Meeting Ground

“I am not a choreographer who pre-plans material before entering the rehearsal space – instead, I set up situations, talk to the performers, and gather their interests and thoughts. I often end my days with structured improvisation.

Since some rehearsals turned out to be better than the final performances, I regretted being the only one witnessing those moments. That’s why I started opening the studio doors and inviting passersby, colleagues – anyone who had time could come and observe the process as the ‘performance of the day.’

I am sure that some of these performances, or at least the performativity and physical expressiveness of individuals, were better than in the final versions of the shows. Moreover, it is important to me that performers get used to the presence of other people in the space and learn to stay focused on their material. That is how the Performances of the Day were born, which I value just as much as any stage performance with sold tickets.”

I recall my experience working with her in my third year at the academy – a playful process of open structure, full of suggestions, trials, and collective decision-making. Considering what type of written form could represent her, I ask her questions, initiate a conversation and correspondence with the idea of a ‘daily interview’ – an intuitive, open, and informal format in vignettes. Her ideas, tools, desires, and memories, in the spirit of her work, seek play through our exchange, finding their place in the body and performance.

My performance of the day for her:

I.

The floor is white as paper – markers, sprays, and a projector placed on a chair are scattered across the stage. A clock hangs on the back wall, and on the front right side of the stage, there is a keyboard. In the back left corner of the stage, a figure stands with their back turned (a reference to the beginning of Thin Line (ADU, 2019)), wearing a gray hoodie.

The figure dances from the point they use most in their body – somewhere between the elbow and the fingertips of the right hand. In the background, we hear the city bustle, likely from the streets of Tokyo (a city she would like to visit). Among the sounds of cars and distant echoes of Japanese, the figure glides backward, gradually approaching us.

In search of unpredictability, one dot appears below the left knee, another deep in the left armpit, and a third on the right big toe.

On the wall, a projected inscription appears:
What do performers bring into a show as their personal interest?
How does this lead us somewhere entirely different from the initial idea?

II.

The dots leave the figure’s body – they won’t rest yet; they will remain in stories and in the air. She turns toward us, removes her hood. From her pocket, she pulls out a photograph and shows it to us:

Foto: Denis Stošić, Gradsko kazalište Zorin dom, Karlovac

“This is my favorite dance photograph: it’s from Thin Line. I think the photographer in Karlovac incredibly captured the ‘dotting’ in motion. I don’t usually like photos of myself.”

She continues speaking: “The dots emerged during my phase of ‘disillusionment’ with dance, questioning whether I could stay in it or if it was time for a change – I had grown tired of creating similar materials through improvisation all the time. The introduction of dots changed everything.”

“The pivotal moment was probably a workshop in Sarajevo in 2010, where I was announced to teach ‘contemporary dance technique.’ I told them I was surprised by that title – because, strictly speaking, I hadn’t been teaching technique for a while, and I saw improvisation as the most necessary technique in contemporary dance today.”

“From that workshop onward, I introduced dots within the body as movement initiators. At a recent workshop for dance educators in Ghent, when we analyzed our practices, they told me that ‘dotting’ is not just a method but a technique. That surprised me because, in creating performances and teaching, I like to collaborate with people – but they told me that since I clearly distinguish what is ‘dotting’ and what is not, that knowledge itself forms a technique.”

As she speaks, she picks up a spray can and starts painting the floor.

“We’ll see how far I’ll go with this… I was also surprised by the announcement in Amsterdam that I was leading movement research. I wholeheartedly embraced it because I believe that I don’t conduct improvisations; rather, I put much more focus on exploring movement itself. The body is treated as a space for different scenes – for the dance of these dots.”

Foto: Slaven Radolović

III.

Although the performance scene slowly fades, the performers remain in the space. The keyboard starts playing the melody of In a Manner of Speaking, the last song she sang at karaoke. A suitcase rolls onto the stage on its own – we don’t know how it moves. Everything on the stage – the projector, sprays, markers – seems to dance. The space gently undulates as, one by one, the performers of Thin Line (Ivana Bojanić, Dora Brkarić, Viktoria Bubalo, Lara Frgačić, Anna Javoran, Mate Jonjić, Tessa Ljubić, Tea Maršanić, Ariana Prpić, Endi Schrötter, Mia Štark) enter the stage. The keyboard subtly shifts to playing chords from Ivana’s song. Following her voice, the performers translate the lyrics into minimal sign language.

