Category: contemporary

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Alexandrina Hemsley

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Alexandrina Hemsley about her new show, Many Lifetimes, at Sadlers Wells.

This show runs from 26th March – 27th March at 8pm – Tickets here: https://www.sadlerswells.com/whats-on/yewande-103-many-lifetimes/

Many Lifetimes unfolds beneath a suspended linen canopy and a gentle rain of melting ice. Can you talk about the symbolism of these materials and how they shape the emotional landscape of the piece?

Of course! The symbolism of these materials stems from both personal experiences and wider cultural, embodied or psychological processes. Linen holds significance in burial rituals – and I drew on its light but structured textures within a close family burial several years before making this piece. I knew I wanted to work with it sensitively in some way as part of Many Lifetimes, and collaborating with set designer Rūta Irbīte became really crucial. I really trusted her approach and her encouragement to dive deeper into how something so personal could translate on stage. 

As part of making the canopy that is suspended above the performance space, Rūta buried the fabric for several weeks. Once she unearthed it, we then repaired the holes that had formed with orange-red overlocking thread. The threads become scars, rivers, and borders, membranes…symbolic of the fragmentation and the way lives re-form around grief. 

I’ve often turned to the emotional landscapes of water in my live works, films, and creative and critical writing. Across these pieces, I’ve explored how water can hold, flood, soothe, and nourish BIPOC disabled bodies across different timescales, from the historic to the contemporary.

I knew I wanted to work with ice in some way – to have an element of the set that operates on a different timeframe to the dancing. In the dance-installation, ice melts through the canopy and drips onto the stage. I love how this introduces its own rhythm and sense of time. Its symbolism is immediate and layered: from the climate crisis to the use of ice for pain relief. I’m drawn to elements that can hold multiple meanings and operate across different scales at once.

The work explores tidal cycles of love, loss and repair. How have your own personal archives and experiences informed the choreography and structure of this installation?

My experiences of motherhood, care work and bereavement have shaped both my artistic practice and my desire to explore how we navigate profound moments of change in our lives. Part of coming to terms with more traumatic experiences of loss and/or sudden illness has been finding ways to work with symbolism in the set and with emotional landscapes in movement.

The choreography is deliberately gently paced to allow space for audience reflection, perhaps for their own memories to surface. The structure of a solo that passes from one performer to the next traces shifts in state and lived, archival experience across each dancer. When we later dance as a group in an open improvisation, I wanted to get a sense of how important it is to hold diverse experiences within a community.

Yewande 103 places community at the heart of its practice. How did collaborating with dancers, musicians and disability access advocates influence both the aesthetic and the ethics of this production?

Thank you so much for asking about aesthetics specifically — it feels important to say that disabled artists are so often asked to consult on access, or to demonstrate accessible work, rather than being given space to experiment with how we talk about the work we make and what aesthetics emerge because of working in accessible ways. Those are very different invitations.

Throughout the Many Lifetimes process, I kept wondering why I had turned to water again, and why the first live work I was presenting in London in five years had a slow and gentle dramaturgy. It was only in reflection that I realised I had made a work through and of crip-time — without consciously intending to. I had embodied and choreographed an aesthetic out of something I had long used as a tool: bringing compassion to my own experience as a disabled maker, and what I bring to organisations I consult with. It was a strange and moving thing — a concept moving from thought into body. From theory into choreography.

Part of the collaboration has been trying to understand why I keep returning to water — the heartache and the solace of it — and finding that reckoning held so richly in the work of Black poets and scholars. That became something to do in collaboration, not alone.

Ethically, a central partnership has been with We Are Sensoria, and we’ve worked hard to hold flexible rehearsal schedules — genuinely trying to honour crip-time rather than just naming it. We have also worked with Shivaangee Agrawal to integrate poetic audio description into the work. 

