Nayla Joseph

I started dancing in the kitchen with my mother in Port-au-Prince, copying whatever came through the radio. Formal training arrived later, along with mirrors, corrections and the idea that dance belonged on a distant stage. I never quite believed that part.

In my basement the audience sits two metres away. You hear breath, feet and the floorboards complaining. After the solo, I break one phrase into eight counts and everyone learns it together. It isn't about looking graceful; it is about feeling the movement from inside.

I name every houseplant after a choreographer and apologize to them when I forget to water.