Their fingers position differently – near the face, in front of the eyes, below the chest. They connect words and move language from ear to eye, from eye to sensation.

From the suitcase adorned with stickers from cities across Belgium, Bulgaria, the Netherlands, Serbia, North Macedonia, Latvia, Croatia, and Germany – places where the dots have traveled – Aleks pulls out small notes and sticks post-its across the space:

• I love exploring and working with different people who bring incredible movements and ideas.

• Dots are magical because, if the performers accept them, they can surprise and draw something unexpected out of them.

• A crucial element is trust in each performer and the enjoyment of collaboration.

• For me and for them, unpredictability.

IV.

As Ivana’s voice amplified by the microphone fills the space, Nino, Matija, Mauricio, Roberta, and Sonja continue drawing on the floor. The performance space is already filled with bodies, and the team from Pokret-ča (2014) joins them: Ana Vnučec, Martina Tomić, Ana Mrak, Dina Ekštajn, Matea Bilosnić, Branko Banković, Bruno Isaković, Bosiljka Vujović Mažuran – Branko pulls Dina like a puppet, one Ana spins another on a cardboard, and the other Ana bangs on the cardboard.

Aleks walks around the space, observing, occasionally addressing us:

“Long ago, I was inspired by the work of Meg Stuart. And right now, honestly, any person who accepts the dots and manages to produce something fascinating for at least thirty seconds – those are the best choreographers to me.”

The materials from already made performances blend with the present dancing bodies, as various completed and potential performances meet through the dots that float in the space and dance. Suddenly, we notice Josip Lukinović, Helvecija Tomić, Irma Unušić, Iva Nerina Sibilu, Leon Goličnik, Nikola Orešković, all dancers from the performance Nukleon (2016) who join this colorful carnival of aware bodies.

The projector shows us her first dance memory: little Aleks as a Lollipop on television, little Aleks at the audition for the classical ballet school – not open enough for the first position and lacking a deep plié to pass the audition. Sad, she goes to the next room where it says “rhythm and contemporary dance.” She opens the door, and Maja Đurinović, her first dance teacher with whom she creates choreography, is waiting for her. Little Aleks is full of good feelings and tenderness, and Maja creates a wonderful atmosphere for serious and dedicated work.

“How will movement relate to the other elements around it?” is shown in the projection at the end of the video.

V.

At 13:42, Aleks answers numerous short questions, unaware that I will turn her answers and direct them toward an imaginary performance of the day, a playful and humor-driven game that is inscribed in her persona and work. With this time, her favorite picture in the house is completed, the drawing of her son, Rocco, which moves from the kitchen wall to the floor of the performance space.

If we count the performers on stage, we are close to achieving Aleks’s dream of having more than fifty people performing with dots on stage.

Her performance of the day for herself:

For my 50th birthday, which I celebrate in 2025, I imagine a performance with 50 performers – people with whom I have shared dots over the years in various projects, performances, and halls.
Maybe this idea will not come true, but we can revive it through this correspondence.
This is not a performance in which I perform – this is my gift to myself.
The setting is the hall where I performed my first choreographies, the Istra Hall of the Zagreb Youth Theatre. I performed there when I was fifteen or sixteen, as well as in professional performances with the Contemporary Dance Studio. And now, as we discuss within their Encounters, this circle symbolically closes and becomes part of an important year.

Foto: Anya Zelikova

VI.

The performance begins with a beautiful classical composition. The light slowly rises, and the dot is somewhere in the minds of all 50 performers. It flickers, activates, moves each of them in its own way. That moment lasts because it’s fascinating to observe the subtle changes happening in their bodies, guided solely by that tiny inner spark. The stage is dark, the performers’ faces almost invisible, illuminated only by light coming from behind and gradually intensifying.
However, it wouldn’t be my performance if the light didn’t undergo a drastic change! Suddenly, Elvis’s hit blares from the speakers, and the lights change to every color – red, yellow, blue, green… And in the hands of all the performers, dancing dots appear. They move only to the voice of the singer. This part of the performance reminds me of one of my favorite tasks – the improvisation system Choreoke, which we recently named at a workshop in Ghent (For almost three years now, I go privately with three other dancers to sing and dance in a karaoke room. A complete hit and therapy for all of us!). The costumes are bright, an explosion of vivid colors dominates the stage, while the performers’ hands move in spirals – from wrist to elbow, elbow to shoulder – every part of the body carries its dot in its own direction. The beauty of fingers moving each on their own is hypnotic to watch.