But I also want to be honest about the tensions. The lights reflecting off the mirrored floor can be very bright, and the ice can be slippery — so accessibility is sometimes held in a real conundrum rather than a clean resolution. The same symbolism that lets us explore watery, tidal aesthetics can pull against the politics of inclusive practice. I find that tension worth sitting with rather than smoothing over — it feels more truthful to the work.

The performance is described as a “community of transforming solos,” with movement passing tenderly from one performer to the next. What does that act of transformation mean to you artistically and politically?

I guess I understand processes of change as a series of questions rather than a landing point. How have my inner and outer worlds changed? Am I allowed to change, or to be changed? And perhaps most tenderly,  can a community hold change? Can it bear the weight of someone else’s processing?

The phrase “community of transforming solos” feels true to something I believe about the hope of how change could be held within communities and how change could move — not as a single sweeping shift, but passed between people. 

My practice has long been about finding ways to ask embodied questions into wider political landscapes; whether that’s transforming who gets to be on stage, how Black and disabled and neurodivergent people are represented, or being part of a broader ecology of artists and advocates who are genuinely trying to imagine more equitable futures.

Accessibility is embedded into the performances through audio description, relaxed performances and touch tours. How do you approach access not as an addition, but as a creative driver within the work?

I approach access as a continual, exciting ecology of needs. I have learnt a great deal from the disabled communities I am a part of and how we are each approaching exactly this – how to bend expectations of accessibility in creative ways. Since making my open template access rider in 2019 (freely available for anyone to download), I ask what access needs are of those I work with. I work with improvisation as an invitation to let a body express itself in a very individual way and then consider (and re-consider) what working conditions best support a person to do that within the work. How to make work accessible is a question we return to over and over again in a creative process – not one to tick off and then move on from. 

I still can’t realise certain visions I have due to not only competition for funds but, more pertinently,  funding practices. For example, I have big dreams of one day animating poetic, creative captions or actually paying myself and my freelance collaborators for rest days, but the industry standard of including access costs within the main budget of any callout or commission is really stifling the production values of disabled-led work. Things are shifting, and separate access budgets are being seen more, but there is still work to be done through solidarity and undoing restrictive, discriminatory policies and habits for non-disabled people and institutions so that disabled people aren’t the only ones imagining otherwise. 

After 17 years of creating contemporary dance nationally and internationally, what feels different or newly urgent about Many Lifetimes at this point in your artistic journey?

It really does feel like a work that connects so many different aspects of my creative practice- movement, poetry, collages, access advocacy, and intergenerational performance. And that’s quite something to pull together in one space! It’s a work that relishes in being more than one thing, and I think that is as pertinent today as when I first started making work that refused to be captured by any one definition of identity. 

It feels like a solidifying moment, too, somehow. In seeking to make a work that arose out of wanting to hold my own lived experiences of bereavement and profound change within a community, I feel like I got to reflect on the personal-political power of gathering to witness change and grief in 2026. I also realised how much I welcome inviting audiences from all walks of life and backgrounds into my work – a chance to hold and be held.

REVIEW: Solem Quartet & Alice Zawadzki: Different Trains 

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

An evening of powerful music.

There is a certain might in music, the way it fills the space, that elusive moment of resonance in a room of strangers. As part of the Memory Unwrapped series at King’s Place, Solem Quartet shows us music in all its might. They transport us to war-torn landscapes, visions of teenage whimsy, and the ecstatic worlds within Kate Bush’s song book.

Opening the night is Steve Reich’s seminal work of minimalism, “Different Trains”. The work, which mixes archival voice recordings with sounds of speeding trains as well as live (and pre-recorded) strings, is a meditation on Reich’s childhood spent taking trains between New York to Los Angeles. When considering his experience, Reich noted that had he been living in Europe at the same period, as a Jew, he would’ve been boarding very different trains. 

