creative work, as my next project revolves around rituals and voice. What is that space where we step away from self-control and construct, and simply exist? What are the conditions for that—on stage and in life?
2. What was the last thing you danced to, just before you sat down to type this response? And how would you describe that dance?
I danced to Parola, which I mentioned in the previous answer. I would describe it as a rhythm traveling through my body in the form of color—softly through my torso and diaphragm first, then ending sharply and angularly at the periphery of my body, in my feet and fingers.
My head waits to be invited by the movement of my torso, and my gaze is directed toward the ground. If we were in a theater right now, I would be standing on earth, and dust would be rising. Internally, that movement carried a sense of urgency but also a calm flow of something deeply ingrained—both in my body and in the collective memory.
1. How do you imagine the future of music, dance, and their relationship?
Soundtrack: A flashback from the future.
Ah, the future… I’m currently quite worried about everything happening in the world. I can’t separate this concern from the way I think about shifting awareness of responsibility and the things that are fundamentally important to us.
Right now, I don’t have a particularly optimistic view of where things are headed, nor do I have great hope for the improved status of the arts—including music and dance. We are forgetting the needs that make us broader and more open.
However, periods like this have always sparked protests, rebellion, and the birth of new values. We’ll see where the wind takes us. Personally, I always imagine my future in shades of green and blue, so the sounds and movements are calmer but full.