VII.

The pauses are magical. At one point, everyone freezes and creates bodily silence while the music continues to gently penetrate the soul of the audience.

VIII.

Then follows the scene where the dot moves to the torso – just like in the performance Thin Line, on which we worked together in 2019 at the Academy of Drama Arts. This part is both playful and deeply moving. The music has a strong beat, but the movements are sincere, raw, and connected. The dot doesn’t stay just in the torso – it travels, connecting the head, arms, and legs, causing unexpected transformations in the performers.
The group now splits into smaller formations, each occupying a different part of the stage. The floor is covered with large sheets of cardboard, taped together with brown tape, reflecting the light onto the audience.
The costumes change colors – like those small cars that react to temperature – gradually transitioning from colorful to monochrome shades. The scene ends with the performers grabbing the cardboard from all sides and slowly crawling under it as it lifts into the air, becoming a huge silver backdrop, with the floor the same color and texture. Everything glows and reflects light.

Foto: Iva Korenčić

IX.

All the performers are now lying on the floor. In the background, a Macedonian melody with a female vocal begins.

The dot is now in their feet, and the bodies gradually activate – one by one, each starting with a few movements – with much stillness in between… The movement slowly spreads among all of them, until they rise from their backs to their feet.

X.

Now, all are in white costumes. The stage is calm, an acapella song creates magic.
At the end, a long pause – silence – nothing. Then the transition to the final scene…
The beginning of the party. The audience joins the performers, and the dance continues until dawn.
This part is my personal enjoyment – a moment when the energy of the people around me, good music, and movement become an incredible source of inspiration and energy for everyone…

You have conducted training sessions at the Tala Dance Center, the dance department of ADU, and now at SSP and ZPA training sessions. What are your impressions considering the various contexts you enter and the dancers from different backgrounds you work with?
Dancers’ bodies are extremely intelligent, capable, and adaptable, but what connects dancers of all styles is the lack of basic conditioning preparation. This includes improving motor skills (strength, speed, flexibility, balance, etc.), functional capabilities of organic systems (aerobic-anaerobic endurance), enhancing neuromuscular coordination, and more. The biggest weakness I notice is a lack of overall body strength. Dancers’ bodies are highly mobile and flexible, often even hypermobile. Most dancers of all ages I have worked with have told me, “I’m not flexible enough.” My response is always the same: you are not strong enough. My goal is to convey and explain the importance of developing strength in the musculoskeletal system, and then all other components of conditioning, to dancers in the dance scene.

Do you prefer to call your training “strength training,” “conditioning,” or something else? How do you see the difference between these terms?
At the Faculty of Kinesiology, I specialized in “Athlete Conditioning,” which is a broad term. Conditioning training involves developing motor, functional, and morphological characteristics. If we talk about motor skills, there’s strength, power, speed, coordination, precision, flexibility, and agility. Each motor ability correlates with another—for example, explosive strength, crucial for dancers, is a combination of speed and strength. It manifests in activities like accelerating one’s body, an object, or a partner. Regarding functional abilities, dancers need aerobic-anaerobic endurance. A change in morphological features would be reducing body fat and increasing muscle mass. In any training program/cycle, the most important thing is to know the goal and purpose before planning and executing training!

You’ve been dancing for a big part of your life. When deciding on your path, instead of an arts academy, you chose kinesiology. How has your perception of the body changed over the years through different approaches and techniques you’ve encountered?
My thinking evolved through university, maturity, and the tools and knowledge I gained there. I believe that in my profession, it’s crucial to start working with people as soon as possible because you learn the most through practical experience. One of my first experiences was working with the Lado Ensemble of Croatian Folk Dances and Songs. I always emphasize that Lado taught me how to work. As I accumulated experience in both sports and recreation, my knowledge and perspective on the body expanded.
The most significant personal change came from a spinal injury, surgery, and everything associated with that trauma. I didn’t trust my body, I was very insecure and weak, and I won’t even mention the pain and other sensations. That injury truly obstructs your life. It distanced me from dance, and I stepped away from it. My initial rehabilitation was at St. Catherine Specialty Hospital, and then I started training with Tamara Despot. That’s actually how my collaboration with Tamara began, where I spent the next five years conducting conditioning training for recreational athletes and professionals. It took me four to five years to overcome the psychological fear that was my biggest barrier. Recovery is a long and exhausting process.
When I started working at MotionLab, I discovered a more alternative approach to rehabilitation. There, I found people I could trust—I consider myself a community-oriented person; I need to “click” with someone to open up. That’s where I finally found people who share the same philosophy and approach to exercise and movement as I do. After a long time, I truly felt like I fit in and learned a lot.
Now I feel much more confident, stronger, and, most importantly, I understand my limits and what my body needs at any given moment. Bodies have always fascinated me because they are an inexhaustible source of information, and learning never ends. Although I chose Kinesiology, I am now part of ADU’s dance department, and working with students has added a new dimension to my work and approach. I feel very grateful for the opportunity to work with them.