The work pulsates with life and is immensely unforgiving to any musician not up to the task of keeping up with the unrelenting engine or melodic quirks, which imitate the spoken recordings. The quartet are totally up to scratch in their rendition, almost athletic in their approach, taking each change of meter totally in their stride, joining each other’s new phrases like a relay team. As the second movement, with its wailing sirens of concentration camps and electronic shrieks, rears its ugly head the quartet never waver into melodrama. The amplified voices and strings feel stifling and unescapable — the work is really as theatrical as one can get within the minimalist canon. It’s a beast of a piece, one that Solem Quartet conquers with aplomb.

After a short interval we are granted some levity with contributions from composer/singer Alice Zawadzki. Her style is undoubtedly compositional, evident in just how well put-together the string arrangements are, but also earthy and folky. The barefoot Zawadzki stamps out rhythms and sings with a fresh honesty, particularly in ‘Ring of Fire’, an ode to teenage drinking — “I dont care, I don’t fucking care, for I’ll never be sober as she”. It’s a major tonal shift from Reich’s work, but manages to have the room rapt, listening intently to all of her musings and confessions.

Ending the night is Zawadzki singing us through highlights of Kate Bush’s discography, with arrangements from second violinist Will Newell. It’s a tough task, finding something new in songs held so dear in the popular culture. Newell often finds a certain gliteriness to Bush’s compositions, and steers clear from Bridgerton territory. However, particularly with songs that occupy such a firm space in the zeitgeist like “Running up that Hill”, you’re fighting a tough battle — that engrossing pulse is lost. Zawadzki however pulls out the tender and autobiographical in Bush’s lyrics. “Man with the Child in His Eyes” is laden with impatience and uncertainty, “Hounds of Love” is all silly abandon. While it’s a long leap from the holocaust, and gives a little bit of thematic whiplash, it is enough to leave us home with a bit of joy. What a rare thing that is in these times. 

C Liu Ren-Haur

REVIEW: Hung Dance’s Push and Pull

Published on by Ke MengLeave a comment

Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

finely controlled

Push and Pull by Taiwanese choreographer Lai Hung-chung is a piece intends to explore resilience and connection through an encounter between two dancers, Lee Kuan-ling and Lu Ying-chieh, inspired by the principles of Tai Chi and the physics of force and balance.

There is a curious object, a moveable “brick” constructed from two tables and two chairs, onstage accompanied by a watery lamp. Although this can be visually suggestive, the set remains unconvincing to the performance’s unfolding dynamics. The opening few minutes feel more like a mime than a dance, conveying a certain atmosphere of suspended horror where one of the performers moves with a cautious alertness, and the other appears as an unseen presence. While it tries to be haunting, it is actually quite playful.

Initially, Lee Kuan-ling appears the more organic presence on stage, while Lu Ying-chieh carries a distinctly non-human physicality. This asymmetry gradually shifts when Lu grows vitality and momentum, while Lee begins to assume the more object-like presence. 

What I love about Push and Pull is that the show places its emphasis on the literally physical act of “push and pull”. In this sense it feels almost mechanistic in a positive way. While the power dynamics of pushing and pulling could certainly be interpreted in a more semiotic direction, what strikes me more is the entanglement of two sheer forces. It is a work interested in both “the presence of the body” and “the body being present”.

However, this is also where, regrettably, Push and Pull does not go deep in that direction. While both dancers, are extremely skilful, Lai’s choreography feels overly refined and perfected, lacking the unfiltered rawness of the body, the lingering traces of friction produced by two confronting bodies, and the impact of that irreducibility. The show thus becomes hyper-symbolic at the cost of its physical vitality. Especially when the soundscape by Kuo Yu, featuring amplified breathing, is already quite visceral, this too finely tuned choreography ultimately feels somewhat disappointing. 

For a piece so invested in the dynamics of force, the absence of roughness and unpredictability feels like a miss fire. This push and full, in general, exceeds in precision and smoothness.

REVIEW: In Bloom

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Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

Sometimes the bravest thing a flower can do is open again.

