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• There is always a certain curiosity — an urge to find out something about a topic. It might come up in my mind, or maybe even in my body. I think this one came more from my soul. Then the topic emerges, and I follow that curiosity, trying to find different sources that can feed it and serve as a base to work from. That’s the more theoretical side of things. Then there’s my constant movement practice, which depends on my mood or on what I want to keep, what I want to develop, or what I’m fine with losing. At some point, this movement practice interweaves with the theoretical research and culminates in some kind of project.

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• This place has a big impact on how I work: during the first half of the residency, I was alone, and I could explore all the different spaces that exist here — small corners, hidden places that carry some kind of history but have also been repurposed. I often work in environments that once had a purpose and were later forgotten, abandoned, and then filled again with new life. For me, that brings an interesting spirit and energy and allows me to be very productive. There’s also a certain isolation here, especially compared to the stimulation of city life, and I found that calming effect beautiful to experience.
  Even now, being here with my family, I still have the freedom to step over to the studio, work a bit, jump in the pool, or walk around the garden. This freedom — not having rigid time frames for when I can or cannot work — is liberating and creates a very productive environment for both living and creating.
  
   

• The specific project I’m working on, Doisri [Sranan Tongo for “German” ndr], asks for a kind of historical awareness — an understanding of the time when the stories I’m using took place. One side of the process involves researching historical contexts, while the other side seeks to translate those contexts into the present — through movement as well as through questions of contemporary society.
  It’s a thin line to walk, given my background as a German, but also my exposure to many other cultures and networks. It’s a very complex field that I try to translate into a performative context.
  
  
   

• Doisri actually came from a relection on the story of my father. He was born in 1933 in Paramaribo, Suriname. When the Germans invaded the Netherlands, all the Germans living in Suriname, which at that time was still a Dutch colony, where interned. My father, at seven years old, was sent to a camp called Copieweg. He lived there for eight years before returning to Europe.
  In the camp, they were allowed to send only 25-word postcards to the outside world. We used that as a writing exercise, collecting those fragments as part of the piece. These, together with my father’s memories, form a sort of curtain of memories – i.e. the mango tree from the camp, the fragments of childhood stories, the pictures [Jonas observes, touches, and walks along the stripes of materials he has hung on the studio wall, ndr]— and contribute in this transformation of history into story, and story into movement.
  
  
   

• With each project, I slightly adjust my approach, but one thing remains: the research must translate into some kinf of body: materials — writings, videos, sounds, books — I let these elements shape the space and let things emerge from there.
  In the studio, I always maintain a physical practice, developing something on that level, but I also consider the other aspects of choreography — space, sound, light, and the context in which I want to perform. All these layers play a role in creating a piece.
  Community is also a big part of my work. In this case, because the project is more personal, it’s also a search for home — a feeling of belonging. Going to different places with this creation, the people I meet there inevitably shape the process. I consider dance as a way to connect people; and performance, too, should create community. If this connection isn’t lived during creation, I think it cannot communicate through the work.
  
  
   

• All stories are, in some way, inaccurate because they can’t tell the whole picture. Depending on the perspective, history changes. I try to include that in my work, to embrace multiple perspectives, to allow complexity instead of simplifying things.
  What emerges in the end is a constructed history that I embody, the space embodies, and each contributor, including the audience, interprets differently. 
  I think it's important nowadays to have different perspectives and to allow them to be complicated, and to not simplify them too much, but to take the time of letting those different perspectives be shared, finding a compromise that can maybe lead to some kind of better living together.
  
  
  
  I think there were 139 people in this camp. Over time it’s turning into a story rather than a piece of history. My father has passed away, and my grandfather is very old now, struggling alongside my grandmother, who suffers from dementia. It’s too late to ask them questions about the past, yet the past keeps returning — history repeating itself in quiet, familiar ways.
  Through this process, I’m trying to engage with that past, to understand how it continues to shape our present. In that sense, it becomes meaningful — not only for me, but for all of us. That’s why I don’t see this work only as something for the stage. In my practice, the research — the process itself — has always played a central role. I simply enjoy it: The act of searching, of involving others, of exchanging thoughts — and of sharing and including other perspectives through ways that are not necessarily performative. I also never see a premiere as an endpoint. I consider it the beginning of another process, a new cycle of reflection, development, and clarification. It’s a chance to rethink and redesign, hoping to make the work last and share it with as many people as possible.
  
  
   

• Another key topic is roots, and the feeling of home. My father was derooted twice for political reasons, and my grandfather as well. I grew up in Germany, speaking German at home, but looking back, I see a family history full of displacement and movement. I often feel not deeply rooted, I feel comfortable in moving between places, rarely missing one particular home. This feeling translates into physical explorations: Shall I go or shall I stay? A longing to move elsewhere, yet holding back, attached to what’s around me [Jonas hints at a movement in space that starts from the head and chest and pushes forward and back repeatedly ndr]. This tension leads to questions about boundaries — the ones we must cross to reach elsewhere, and the ones that confine us. Roots and boundaries have become a key theme in this work.
  
  
   

• My father often told happy stories about the camp— with humour and laughter. I sometimes wonder if that was his way of coping with trauma. For me, limitations and being free within limitations is always a big question. I sometimes see it with my kids: if you give them a toy and then you let them play with it, you give them the next toy, you let them play with it, you give them an other toy and so on...  you will never actually go into the storytelling part of playing. You're just dealing with the functions of the toy you're playing with.
  Loving to have a creative profession might somehow come from there: to have a limited amount of things that you start to interact with so much that there's a moment of storytelling. You become creative with it.
  
  
   

• Here, I had a certain routine: first thing, in the morning, I used to sit in the kitchen, open the window, look at the landscape, and have my coffee. Then I was going to the studio for some training— calming the anxiety of not doing enough physically, but also experimenting and playing, building skills. Just taking time without pressure of “this has to be there now.” Although I worked on an arm part for five days, which was very stressfull, but I had to go through it! Afterwards, I’d jump in the pool as a kind of ritual — saying to myself, I’ve done enough for today. Evenings often brought a return to the studio, filming, moving, or taking care of applications and administrative work. Having a spacious, light-filled studio, with green outside the windows and room to leave traces, has been deeply meaningful. Here at la Cap I feel there is a certain intention already placed in the space and I can work from that intention, I don't have to appropriate the space to fit my needs.

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