How do you get to know the groups or individuals you work with, and how do you approach designing training sessions?
It’s essential to know the goal and purpose of training before starting the process. So, I always begin by talking to people to understand their reasons for training. These are mostly pain issues, sedentary lifestyles, post-operative rehabilitation, hypokinesia (reduced physical activity), or a desire for lifestyle change.
For group training with the Brutala Co. ensemble, I work with a younger population aged 14-16. The training focus is on improving motor skills to enhance movement quality and dance performance.
When preparing for classes with Academy students, it was important to familiarize myself with their program and needs. I attended their classes and observed. Based on that, I structured the winter semester Pilates classes to strengthen the core, specific muscle groups, and kinetic chains. After establishing a core strength foundation and basic movement patterns, I conducted conditioning training in the summer semester. Although I don’t have access to external weights, I use partnering and contact—key elements in contemporary dance—as a method, turning human bodies into external weights/resistance.

What’s your favorite exercise and why?
I feel best after training that includes a front squat and a deadlift. After spinal surgery five years ago, there’s no better exercise for me than the deadlift, which activates the posterior kinetic chain, and the front squat, which, besides activating the back, provides mobility and strength in the hips. If I don’t have time for a full workout, I do 3×10 reps of a 30kg front squat and 3×6 reps of a 60kg deadlift between client sessions. That way, I maintain the muscle tone I need throughout the day, as I assist clients, lift, carry, and move weights.

What’s your favorite muscle and why?
m. Deltoideus and m. Gastrocnemius
The shape and fiber distribution—they are unique.

Do you notice any attitudes, statements, or beliefs that hinder the potential of dancers’ bodies? What do you find crucial for their development and maintenance?
I think the main issue is that most dancers haven’t been exposed to conditioning training early enough for it to become a fundamental necessity for their bodies. Developing muscular strength and endurance is, in my opinion, the most critical missing element. I sometimes feel that dancers avoid muscle contraction, external resistance, and weights.
I used to avoid it too because we were taught that if we do a deadlift with a 50-60kg barbell and our spinal curvature changes slightly, we’ll get injured. But in reality, the deadlift is one of the best exercises for preventing spinal injuries. Over time, you realize you shouldn’t avoid any position—not spinal flexion, nor extension—because the spine needs to move through its full range.

Do you work with non-dancers?
Yes. At MotionLab, I work with the general population, and most of my individual clients are recreational athletes of various ages and professions.

Do you have aspirations for further education, learning new techniques, or expanding your field?
I have many ideas and hopes for the future. I plan to pursue a PhD at the Faculty of Kinesiology. For my master’s thesis, I analyzed the fitness status of Croatian breakdance dancers, and I believe I could contribute to the scientific community by researching contemporary dancers for my dissertation.
I also want to further develop my therapeutic knowledge in manual therapy. My biggest goal is GyroKinesis and GyroTonic certification, though they’re not yet available nearby—I might have to go to Berlin.

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.

What does a champion’s breakfast mean to you? Whether it’s nutritional, spiritual, artistic, emotional, intellectual, informative, human, animal, meteorological, or cybernetic—what fuels you at the start of the day?

I’m a very energetic person, and my days are packed with activities, which means I have to invest a lot in myself. My mornings are always active—before diving into the day, I make sure to step outside, breathe in the fresh air (living near a forest in Črnomerec makes this easy), express gratitude for the new day, go over my tasks, stretch well, and then have breakfast.

Usually, it’s a simple, small, healthy organic meal with coffee or tea, followed by sitting down at my laptop or heading out—sometimes to training, rehearsals, workshops, or, occasionally, a morning spent with family and friends. No two mornings are ever quite the same.