 In Bloom is a bold, playful and deeply feminine solo performance that blends theatre, dance and physical storytelling. At its heart, it asks a deceptively simple question: what does it mean to bloom again after the wind has forced you shut?

From the moment Louna Palombo steps onto the stage, she proves that one performer is more than enough to fill the space. As a standalone presence she is phenomenal. She is not just portraying a flower – she becomes one. Rooted in her pot at the start of the show, she inhabits the fragile optimism of something growing toward the light. Through voice, posture, breath and movement, she brings a plant to life with startling conviction.

The story unfolds across acts that mirror the rhythm of the seasons: spring, summer, autumn and winter, before returning to a final rebirth in spring. In the beginning, our flower grows quietly on the balcony of an apartment complex. But when summer arrives she is repotted into a garden, a moment of liberation that introduces her to the Wind, a carefree force that blows without consequence and becomes her Mr Big: thrilling, intoxicating and ultimately destructive.

Left alone after the storm, the flower is forced into a period of reflection. The performance cleverly uses the natural cycle of seasons to chart this emotional journey. Spring represents growth, summer is joy and reckless love, autumn signals loss, and winter becomes a time of stillness before renewal.

At several moments in the piece, the flower poses a question that lingers long after the show ends: “What does a flower mean if not given?” Later she asks the more radical counterpart: “What does a flower mean for itself?” These lines crystallise the core of the performance. Flowers are so often symbols offered to others — tokens of love, apology, celebration. But what happens when the flower exists not as a gift, but as something living for itself?

The transitions between the seasons are one of the production’s charming devices as the show pauses briefly as Palombo changes a sign marking the new season, almost like a cinematic title card. With music swelling in the background, the audience can practically picture filmic transitions: leaves swirling for autumn, warm sunlight for summer, icy quiet for winter. It gives the piece a playful theatricality while keeping the storytelling clear and rhythmic.

Physically, Palombo’s performance is extraordinary. She uses every part of her body to embody the flower’s life. Her voice moves through vulnerability, excitement, heartbreak and resilience, while her physicality shifts seamlessly between spoken theatre and bursts of dance. In moments of love with the Wind, Sofia Zaragoza’s choreography expands into fluid contemporary movement, Palombo’s limbs stretching and spiralling as though pulled by invisible currents.

What makes it so compelling is how effortless it appears. Palombo’s control and physical intelligence make the choreography look organic, as if the movement is simply the natural way this flower exists. The audience ends up living vicariously through her and rooting for her to bloom again.

The visual world of the piece is equally thoughtful. The staging transforms the performance space into a small garden: pots, scattered flowers and patches of grass that gradually become part of the action as the story unfolds. Nothing sits idly on stage for long. By the end of the show, the set has been touched, moved, or repurposed, mirroring the flower’s own transformation.

Costume plays a key role in building the character. Palombo wears a soft, ballet-core outfit that suggests the delicate structure of a plant: she is the stem, while a crown of petals sits on her head. Glittering highlighter across her cheeks catches the stage lights like morning dew. The effect is whimsical without tipping into parody, allowing the symbolism to remain playful yet sincere. The petals themselves carry an unmistakable metaphor for femininity, evoking womanhood, sexuality and independence.

If the piece has a flaw, it arrives in its final moments. After such a rich visual and physical journey, the closing explanation of the show’s message feels slightly unnecessary. The metaphor is already clear: a flower reclaiming her ability to open herself again. Especially performed on International Women’s Day, the audience hardly needs the theme spelled out quite so directly.

Still, this is a minor misstep in an otherwise captivating work. In Bloom succeeds because it trusts the power of the body, the stage, and one performer’s ability to transform imagination into reality.

REVIEW: The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

Julia Lupașcu presents a work that confronts mortality with striking choreographic and theatrical intelligence.

