If I could say with words what my dances express, I wouldn’t have a reason to dance.
Strong and convincing art has never arisen from theories.
In all my unhappiness I was moving, and suddenly, this moving became an expression, a speaking out
Art is communication spoken by man for humanity in a language raised above the everyday happening.
The dance grew into a colorful flower bouquet which caught and contained the glow of sun-happy summer days, the secret of star-studded nights, and the wistful sweetness of overcast and rainy hours.
Sometimes at night I slipped into the studio and worked myself up into a rhythmic intoxication to come closer to the slowly rising character. I could feel how everything pointed toward a clearly defined dance figure. The richness of rhythmic ideas was overwhelming
I knew that, without killing the creative mood, I had to keep the balance between my emotional outburst and the merciless discipline of a super-personal control, thus submitting myself ti the self-imposed law of dance composition
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