Interview with Ditta Miranda Jasjfi, 24/9/2023

So let us start from the beginning, when you first began taking ballet classes. Can you tell us about that?

The first time I took a ballet class, it was a children’s ballet course in Paris. I was five years old, and it took place at my school. The room was part of the gardens of my school in Paris. It was children’s ballet, and I simply loved to move. My parents always took me to watch ballet in Paris, and I could not stop moving and standing on my chair. My mother was always afraid that I would bother the people behind me. She kept saying, 'Sit down,' and I obeyed — and then five minutes later I would forget. I would stand up again on my chair and follow the ballerina. I was dreaming of wearing those beautiful dresses, the beautiful tutu. So my parents put me in a ballet school to learn ballet, but it was only children’s ballet — we were mostly playing. But I already had a children’s ballet performance when I was five; I wore a blue tutu. Because I was tall as a child — I stopped growing at twelve; I was already like I am now and never grew any more — I also had to dance the boys’ parts. The girls had pink tutus.
I still remember the performance. It was to the music ‘Sur le pont d’Avignon’. I don’t know if you know it — (sings) ‘Sur le pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse’. It’s about a man and a woman dancing, like an old‑time minuet.

Do you remember any of the things you saw with your parents at the opera? Any specific pieces?

Yes, of course I remember. Even if I didn’t know the names as a child, I later realised that one of them was Rudolf Nureyev — probably in Sleeping Beauty. My parents also took me to see modern ballet. I remember watching Maurice Béjart’s Bolero. I remember it clearly because the men — even though I was small — wore only tights and were bare‑chested. They were so beautiful. Their bodies, the sweat, their profiles. Everyone looked beautiful, like Rudolf Nureyev. That was the modern ballet. But in classical ballet I was drawn to the beautiful tutus and all those things. It’s a little girl’s dream to wear something like that, with the crown and everything.

I lived in Paris for about three years. We moved there when I was four, in 1971, and three years later, when I was seven, we went back to Jakarta. My father was working in Paris.

Did you go on dancing? How was that?

When we came back to Jakarta, I wanted to continue with ballet. But I was seven years old, and there was no ballet school close to where we lived. Still, I wanted to dance — I loved dancing. And there was a place near our house where I could learn Balinese dance. I could walk there or reach it in five minutes by bike. So I started Balinese dance.
In Balinese dance you learn the first and second dances first; it becomes more difficult as you progress. So I learned Pendet, the very easy one — the one you always dance when there is a guest. You can do it anywhere, with the flower here, and so on. Then Pangisa Mirang, which is more of a men’s dance, like this (shows). Then the third, Tunum, is a women’s dance again, but already more complicated. And then the fourth, Oleg Tambulilingan, is a couple’s dance. Sometimes I danced the woman, sometimes the man. And the last one was Legong Kraton, which is even more complicated. There is the role of a Garuda — Garuda is this Indonesian bird‑like creature — with a little story in it. I did some Balinese dance performances.

I wanted to continue learning ballet, so my mother brought me to a school that had just opened. I am so proud to tell this story because of my first ballet teacher. Her name was Farida Oetoyo. She was half Indonesian, half Dutch. She had studied ballet in Moscow at the Bolshoi, and then chose to return to Indonesia to build a ballet tradition there.
Her ballet school wasn’t really a school yet. It was just a studio she had set up in the garage of her house. So it was her garage — but with a ballet floor and a barre. The door was still like a garage door. So I am very proud to say that I am a dancer who started in a garage. That is how I began ballet in Jakarta.

Do you still keep in touch with her? Is she still alive? Have you seen her lately?

Unfortunately, she died in 2014. But I always kept in touch with her before that. Yes, I stayed in contact with her. Every time I went to Jakarta, I always visited her. I even slept at her house. She was also very proud of me, of course. She even came here to watch me performing The Rite of Spring.

How many years did you study ballet with her? Because there is so much more that goes on in a ballet class — learning values and learning artistry as well.

I started there when I was ten years old and stayed until I came to Germany. I think I was twenty‑two, so about twelve years. And of course, there were many performances. In the beginning, when the ballet school opened, there was only ballet, but over the years it expanded to other things, like jazz.
What makes me so grateful — and what changed my life — was when she said: 'If you are Indonesian, you have to learn Indonesian traditional dance as well, not only ballet. Because we are Indonesian; we don’t have this ballerina body.' Because as a ballerina you are expected to have a certain body: long legs, very thin, not such wide hips. Like a child, even when you are an adult. And the feet must have this instep, must be able to point like this; a small face. So many things a ballerina should have — just to begin with the body. And Indonesian people normally don’t have these traits. Ballet is not part of our culture; ballet comes from Europe.
So she said it was very important that if you learn ballet, you should also know Indonesian traditional dance. Still, she let us choose freely. But I am happy — and I think I am the only one among my ballet friends — who followed her advice. She offered Balinese and Javanese dance classes, and I was the only one who attended them.
Then, to involve the others, she brought a teacher from Sulawesi to create a performance with us, so they had to learn it as well. There was also a class from Sumatra, followed by a performance. And Jaipong dance, which is from West Java. Java is the biggest island — we have about 17,000 islands — and the five big ones are Java, Sumatra, Sulawesi, Kalimantan (or Borneo), and Irian Jaya [Papua]. Bali is only a small island, but it is more famous than Indonesia itself.
The dances from West Java, Central Java, and East Java are different. I learned all three kinds of Javanese dance, and also dances from Sumatra, Bali, Jaipong, Sulawesi. All of them are different kinds of dances.