As part of Resolution 26 at The Place, Romanian choreographer Julia Lupașcu presented a work that confronted mortality with striking theatrical intelligence. Drawing on her background across dance and drama, and shaped by her Romanian heritage, Lupașcu crafted a performance where ritual, symbolism and contemporary sensibility intersected. The title unmistakably nodded to Damien Hirst’s iconic meditation on death, yet the provocation here was not rooted in spectacle or shock. Instead, it explored the quieter psychological impossibility at its core: the living mind cannot fully grasp its own absence.

From the opening moment, the stage is saturated in haze, a softer, almost liturgical mist that establishes tone. It reads less as a theatrical device and more as an environment: a liminal threshold where the living seem suspended on the brink of departure. A single candle burns. A mirror remains veiled. The soundscape carries the faint toll of bells, restrained, distant, yet unmistakably funereal. The imagery draws with subtlety on Orthodox ritual, where Christianity and older superstition coexist. The covered mirror, traditionally concealed to prevent the spirit from becoming ensnared between worlds, operates as a powerful visual motif. Its reflection appears distorted, shaped by precise lighting and the black veil that bends and fragments the dancer’s image. The effect  proposes that once the threshold is crossed, the world left behind can no longer contain a stable reflection of the self. Identity, as perceived by the living, becomes unstable and refracted.

Julia’s choreography was delivered with impressive technical clarity. The movement language demanded both control and surrender: grounded sequences dissolving into suspended moments that felt almost involuntary. There was a clever thread of subdued humour too , not slapstick, but the kind born of frustration. The sense of someone being pushed  into performing a catabasis, an unwilling descent to the underworld. It felt human. Relatable. Slightly absurd in the way only existential inevitability can be.

Julia’s timing was impeccable. She allowed tension to sit just long enough before releasing it. And then, gradually, something shifted. The soundtrack and the bells receded. The ambient sorrow thinned. A single cello line emerged live on stage. It was clean and solitary. The urgency drained away. What remained was acceptance. The candle lost its necessity. In a quietly disarming gesture, Julia passed it to someone in the audience. A transfer of light. A release of burden. Death reframed not as spectacle, but as continuity.

The piece resonated not as gothic indulgence but as something strangely wholesome. It didn’t deny fear. It sat with it. And then it gently loosened its grip. This was a thoughtful, technically assured and emotionally intelligent offering.

REVIEW: Dreamscape

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

This production is bold, unsettling, and urgently relevant.

Dreamscape arrives with the weight of real history and the urgency of lived experience. Blending hip-hop aesthetics with documentary truth, the production refuses the comfort of distance, instead pulling the audience into an intimate, unsettling reckoning with a life cut short and the systems that enabled it. What unfolds is not just a retelling of events, but a theatrical act of remembrance and resistance. At its heart, it confronts racism and the reality that systemic injustice is not a thing of the past – it is very much alive today. The piece asks difficult questions about power, accountability, and who institutions are really designed to protect.

The story is clear and grounded in themes of dehumanisation and racial injustice. One of its strongest elements is the contrast between the fullness of a human life and the detached, clinical language used by systems of authority. In one moment, Myeisha (Jada Evelyn Ramsey) makes light immediately after her body is diagnosed, using humour to reclaim agency in a powerless situation. Later, she reflects that her scalp is more than just a scalp, that her hair carries part of her identity. These small but powerful moments remind the audience that people are more than what institutions reduce them to; they carry culture, pride, and selfhood.

The writing is smart without being self-conscious. Subtle rhythms run through the dialogue, and moments of humour provide breathing space without undercutting the gravity of the themes. A dreamlike quality runs through the protagonist’s experience, a sense of being trapped in something inescapable that is both intimate and relatable.

Direction and staging are purposeful. The central performer moves with fluidity, filling the space with life and emotional clarity. Her counterpart (Josiah Alpher) uses restricted, almost mechanical movement, especially in moments representing authority. This physical contrast reinforces the gap between lived experience and institutional power.

The minimalist set of two black chairs works well, suggesting separation and opposing perspectives. Costume choices further distinguish individuality and humanity from cold, impersonal systems.

