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• The work I’m developing has a rather unusual genesis for me, because it originates from something I would almost describe as psycho-magical. I’ve always been anchored to tangible facts, to numbers, to shapes, but this time there’s an emotional component acting on a deeper level, something that sublimates into the subconscious. It all started from a dream, a clear and incredibly powerful image: I saw myself in a room, holding a whip. At that time, I was reflecting on various themes: anger, freedom, the feminine, evolution, the need to hold all these elements together. Clearly, my subconscious worked on it and returned that image to me — an image that kept questioning me even after waking up, to the point that I started researching, digging deeper.

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• What interests me about this object is exploring what I can create with the whip in performative terms: how to use it, how it can become part of a creative process. That’s why I started looking for people who could teach me how to handle it. After various steps, I was advised to contact the artist Mordjane Mira — another sign I interpreted as meaningful, since I discovered she lives in a small village in Sardinia, not far from where my father lives. So I started taking lessons with her, consolidating more and more the idea for this work.

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• When I first held the whip to practice whip cracking — the acrobatic cracking of the whip — I didn’t thought about becoming a whip cracker. That’s not the aspect I’m interested in bringing on stage. What I care about is understanding how this tool can enter my creative process, how it can help shaping a work that touches on certain themes.
  With the whip and my body, I construct a score, using compositional tools such as accumulation, repetition, transformation, and cycles. In the future, I’d also like to explore how to incorporate the sound I produce — beyond the footsteps, the rustling, the swaying of the skirt (because I imagine I’ll wear a skirt following my movements) — and how the unexpected sound of the whip can become part of it all. A sound that isn’t just the crack, but also the hiss, the subtle variations that arise when the whip moves through the air. The whip is an extremely technical and complex object to handle. You can tangle it up, you can hit yourself with it. It’s hard to control, but it’s also highly satisfying — it’s deeply cathartic. It feels as though it channels not only momentum — because if you miss the momentum, just like with the body, the whip won’t crack, won’t spin — but also energy. It’s a poetic, evocative object, with very specific cultural connotations. It definitely carries a sensuality, a sinuous quality that shines through its movement. But the object I bring on stage, even if it may evoke eroticism, is not sexualized. I bring the logic of the body — the body that acts, that adapts, that guides and serves the use of the object. That’s all.​
   

• I want to bring out an “other” sound from this object. When you hold a whip, everyone immediately expects the sharp crack, that precise, loud sound… but sometimes can happen, and sometimes it can not. I’m interested in working on a kind of punctuation: small gestures, tremors, sudden changes that weave into the bodily and sound vocabulary I’m building over time. So far, I’ve only developed few principles, one exercise, playing with variations. The rest will gradually expand as my technical ability with this tool improves. 
   

• I’m drawn to the clarity of movement — movements that settle into space, demand attention, captivate, and then carry the viewer somewhere deeper. In my practice, I’m attracted to the feminine and to transformative rituals — to evocation, to the ephemeral, to the unspoken, to everything that lingers on the skin's surface.
   

• In this process, I’m learning on two levels: I’m learning how to use the whip, how to crack it technically, and at the same time, I’m learning how to include cracking techniques in my practice. And in parallel, I’m constantly learning with and about myself — how to choreograph, how to select what I truly want to explore.
   

• I believe the biggest challenges in choreographing and working on yourself are habits and the risk of becoming attached — of perpetuating patterns, movement habits, ways of expressing, of shaping materials and thoughts. There’s always the danger of holding onto things so tightly that you can’t let them go. You need to know how to make a fierce selection, and learn to release.
   

• In the studio, I always start with my own training, my warm-up. Then I return to the material I’ve already built, repeating it obsessively. I repeat, repeat… Once I feel satisfied with the repetition, I start to search for variations: what if I do it earlier? what if I do it later? what if I do it turning? what about to the left? That’s how it starts: free sessions with a loose framework of material: I do it, I film myself, I review, I discard what doesn’t work and keep what does.
   

• The residencies system allows you to compose, to create your work, but at the same time it raises questions — especially regarding the extreme nomadism we, as dancers and creators, are forced to face: constantly changing beds, cities, spaces, always moving…Maybe it would be nice to imagine staying longer in one place. But in the times we’re living through, I still consider myself extremely lucky.
   

• One of the things I’m discovering as I keep on working is that my work needs very little: a few essential, almost spartan elements. I’ve realized this is the best environment for me, because “too much” around me amplifies my own inner “too much”…
   

• In a workspace, I look for calm and freedom. Also care and exchange: a good studio, a quiet environment, a place to sleep. And the possibility to disconnect, to live your own life outside the studio — that’s very important to me. I appreciate the rigor, the cleanliness, and the minimalism here at La Cap. It feels like a clear, grounded place where I can settle my work. A centered, calm space. For me, it’s the ideal space.