Backstage with Louise Lecavalier

Hello, Louise! You’ve had several premieres and performances here at tanzhaus nrw. Since A Few Minutes of Lock in 2009, all your pieces, including Stations—your last work, which came to Düsseldorf just before COVID-19—have premiered here. Now, danses vagabondes will be your fifth premiere at tanzhaus nrw. What does this venue mean to you? Is there a memorable moment you'd like to share?

What I love about tanzhaus nrw is the whole environment and the theater itself. For a choreographer or dancer, especially when performing solos or duets, the audience’s view is essential—like sound quality for musicians. The sightlines at tanzhaus nrw’s Big Stage are perfect; everyone has a clear view, unlike in some venues where audiences are forced to look down from a steep angle, which I find disorienting. The 300-seat space is ideal for a premiere—large enough for a full stage, yet small enough for an intimate atmosphere.
I also really appreciate the venue’s vibrancy. Classes and workshops constantly happen alongside performances, which puts the pressure of a premiere in perspective. It reminds me that this show is just one part of a much larger, lively setting. It’s grounding. I also love that dance is presented here in all its diversity—it’s not just about “high art.” Showing many dance styles and types of performances resonates with me.
Over the years, I’ve met many people at tanzhaus nrw, and some of those relationships have grown into friendships. Those connections add even more meaning to my experiences here.

Since 2006, you have been creating your own works under the company name Fou Glorieux. In a 2019 interview, you mentioned that you are "continuously growing into what we call dance". With danses vagabondes premiering in December, where is this growth taking you?

When I look back on my previous creations, I see a clear continuity, almost like a spiral that keeps bringing me back to similar places. In works like I is Memory, I am you\ Is you me, I am so Blue, The Warrior of the 1000 Battles, Stations, and now danses vagabondes, I find myself drawn repeatedly to certain themes: the movements I explore resist definition; they expand outward and then collapse inward.
In my creative process, which often lasts over a year, I push myself physically and mentally to the edge. Through intensive movement and improvisation, I gradually shape each sequence. Eventually, a new dance takes form within me, transporting me to another world entirely, another state of mind—whether I’m in the studio or at home. The work is demanding, deeply challenging, but also strangely satisfying. I love this "game."
I believe my body still has stories to tell—stories that are intense and playful. These stories don’t provide clear answers but instead bring lightness and insight into my life. I keep discovering subtle new shades in dance and in the flow of time. It’s anything but boring!
I am also very fortunate to have an audience that continues to show up for my performances, eager to see my creations. Without their support—would I have the courage to go this deep and put in all this work indefinitely, just for myself? I’m not sure. But the joy I find in this dialogue with my audience is truly invaluable.

The traditional discourse on dance, especially in Europe and North America, is focused on linear time. It sees movement as ephemeral and imposes a system where a dancer’s career is typically short-lived. Your work, in contrast, emphasizes being in the moment, fully present. Yet it is often introduced through collaborations you did "in the past". I was wondering: Do you believe in linear time? What are you holding present while being present on stage or in the studio?

Thinking of time as linear isn’t very creative. Far more inspiring things have been written about Time.  As an artist, I can resist—or at least bend—the linear idea of time. In the process of exploring, I can play with time, renew it, stretch it, for the pure pleasure of it, even if it’s only for myself.
When we dream, sing, dance, or meditate, time dissolves; we enter a state of mind where limits fade and rules bend. Dancing and dreaming are my ways of stepping outside time, of reaching a very open awareness, a deeper, more creative mental state.
I keep dancing: I crawl on all fours in Nigel Charnock’s Children, I do a headstand in So Blue create forms with my body, do a polka, or my version of the moonwalk. There are even dance moves I can only imagine, moves I’ll never do. I explore constantly, moving back and forth, day after day, year after year, always finding new impulses to dance. Dance is a dance of atoms, and sometimes it’s a dance of thoughts—linear it cannot be.
As for past collaborations, I’m not sure where they sit now, in my soul or body. When people ask, I answer out of politeness, but what I say feels disconnected. I am always exploring in the present, so speaking of the past feels surreal to me. I try to bridge that gap, to connect and jump back, but I can’t fully get there; my answers often feel unreal. Maybe I should invent a new story each time, but I’m never prepared when people ask. Holding on to all those stories would weigh me down now. I like to dance lightly, so I accept that the past has shaped me but is transformed… Unrecognizable. Dancing means being present—both in time and out of time.

Your dance is renowned for its strength and endurance. Much of your time on stage is spent suspended mid-air, spinning around your own axis—movements often described as whirlwind-like, powerful, even combative. But there’s also a sense of dynamism in it, isn’t there? The energy you create, the movement that ripples out from your body to the audience, points to transformation. How do you see these qualities in your dance?

I like the cartoon image of characters bursting out of their clothes, with shoes and everything flying off! In the early years, when I was working with Édouard (Édouard Lock) and my partner Claude (Claude Godin), I saw footage of our rehearsals for the first time.
I wasn’t used to seeing myself on video, and it was a bit shocking. The movements looked small, restrained, compared to what I felt in my body and mind. So I told Claude, let’s dance bigger, let’s pretend we’re huge—as if our bodies could expand, almost like bursting out of our own skin. Maybe I didn’t know how to interpret dance on video, but seeing ourselves from the outside pushed me to go further.
In every dance class, we hear that precision in movement shouldn’t limit expansiveness. Rediscovering this idea myself, and bringing it into original choreography with a real partner, was a big opportunity. We pushed to make it real. It was challenging to sustain that intensity, like creating fire, but in the end, it changed me.
We don’t always see what’s happening around us; the space isn’t empty. It’s not only our movements—other forces and elements are moving around us. The air, the floor, there’s a whole world to explore and draw from. In my small studio, I try not to miss a single inch… or a single moment of time, and that’s where I think the intensity comes from. Arriving in a theater can be intimidating, but the audience transforms the space, warming it.
At that moment, something happens—a strange, almost invisible connection forms between people. It’s beyond us. Sometimes, before entering the stage, I feel anxious, not knowing what the first movement will be, but then it just… begins.