Live beatboxing is an inventive storytelling tool. It is fun, energising, and adds rhythm and texture. At its best, it lifts transitions and sharpens tone. Because the show often leads with beatboxing, any dip in energy or precision is noticeable, but the creative risk mostly pays off and gives the piece a unique theatrical voice.

This is not a show designed for easy tears. It provokes reflection and discomfort, forcing the audience to confront systemic racism and ongoing injustice. Its urgency is unflinching, and that is exactly the point.

You can catch Dreamscape at the Omnibus Theatre, Clapham until the 28th of February, don’t miss!

REVIEW: Obscura 

Published on by Lauren LeesLeave a comment

Rating: 4 out of 5.

“A heartwarming double bill, bursting with intention”

Obscura, a double dance bill by Company Chameleon, is a masterclass in storytelling. Made up of two separate pieces – ‘Umbra’ and ‘Refuse’ – they both feature choreography that is rich with life, original and perceptive in its conveyance of humanity, intimacy and conflict. Made even fiercer by the incredible performance by the cast, it’s difficult to pick my jaw up off the floor where it lays. 

Firstly, Obscura by Company Chameleon is marketed as a double bill, however, I must also acknowledge the incredible opening show from Chameleon Youth. The talent of those young people is mighty, and I think it’s a fantastic move to have them open for the company. It’s a great way to foster community, and this was definitely felt amongst the audience. I’d love to see more theatre companies do this too. The choreography was electric and soaring with energy and dedication, a thrill to watch. 

Thematically, Umbra explores exclusion and understanding in its many forms. A piece that is tender and understated yet simultaneously searing and alert. There were several gasps when one performer jumped completely over the head of another one, capturing this pyretic energy, yet also a shared sense of awe for gentler moments and stillness. The piece definitely told a story, but also left it open enough that the audience member could identify their own personal meaning with it, which is a beautiful balance, and one difficult to strike. Made even more gratifying when paired with the second piece, which feels more narrative-based, it was fantastic to see two different formats in which Chameleon can tell stories. 

The second piece, ‘Refuse’ explores migration, asylum, refuge, displacement and humanity. Inspired by Théodore Géricault’s painting ‘The Raft Of The Medusa’, this performance shares the same emotional weight. I don’t want to give too much away, but what you must know is that it is a thoughtful, empathetic piece that offers up so much conversation for no words spoken, a case study for the power of dance.The moment at the end where the lighting lifts on the audience and the performers stand furthest downstage possible, looking into the eyes of the audiences is chilling and resonant – seeming to ask them ‘What side of history do you stand on?’ Obscura opened at HOME on 6th February and played for one night, it is now touring to The Arts Centre, Edge Hill University on Wednesday 11 February and Pegasus Theatre, Oxford on Friday 6 March, before concluding.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Rickerby Hinds and Jada Evelyn Ramsey 

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Rickerby Hinds (writer/director) and Jada Evelyn Ramsey (who plays the character of Myeisha Mills). An electrifying fusion of beatboxing, spoken word, and hip-hop dance, Dreamscape is inspired by the killing of Tyisha Miller, a 19-year-old Black woman shot 12 times by police in California while she lay unconscious in a car.

The production is created by groundbreaking, hip-hop theatre pioneer Rickerby Hinds’ and comes to London following award-winning international success, a hugely acclaimed Edinburgh Festival Fringe run in 2025 and direct from its Off-Broadway premiere, presented by 59E59 and SoHo Playhouse in partnership for the first time in their histories.

Dreamscape is at Omnibus Theatre from 10 – 28 February. Tickets here

The following responses are from Rickerby Hinds (writer/director)
You’ve called Dreamscape a reluctant creation — how did you find a form that could honour grief without turning trauma into spectacle? 

I began from a place of honour, therefore the form followed. As soon as I read in the coroner’s report that her (Tyisha Miller) heart was “smooth and glistening” I knew that whatever I wrote had to be beautiful before it was tragic.