What’s been on your mind lately, and what’s driving you? What are you currently working on?

Lately, my thoughts have been preoccupied with time—it often feels like I never have enough of it. While balancing my theater commitments, I’m also training to become a psychodrama therapist, which comes with a lot of coursework and deadlines that I need to meet.

Perhaps that’s my biggest focus right now—figuring out how to best organize my studies while managing everything else.

So far, you’ve written and performed two monodramas—related yet distinctly different. How do you shape and reshape your monodramas? Where do they take form before fully coming to life on stage?

It all begins in a space within me where inspiration sparks—a tiny impulse, a theme—and then I let it unfold naturally.

Most of my creative process happens at home, where I let my imagination run wild, brainstorming around the idea and mapping out a rough plan for how best to shape it. Music plays a huge role—it fuels my imagination. From there, I write down my thoughts, discuss them with collaborators, friends, and colleagues before finally translating everything into a concrete project.

I’m drawn to many subjects, often pulled in various directions by curiosity. But what takes priority is whatever feels most urgent to express at that moment. My themes always revolve around relationships, life, death, love… Everything originates from my little home near the forest, and my inspiration comes from life itself, experiences, and nature.

Have you performed in non-traditional theater spaces? Which ones have you explored, and which would you like to? What kind of setting suits you best as a performer?

Of course—every independent artist encounters venues where performances must adapt to the given space. We’re all used to that by now. There have been many interesting locations, but theaters remain the best setting, as they provide all the necessary conditions for creating magic on stage.

However, sometimes the space itself becomes part of the performance’s character. I’d love to perform in beautiful, unexpected locations—in city streets, by a river… That kind of theater is fascinating because the surroundings become part of the performance, and audiences experience it in a new way.

I’ve had the chance to perform in town squares, historic city centers, and stunning islands. In the end, it all depends on the project—any space can be special if it enhances the story I want to tell.

And where do you fit best when you’re not performing? Show us!

With friends, or sometimes with a good movie, at home, enjoying a peaceful night’s sleep. Rest is essential, and we often don’t allow ourselves enough of it.

Where do you go for the best silence?

To the forest, to nature, on a walk! The forest is my sanctuary.

Death is the one thing that resists representation, the one experience we cannot truly have (and remain alive), the one thing we cannot even dream. How did you approach death in Final Act, and what was one of the most interesting things you learned during the process?

Death is always present in our thoughts, yet it remains outside our tangible experience—it’s always there, but we can never truly grasp it. In Final Act, I approached it through fragments, through what lingers—gestures, memories, rituals. I wasn’t interested in illustrating death but rather exploring its presence in life, in the body, in theater—while also celebrating life itself.

One of the most intriguing discoveries was how the body reacts to the concept of vanishing. How movement can erode, become less visible, almost imperceptible, yet still powerfully embody absence. Through this process, I also realized how inseparable death is from life—how it teaches us the value of living and urges us to be truly present.

Your work intertwines voice and body; where do you think its roots lie, and where is its canopy?

I’d say the roots are deep in the body, in breath, in what’s unconscious yet ever-present—impulse, vibration, resonance. Voice and body are not separate; they breathe together. I’m always curious about where they intersect, where one transforms into the other.

And the canopy? Maybe it’s the performance space—the moment everything is released, when it becomes something greater than just me. Maybe it’s relationships—with the audience, the space, other bodies on stage. Or maybe it’s something intangible—the lingering presence, a feeling that stays in the air, in memory, in something beyond words.

What can the voice do? What can only the voice do?

The voice is an incredibly powerful tool. It can carry emotion, story, body, and space—it can create rhythm, open up the sky, or close the heart. It’s a bridge between the inner and outer world, giving life to the immaterial.

What can only the voice do? It can communicate deep, unspoken truths. It can express something that words alone fail to capture. It can carve out a space where everything is heard, where everything becomes clear, and yet, sometimes, it says nothing at all.

What is the body when it has no voice?

A body without a voice is like a silent witness—holding emotions and thoughts it cannot put into words. And yet, it remains fully present, through movement, breath, muscle tension, and release. Without a voice, the body becomes a sea of signals—not always verbalized, but deeply felt.

Maybe it’s not the voice that defines the body, but rather the silence in which the body carries everything unsaid, yet profoundly sensed.

Is music, by its nature, more movement or body?