You are widely recognized for your athletic, muscular physique. There were moments on stage, where you experimented with a fluidity across gender performance. For women, having a muscular body often leads to clichés and projections from others. We even saw this again during the Olympics – where strong female identifying athletes are treated with suspicion or even hostility, while strong cis men were celebrated. Would you like to share some of your experiences as a woman known for athleticism and strength?

I remember one moment in my thirties, walking to class, realizing how strong I felt. Just the simple act of walking made me feel I could take on anything. Soon after, I got injured, and for the next eleven years, I didn’t feel strong at all—I felt like a wounded warrior, a wounded dancer. When my body finally recovered, my sense of strength had changed. I remember walking again, feeling flexible and tall, like a tree swaying in the wind. It was another way of being strong. I felt different.
Dance and life changed me. I never questioned what kind of body I had or wanted; I only knew I wanted a “dancing body,” one that could shape my life the way I imagined. My body evolved with my experiences, with daring choices, not for aesthetics or fashion.
I built muscle from hard work in the studio, from exploring, creating, and finding a dance that meant as much as love—a dance I loved. I wasn’t aware of conversations around my body’s changes; it didn’t concern me.
Afterward, I didn’t feel the need to keep getting stronger or lifting people all the time. It was just a phase, a playful one. When I was pregnant with my twins, a few people, including my doctor, were concerned about my “dancer’s body.” Suddenly, my muscular, androgynous body was seen as a feminine dancer’s body—and I was supposed to worry about losing it. Same body, just a different view of it.
But I wasn’t worried. I didn’t lose my femininity because of muscle, nor my dancer’s body because of my children. I let my body’s intelligence guide me. My body adapted to the demands I placed on it and keeps changing. I feel feminine, without needing any costume. My femininity and my freedom are deeply embedded in me.
In competitive athletics, where money and power are often involved, it’s a different story. As an artist, I was spared from the controversies and pressure. Sadly, things are still slow to progress around body image and gender issues—sometimes it seems like we’re even moving backward. I was shocked by what I read about these issues during the Olympics.
Adaptation, fluidity, finding the axes that allow me to move, walk, bike, run, and dance—that’s all part of the creative process. Some days, I feel almost weightless; other days, I ache everywhere. But regardless, dancing helps.
I feel light, transparent, less focused on myself. I try to move like air, swiftly through the crowd, seeing everything. I like to float with the rhythm. I no longer feel like I need to “possess” the world; now I prefer to belong to it in an ethereal way. Maybe that comes with time.

Rehearsals, training, and improvisation in your studio play an important role in your new work. How are you preparing for the premiere of danses vagabondes? Could you share some insights into your daily practice?

For danses vagabondes, I’ve been improvising more freely and for a longer time than I have with past works. I didn’t feel the usual need to finalize things quickly; instead, I allowed myself months to explore through improvisation. I enjoyed the process so much that I kept extending my mental deadline. This time, I felt a certain confidence because of another project I did in 2023 with visual artist Lu Yang. In that piece, I performed a 30-minute dance with sensors on my body that animated the characters in her Delusional World. The full pressure wasn’t on me alone, so I felt free to take more risks and approach the performance with a fresh mindset. I had limited control over the visual environment and could only influence the characters, who moved with me, mimicking my movements. This led me to create a more flexible choreography that could adapt to unpredictability. Surrounded by the audience, with a single overhead light and dynamic images on a large screen behind me, I felt a renewed sense of freedom. This experience influenced my new piece: less stress, more playfulness.
The title danses vagabondes was inspired by the book Écrits Vagabonds by the Italian mathematician and writer Carlo Rovelli. His book explores a variety of subjects, from Einstein and Hawking to personal reflections—a collection of pieces from the last decade. This idea inspired me to revisit dance material from my past creations, pieces I still loved working with in the studio. At first, the title gave me the freedom to incorporate these past elements. I was creating a "space" for myself. But in the end, I only used an 8-minute excerpt from a previous work, which I transformed; everything else is new material.

You have many fans in Düsseldorf. I`m sure people are excited to experiencing you on stage in tanzhaus nrw again. So, my final question: What do you wish for the audience to experience when they encounter your new work?

I don’t have specific wishes or expectations for the audience, nor do I want to direct their experience. Expectations can sometimes get in the way. The beauty of encountering something or someone new lies in letting that moment happen naturally. My approach is to create the right conditions in the studio and on stage, allowing the piece to emerge with time and openness. Each time it’s performed, it comes alive in a new way.
When the audience arrives, if everything aligns, something will hopefully happen that goes beyond the choreography or concepts I’ve crafted for this piece—or takes them somewhere unexpected. Perhaps dance is like breath, something that opens space and reaches beyond the stage. The performance travels through a wall of light or darkness between us, moving past the lights, beyond our separateness. And the audience might—rather, I hope they will—feel something along with me.

The interview was conducted by Philipp Schaus, dramaturge at tanzhaus nrw.