So I made the words beautiful, the movement beautiful, the stories beautiful so that we could enjoy spending whatever little time Myeisha had left.

What does placing lyrical memory alongside the forensic language of the autopsy reveal about how society values Black lives? 

Because Black lives and bodies began their existence in the western hemisphere as commodities – as things to be inspected, bought and sold – the cold, indifferent language of the forensic report immediately spoke to me as a brilliant manifestation of the indifference with which Black bodies are treated in our society even while they’re still alive. Black pain is not real, Black brilliance is not real, Black love is not real because Black people were viewed as things and things have no feelings… the same way that a corpse on a coroner’s table has no feelings. And yet, the beauty created by blackness is what the same society exports as its culture: dance, music, art – if you scratch the surface, you will find blackness.

How does hip-hop theatre enable you to confront state violence in ways conventional dramatic structures cannot? 

Hip-hop theatre gives me tools created in oppressed spaces by people who found the beauty in life despite their society’s ongoing attempt to destroy them for hundreds of years. So, what hip-hop culture gave me to work with had been perfected over decades of enslavement, Jim Crow, Separate but Equal, and good ole Southern Christianity. We had learned to speak in codes, endure suffering without retaliating and pray to a God that did not look like us. Deviating from the “conventional” dramatic structure was natural, because we were not included in the conventional: we didn’t look conventional, we didn’t sound conventional, we didn’t move conventionally therefore 

After touring the work globally, what has changed — if anything — in how you understand its urgency today?

Nothing has changed. It was urgent when Tyisha Miller was shot 12 time while passed out in the front seat of her aunt’s car in 1998. It was urgent when Trayvon Martin was chased and gunned down. It was urgent when we watched George Floyd being slowly murdered by a police officer in broad daylight. Actually, I take that back, what has changed is that we are no longer pretending that Black lives matter… we know that for a significant segment of the population, they don’t.

The following responses are from Jada Evelyn Ramsey (Myeisha Mills)

Having performed Myeisha across multiple runs and countries, how has your emotional relationship to the role evolved?

When I first read the script, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I cried hard, realizing that while Myeisha is a fictional character, her story is inspired by the real-life events surrounding Tyisha Miller.

Knowing that this story comes from a real loss deeply affected me. As we continued workshopping the play, I began to see Myeisha as a whole person—not only defined by her final moments, but by her hopes, dreams, and inner life. Learning who she was beyond the tragedy shifted my relationship to the role from grief to a deep sense of protectiveness of her essence. Portraying Myeisha is not just about recounting events, but about honoring her humanity with care and love. My emotional relationship with Myiesha continues to deepen and evolve every day.


How do you balance embodying Myeisha as a specific young woman while carrying the wider weight of what she represents?

I balance embodying Myeisha by constantly remembering why I’m telling her story and the many stories like hers. Police brutality in America remains a reality; their voices were taken before they ever had the chance to speak. Carrying this role means more than performance for me—it’s an act of advocacy. I step into Myeisha’s life with responsibility and care, honoring her humanity while using my voice to confront an injustice that still demands to be seen and heard.

REVIEW: Carlos Acosta’s Nutcracker in Havana

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

A charming reimagining with all the exuberance of the original and more

Carlos Acosta’s Nutcracker in Havana takes the classic Christmas ballet in a new direction with his charming Cuban re-imagining. 

The stage was set at the beginning of both acts with an animated tour of a stunning and empty Havana, winding through alleyways and up over buildings until arriving at the scene. The physical set stayed relatively simple, with the sunny island setting of the opening giving way to a large Cuban family home, to a dazzling snow-covered candy wonderland, to a carnival tent, with scene transitions often marked by the rolling past of a vintage car, carrying characters from one scene to the next. Still or slow-moving projections at the back of the stage helped to set the scenes without interfering with the dancing.