Music is both movement and body, but perhaps at its core, it is movement. It flows, evolves, follows rhythm, sweeps us into its energy. Its essence is in its waves, its tempo, every sound traveling through space and body.

But music is also tangible—it has texture, shape, matter. We feel it in our bodies; it touches our skin, sends vibrations through us. Maybe music is movement that gives body—because it sets things in motion yet leaves an imprint, a shape, deep within us.

For me, music is a dance between body and movement, between sound and silence—a constant dialogue between what we hear and what we feel.

What could the voice of the future be? From where might it come, and how might it sound?

Technology—AI, vocal transformation devices, bioengineering—could open new, unimaginable possibilities for the voice.

But what I truly hope for is more freedom for every individual to use their voice without fear—to be authentic, imperfect, and, in that imperfection, uniquely perfect and truly themselves.

Dear Ana,
Are you cold? These days, the wind outside cuts like a razor, making the air on your face feel like ice or an open wound—yet still, in its own way, beautifully, properly cold. Are you hot, or just perfectly warm? Isn’t it fascinating how ice, when it engulfs us, burns just like fire when we burn?

What do you dream about—do you remember? Do you dream of flying or falling, the sea or flames? Do you ever dream of dancing? Is it possible to dance in a dream? Is it anything like dying?

At the intersections of reality and dreams, memory and forgetting, time and timelessness, choose six photographs from your archive, from your dance history, and tell us six stories.

1. First, the oldest dance photo you have—describe when and how it was taken.

Maybe not the oldest, but one of the older ones I could dig up!
The year is 1985, The Conquest of the Theatre, a cult performance by the Zagreb Youth Theatre. I’m the third person in the photo. Alongside the then-members of ZKM, the three of us played the roles of dancers. I performed a lot as a child, from an early age. For me, that was it, and here I am, still following that path today.

This performance was a huge event in my young life; it was my first serious professional engagement. But what this photo really reminded me of was that I was actually supposed to be in the center of this trio formation (which is, after all, the central position—hahahaha), but then my then-colleague pushed her way in, literally shoved me aside, and stepped onto the stage before me. It still sounds unbelievable to me today, let alone from the perspective of an 8-year-old for whom that moment was their entire universe.

Injustice, intrusion, and being pushed aside are things I still don’t handle well, and I’m incredibly sensitive to those traits—I don’t tolerate them at all. The girl who elbowed her way in didn’t stay in dance, while I still passionately believe that dance fosters entirely different values and that it can build a better world.

2. Photographs are eerie parades of the past, present, and future; they emerge as traces of an absolute, unrepeatable moment so that they can carry that past present into the future—a present that will never exist again, yet will remain forever. Dance, on the other hand, slips through all times—trembling in the present, always reaching for the future, and scattering into an invisible past, elusive. You’ve been reflecting a lot on time lately, but let’s save those thoughts for the next question. For now, tell me—where and how, if at all, do dance and photography intersect?

I really like how you’ve described this image—how and where dance unfolds. And it is just as vibrant as photography, across all three of those different temporal aspects.
I’d say both dance and photography come to life in that intersection of the present moment, in the eye of the viewer, the witness—while also gathering all the ghosts of the past and future. Dance, of course, leans more towards the future, just as you described, because it disappears from the present, while photography follows us into the future, something we can always return to. Both are charged with meaning, associations, memories, and emotions, always in relation to the observer and to where we are at that moment in time.

3. Let’s talk about time now. Let’s talk about time—now. Where does your fascination with time come from, and what does time mean to you? Diachronic and synchronic, Chronos and Kairos, meteorological time and the kind that contains history—the kind that is hard to see from the inside… Why do you think time has become so significant for you right now, and what have you learned about it through dance?

Ooooh, that’s a complex question! It feels overwhelming, but let me start from one angle.
I’m interested in actuality—how it reflects in what I do, in what I dance, in what I create. And that’s what fills our dance, colors it, shapes it, interprets it.
Of course, within that, all our past dances are contained—every performance danced and undanced—shaping and coloring its present actuality. How does it color it? How does it do that? In what way does it break into some current interest? That’s what’s occupying my mind right now.
What do I dance today, when I dance? What thoughts and decisions navigate my movement? What do they produce, and what do they bring to the surface?

4. Show us now a photography for which you would say there are no words—say nothing. After all, memories are sometimes like that.

5.Which photography would be your self-portrait as an artist at this moment in your dance story/history?

