What I pay attention to, is growing.
What I do regularly, wins.
If I regularly pay attention to how I choose to see, my choice wins.
Helsinki, 2022
I try to look at other people with an innocent gaze, with a pure heart. I try not to think ill of others. I try not to judge other people with suspicion or scepticism. I see good in others and sensitise myself to their worlds.
When I look at you like this, dancers, you smile at me. It feels good.
Helsinki, 2023
When I see myself (in the mirror), I think about how I choose to see myself. When I dare to see myself without the need to analyse, define, or judge, only then can I perceive others beyond surface-level.
Can I feel the light by seeing?
Can I smell and hear by seeing?
Dare I surrender to being seen?
Train, 2023
Can I really stop, sit on a train travelling from one country to another, and give myself time to make the journey? See myself travelling on the train. Without the need to be effective and productive. Can I afford to see time? Do I have the courage to see time?
We humans know so much.
What if today I tried to think and feel without knowing anything? To see without naming what I see? To act a little silly and look around without the need to understand, solve, or analyse. To let go of control and surrender to what is now.
What really is now. What I see now. What I feel now. Practise being with it all.
Slowly, slowly.
Vrå, 2006
When I was a kid, I was taught in dance classes that there were eight directions: front and back and sideways. Between them were the diagonals. Like the cardinal and intercardinal directions. Then, I met Deborah Hay and she said: ‘What if front is everywhere?’ Explosion. I started to see in increments.
Frankfurt, 2008
We are performing in a huge hall with a large audience area. I can see every degree of the space. In one direction, there is the audience, nothing more. In the other directions, there is something else. Sometimes, there are a lot of people in the audience. I am standing on the stage and see a full house watching me. They are watching me, but what they do not know is that, in reality, I am watching them. Or rather, I am not watching them, I see them.
Dresden, 2008
I am standing in the wings. I am standing in the wings so that no one in the audience can see me. But it does not matter. I am practising performing. I am just as much here as I am at centre stage. I am making the space visible.
Bergen, 2000
I am sitting in the car. The driver’s child is sitting in the front seat, looking outside. Norway is beautiful, the fjords are fascinating. The child utters in a clear voice: ‘I wish I lived right next to the water.’ She does not pronounce the word ‘water’ as I would; instead, she pronounces it in a Californian accent like ‘waaadr.’ She repeats the sentence over and over.
2023
I went on a first date for an entire weekend, despite a friend telling me not to go to an unfamiliar man’s home. He drills into rocks, draws maps, and measures. He can see all the directions. He tells me that he dreams of living by the water. Then he asks me if I have such dreams. I smile.
Copenhagen, 2023
I am riding a bike in Copenhagen. I am part of the effortlessly flowing traffic. No one gets in anyone’s way. The traffic runs smoothly. I see a man walking across the zebra crossing. He is carrying a tray. There is a spirit level on the tray.
Copenhagen, 2023
I suddenly find myself being a dancer and a teacher at the same time. I see differently than I used to. I see these people I talk to. I see a lot more than their surface. I am practising teaching. I do not know what is going to happen today.
I see a dancer smile when their eyes meet with another dancer. How lovely it is to see the smile of a dancer. Dancers smile far too rarely.
We dance without a destination or an attempt to solve anything. We can then find ourselves in the corner with someone. We do not know what we are doing there because we are not doing anything. We are not alone because we notice others. We do not just work here, no! We are dancing together.
We dance in the halls, on the roof terrace, in the lobbies, and in the toilets of the Opera House. There is music – ‘Elämä on juhla’. These dancers do not know Finnish. But they can undoubtedly feel it.
Helsinki, 2021
I see dad lying on the bed in a strange position. I call the emergency number. I ask dad if I should move him. He says he’s good. Nothing hurts. Dad stops breathing. I call the emergency number again. I put the phone on speaker and start pumping dad’s chest to the rhythm of the operator counting. She asks me to count out loud with her. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. The operator says it is important to maintain the right tempo. I detach from my emotions. I am thinking this is a choreography that I must do now. I know this. I am good at keeping the tempo. I am strong and precise. One, two, three, four. The resuscitation takes nine minutes, and I am wearing a snowmobile suit. It is winter and cold outside. I am feeling hot. The ambulance is coming. Dad is still not breathing.
Paris, 2009
The audience area is big and steep, like a wall, full of people. In the front row, there is a man dressed all in white. He gets up mid-show and walks slowly up the stairs that are situated in the middle of the audience. At the top, he turns on his heel and begins to walk down the same stairs, slowly and steadily, carefully. He returns to his place, collects his forgotten things, walks back up the stairs, and leaves. A bright, white angel.
Barcelona, 2021
The length of the performance is 50 minutes. There is a clock offstage. I can see the time. The stage manager is standing under the clock ensuring that everything goes smoothly. Everything is going fine. There is no fire, and I am being served by how I see you, stage manager. I guess I’m not supposed to look at the clock in the middle of a performance; I am a dancer after all, and I can feel the time. I do not need, or get to need, a clock. But the clock-face serves my dance. The clock-hands serve my dance. The stage manager serves my dance. I try to forget the names of everything I see.
Cologne, 2016
We are dancing on the stage when the audience comes in. They do not know that I am the one who will guide them to their places. They assume I am one of the dancers, but actually, I am a security person disguised as a dancer. I am dancing with them as they pour in. I am not pouring. I am precise.
Helsinki, 2017
I see my daughter sitting in the audience in the middle of the stalls. She is asleep.
The next day an audience member writes in the newspaper’s comments section that he was disappointed with the performance because it did not have a beginning, middle, or end. It did not, thankfully. It had just a now. And now that is already gone, too.
Helsinki, 2023
I see her practising life with me. I can see her irritation, anger, and frustration. I say to myself that they are just feelings, you do not have to be afraid of them. In another moment, she comes to me and hugs me and says she is so happy and would not choose anyone else to be her mother. I do not know how I should act. So, I do not should myself. I invite her under my warm blanket, even though she is already eighteen. My other one is only thirteen and never seems to get older, but she already sees herself living alone.
Barcelona, 2021
Two young women are watching us dancers. They are choking with laughter. I would like to tell them that this often makes me laugh too. That this IS crazy, just plain impossible. How can you ask anything from the cells of your body?
Helsinki, 2023
I am in a nursing home leading a one-to-one dance session with a dementia patient. We are doing a mirroring practice where I am leading. But I am not really leading. I am dancing with her. Suddenly, she asks me if this is her dance or mine. I laugh. I tell her it is our dance. A moment goes by, and she does not remember who I am any longer. I tell her that I am her dancing friend. She hugs me and thanks me from the bottom of her heart.
Helsinki, 2022
I am teaching dance to a group of 3- to 4-year-old kids. We are looking into the autumn forest with binoculars. We can see birds. We are taking off. We can also be aeroplanes or butterflies. We are looking into the binoculars again. We can see white. We are dancing white. It is soft and light, translucent and bright. We look into the binoculars one more time. Now we can see nothing. We are dancing nothing. And that dance is fuller and wilder than any other dance we have ever danced.