The dancing is, naturally, superb. The choreography sticks to classical ballet for much of the show, breaking (sometimes seamlessly, sometimes suddenly) into modern ballet, character dance, and multiple traditional Caribbean styles. Some of the more iconic characters of the original ballet, such as the Prince and the Sugar Plum Fairy, were firmly rooted in classical ballet both in choreography and costuming, maintaining the Sugar Plum Fairy’s iconic sparkly tutu and dressing several other dancers in classic European ballet costuming. The variety of dances in the second act brought more character dancing and a wide range of styles, sticking to the structure of the suites of the original ballet. Although the choreography could have leaned more into the modern and Cuban styles, it struck a good balance between styles, allowing fans of classical ballet and less classical forms alike to be charmed by the dancing. 

The music, like the choreography, was altered but never strayed too far from Tchaikovsky’s original score. The instrumentation was updated with jazz-style brass and electric guitar added to the orchestra, while the rhythms of the score were strikingly adapted to syncopated beats and complex percussion. Some of the more recognisable movements of the original music were kept almost intact, while others were refreshingly new. Also like the choreography, the music could have potentially been pushed much further into more traditional and modern Cuban styles and still maintained the energy and wonder of the original.

While the adaptation could have departed more from the original Nutcracker in Havana is a very successful re-imagining that holds on to the joy, the charm, and the exuberance of the Christmas classic while introducing a new setting and new artistic styles. This production will have modern dance fans and ballet traditionalists alike rejoice with sun-soaked Christmas spirit.

REVIEW: Ockham’s Razor Collaborator

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

Collaborator reveals the beauty of a lifelong creative partnership through honesty, balance and shared momentum.

Collaborator at The Place is one of those rare shows that wins you over not through spectacle, but through openness. Performed by Charlotte Mooney and Alex Harvey of Ockham’s Razor, it quietly exposes a long creative and personal relationship, laying it bare with a simplicity that feels both deliberate and disarming. What struck me most was the sincerity of it all: no theatrical bravado, no circus gloss to distract from what is, at heart, two people trusting each other completely  on stage and in life.

Mooney and Harvey tell their story plainly. They met decades ago while training in circus, fell in love, and famously vowed never to work together. That promise, inevitably broken, became the foundation of Ockham’s Razor and a shared artistic life. Collaborator feels like a reflective pause near the end of that performing journey. It is not nostalgic, but attentive. There is vulnerability in allowing an audience to witness not just success, but friction, misalignment, doubt. Juxtaposed with their obvious physical strength and control, that emotional exposure gives the show an unexpected wholesomeness: tenderness delivered by bodies capable of astonishing feats.

The structure unfolds like a series of chapters rather than acts, each with its own physical language and emotional temperature. Games with ropes, frames, and pendulum-like apparatuses become metaphors for shared momentum, resistance, and balance. Waves recur as an image : energy travelling, echoing, sometimes cancelling itself out. These ideas culminate in the final section, The Days We Will Miss, which shifts the piece into a more reflective register. Here, past and future seem to fold into one another. Time loosens. The sense is not of looking back with regret, but of acknowledging how art, like relationships, constantly rearranges its own timelines.

The music plays a crucial role in guiding those shifts. It never overwhelms the action, instead shaping the emotional contour of each section with restraint. In darker passages, during the moments of disconnection, exhaustion, or strain,  the soundscape deepens. It feels carefully calibrated, in dialogue with the movement rather than sitting on top of it.

Visually, the design choices are deceptively grounded. Costumes sit in earthy, natural tones, rooting the performers firmly on the ground even as they repeatedly leave it. That contrast : bodies dressed for the everyday, then lifted, swung, suspended, heightens the sense of flight. 

Collaborator isn’t about virtuosity for its own sake. It’s about attention: to another person, to shared history, to the quiet labour of staying in sync. By the end, what stay with the audience  is not a single trick or image, but the feeling of having been invited into something honest, a collaboration in the truest sense.