6. Show us a photography of the future of dance and tell us what you see in it—especially what we might not notice at first glance.

I couldn’t find the right photo, so I’ll take this chance to create one with words—if you’ll allow me!
The city—streets, squares, shops, schools—dance breaks through the crowd. It starts gently, catches just a few at first, and little by little, it’s everywhere, in every body. Maybe just in a detail, a flicker of the eye or the movement of a little finger, or maybe it takes over the spine, the pelvis, the shoulders, the head. The streets vibrate, the air thickens, and happiness releases its own hormone. It’s not an obligation, nor an effort—it’s simply utopia.

7. I have lied shamelessly, despite the written record. But when it’s not wicked, a lie can be a crack leading to a different past-present-future, a twist away from the expected, an admission of the fragility of all our fictions. So, here’s the seventh question: Can dance lie?

I think I’d speak more about transparency when thinking about dance—how it reveals itself, manifests, unfolds, is perceived, exposed, twisted, and comes into being before our eyes and within our bodies.
And because of all this, sometimes dance can be in conflict—with itself. In trying to express one idea, others emerge instead, rising to the surface. In that sense, it cannot hide—hahaha—and yes, in that way, maybe it can’t lie, even if it wanted to. It’s brutal how much it actually reveals.
But then again, like everything else—when you truly look, the world is much more transparent than we think.

Epistolary cyber romance betwen Birmingham and Zagreb, with questions an answers in 72 hour intervals.

A correspondence, in an atmosphere of warmth and drift, in the scorching heat of fleeting days that never seem to end.  

Ok, write me seven mutually independent notions related to your dance life. One word, maybe two, that make a motif. Don’t explain anything , don’t overthink it, just write seven words that mean something to you and I’ll make questions out of them.

*ASPIRING

A verb turned into a noun, a directional movement apprehended in a pulsating frame. What is aspiring in your dance experience? What did you aspire at when you first started dancing and how has the horizon shifted since then?
I started dancing in kindergarten. Although I can’t recall dancing at that age (except that it made me very happy to dance out the story of The Three Little Pigs with my friends and I remember my first ‘duet’ with my mother ‘about birds’) I do remember the great enthusiasm I felt in responding to tasks of doing a good grand jete across the length of three mats without touching the floor with my heels in Savica kindergarten. Being in the right house (group) for silent and loud music, and later giving my best in ballet school so I would get praised by the teacher that day, accomplishing that fuette by opening the leg, getting the choreography right to fast music as well, winning the competition, being in the ‘good row’ in the seminar, being as the confident as the girl next to me. Even later when I did not have an exact vision of what my dancing should ‘look like’ and where it would lead me, I knew I would dance and I was preparing the whole time. Aspiring. I will never forget how at the end of high school it wasn’t enough just to train so I ran laps around the school yard, sometimes in deep snow, because I had to keep in shape. Later, with joining theaters and fighting to get hired the aspiring continues. You want your place under the sun, you want the choreographer to notice you, you want a certain solo, duet, trio. You always want to be a little bit better than yesterday.
The same is true with working with children, with people. You always want them to be the best version of themselves, to meet challenge head on and enjoy themselves doing it, feel passionate about it. That’s why I always think about aspiring when I think about dance.

*FULFILLMENT

When it comes to artistic fulfillment, an exchange of filling and emptying, which moments in dance are the fullest and which the emptiest?
Artistic fulfillment can be many moments connected to dance, many small and big challenges, personal successes, or other people’s successes you contributed to. However, for those of us who spend our time under the limelight, I would like to quote a fellow dancer who said it so well: ‘’It’s that moment when you lose track of space and time around you. When you know, but also don’t know what you are doing, but just feel it. When your eyes roll, and your skin gets goosebumps. When you almost hiss or cry and stand your ground like an animal, pure joy and passion is coming out of you. When you don’t care who is watching, and what anyone is thinking; you are protected in your truest self.’ The emptiest moments? Everything other than that.

*LOVE

Paint us a picture, in whatever medium, of a movement or a sequence of movements or a choreographic proposal that for you embodies the notion of love at this moment.
I wanted to offer a photograph. Then I went to the gallery and stayed looking for at least an hour. There is so much hapinness and love in these photographs so it was hard to decide. However, I have chosen a few and you can find them by following the link. Let’s include whichever speaks to you the most.

(Love Choice:)

*PATH

Describe a path as a notion by describing a show you were part of. What does it mean, how does it sound, how does it vibrate?
I chose the performance ‘Race against time’. It involves two sisters choreographing and dancing together. Luna and Nika Lilek. Our first artistic collaboration. I took it as an example because it was the longest, most challenging and demanding process. There was a lot of changes, thinking, tears, pushing through boundaries. Understanding and not, giving up, realizing, screaming, accepting, laughing, getting to grips with it, grey yellow and then bluish red, passion, strength, dad, family, togetherness.
This would be the description of the path through our performance.

*CHAOS

It seems that teaching is an important part of your work, the transfer of knowledge which always implies an intense process of learning for the one who teaches others. How do you teach chaos?
I don’t know how you teach chaos, haha. I think chaos is, whether you want it or not, something that sooner or later finds you. For me it’s a symbol of change. Something that starts happening and I let it into my life, it gets a hold of me every time I need to let something happen. The old stays behind me so that the new may come. It would happen every time I would move, or look for a new work opportunity, or in a a project: the last phase before the finish line. Before the final part in a creative process when we think nothing is going according to plan, when tears come, and everybody is vulnerable and tired. In class the moment before everything comes together and it starts working. You need to allow this to happen and to know that tomorrow is a new day and a new opportunity, allow yourself to trust things will take their course and help things move along (a better tomorrow).

*FAITH

Describe faith as an element of dance that you have witnessed in a performance you watched, that you were not part of, but one that has had a profound influence on you.
This would be Hermaphrodites of the soul by Žak Valenta.
I don’t know why it had such a deep effect on me. Maybe because how raw it is and the seriousness of the topic the actors and dancers conveyed to us with such intensity. The true event that shocked me in the way it was presented, the multimedia aspect of it. The freedom and the security, the truthfullness that came out of it. It made a deep impression on me and still I get flashbacks of it although it’s been ten years since I saw it!
It made me realize that art is powerful and that it changes lives. We need to develop it, question it, abandon ourselves to it, nurture it, develop our voice and pay attention to how and when we are heard.

*GROWTH
As an art form that works with the body as a medium, and the body being perishable matter, how do you grow in dance after having grown up with dance? What do you imagine growth could be when continuing down the same path is no longer possible?
Maybe I have already partly answered this question. A constant learning how to say something, if not through my own body, then through others’. Transmission of knowledge, energy, creativity to others? Connecting, sharing, coming to new realizations, constant aspiring.
Learning how to use my body in a different way. Staying current, keeping up. I am dealing with these questions myself right now and I don’t have a concrete answer. I am also looking for an answer, but I am convinced that every time I feel the spark, that passion that reminds me I am on the right path and that I never want to stop looking for it.

(A bit more love, inaprop(e)riately, for a temporary ending: )

NIKA LILEK was born in December 1990.

She makes her first dance steps at dance school moDuS, of her mother Snježana Lilek.
Having graduated from high school for classical ballet in Zagreb in 2007, she continues her education in an international context (travels to New York for the Alvin Ailey summer intensive program, travels and participates in various projects and seminars in Europe).

In 2014, she became a member of the Zagreb Dance Company under the direction of Snježana Abramović, and later on Petra Glad.

She joined the Croatian National Theater in Rijeka, under the direction of Maša Kolar, in 2017;

And in 2019 she became a member of the ensemble Kibbutz Contemporary Dance Company, under the direction of Rami Be’er.žShe participates in the creation of various projects and creations, among which she highlights:
‘NN’ duet with colleague Nastia Chechun and ‘Fae’ solo at the sight of colleague Michal Vach, and the short form project ‘This Did Something To Me’ which she created for the Dance journey program led by Kibbutz Contemporary dance company.

In August 2022, she returns to Croatia and continues her journey as a freelance artist and pedagogue in the dance school moDuS.
In 2023, she joins the Zagreb Dance Company as an external collaborator for the project ‘Gran Bolero’ by choreographer Jesus Rubio Gamo, and ‘There, where all souls go’ by Miloš Isailović (2024), and works on the author project, full evening piece “Race Against Time” with her sister Luna Lilek.
She still loves to share her love for dance, explore and create with young dancers.

Lexicon dancicon from one diverter to another in two, maybe three, four, five tender moments out of joint

A conversation under a blossoming apple tree, hidden away in a corner somewhere downtown, with some juice and wine, focaccia and a suitcase.