I’d like to take this opportunity to learn more about these dances. What are they like? Do they tell stories about mythology? Can you tell us a little about that?

It doesn’t always have to be connected with religion. Bali is so spiritual — if you go to Bali, every house has a small temple, and they make offerings; they put beautiful flowers and food there every day and pray to the spirits.
This is in the story of Ramayana: there is the princess and the prince — the man and the woman — and there is the monster Rajuana. I once played the role of Sita. Rama is the prince. Rajuana is the monster. And Hanuman is the monkey king, the white monkey. In Bali you see many performers in the temples telling this story.
In Sumatra it is different from Bali. There is a lot of inner spirit. They dance differently, and the people are also different. Each region is different. I am from West Sumatra — we are matriarchal. So the women are stronger. And they have this Pencak Silat, a martial art. They use a lot of inner energy. They say you have to dance with this tiger inside you. And if you really get it, you become very strong, and your movement becomes like a tiger. Oh, I get goosebumps. I love it. Because I like this inner energy, not only the outer form.
In Balinese dance you can also see there is a lot of accents (shows) a lot happening inside. And Javanese dance, like the people, is the softest in Indonesia. The women are really feminine and beautiful. They always say yes. My ballet teacher once said to me: ‘You know, you can live alone in Germany only because you are from West Sumatra.’
The dance is also very soft, like this (shows). Even when they fight with a sword, they are like this (shows). I always say: like this, you won’t kill anyone.
And Sulawesi — I don’t know so much. It is another big island, and it is different. The dance is also different, more simple. I think the most complicated ones are Javanese and Balinese, but they are different from each other. Javanese is the soft one, and Balinese is the dynamic one.
And Jaipong is from West Java. That is more like this (shows). I don’t know — it is a different posture. They also use a lot of (sings and dances) — like this. And as I said before, Central Java is the soft one.

Going on with your life — choosing a profession. Which studies did you take? And what were your dreams?

I always loved to dance. I really dreamed of being a prima ballerina at the Bolshoi or at the Opéra de Paris. I always had big dreams. I was a dreamer. But I didn’t trust myself enough to say that I wanted to be a dancer, because my family is an intellectual family. My father is a chemical engineer, and his whole family are engineers. My mother’s whole family are doctors. So they are very intellectual. My little sister is also very intelligent — always the first in her class. So school was very important for my family, and to think that I ‘just’ wanted to be a dancer… I couldn’t simply say that.
There was a friend of mine — well, actually she was my rival in ballet class. She was so good. I can say I was also good, but we had different styles. She was more of a classical ballet dancer, and I was more all‑round. I could be good in ballet and also good in traditional dance. I was more flexible, because I loved everything within dance.
As children, we wrote in a notebook what we wanted to be, and what our hobbies were, with a photo. And she wrote that she wanted to be a dancer, a ballerina. And I thought: if she can do it, why can’t I? I also wanted to be a dancer, a ballerina at that time. I was still twelve years old. I remember reading this and thinking: if she can do it, why can’t I? I actually want to be a dancer too.
And then life went on. I was very active in dance and started to receive remuneration from the age of fifteen. But I had to continue formal schooling. So I studied Japanese language and literature at university. I also love languages.
In the second or third year at university, a few things happened almost at the same time. This rival of mine went to the US to continue dancing. She went to the Alvin Ailey School. And again I thought: ‘Oh my God! If she can do it, why can’t I? I really want to be a dancer. After twelve years studying only in Indonesia, it’s not enough. I want to go out into the world, to explore other things.’ This made me anxious.
At the same time, I was also doing very well at university. I received a good scholarship to study in Osaka, Japan, for five years. They chose me. But if I stayed in Japan for five years, what about ballet? What about my dance world? I would be too old when I came back from Japan. I loved the Japanese language. I loved everything about Japan. But I also loved to dance. I had to choose dance — it was very important for me to continue dancing.

At the same time, another person from my ballet school — the son of my ballet teacher — went to Germany, to the Folkwanghochschule (not yet Folkwang University of the Arts) to continue dancing. He was not that good. But because there were so few male dancers — one or two — they were always the stars. And he went to Germany to study dance.

I didn’t know anything about Folkwang. I didn’t know it was Pina Bausch’s school. I didn’t know. It was simply the fact that he went to Europe to continue dancing that made something burn inside me. If my friend can go to America, and this one to Germany, why can’t I?

So I felt I had to stop university. I just wanted to dance now. If they can do it, why can’t I? I can say it: in dance I was very confident. I knew I was good. In real life it was different — but in dance, yes. So I chose to continue dancing.

Before we go on: by the time you returned to Jakarta, I think Tanztheater Wuppertal was doing an Asian tour. Do you remember seeing that?

Of course I remember very well. I was twelve years old. They performed The Rite of Spring in the open air. But ‘open air’ meant that the audience was under the open sky, while the stage had a roof. I remember it was raining, so the audience had umbrellas. We watched ‘Sacre’ from under our umbrellas. The dancers didn’t get wet, but we did.
I was twelve — I remember that — but I don’t remember the dance itself, because it was too modern for me. I was still in my ballet world. But I remember very clearly — because I was twelve, a teenager — I thought: I can see all the women’s breasts through these see‑through dresses, how is that possible? But I don’t remember that they danced on earth. That didn’t stay in my mind. What I remember is this: watching in the rain, under an umbrella.
I would never have imagined that the people I saw there would later become my colleagues: Lutz Förster, Susanne Linke — whom I worked with before coming to Pina — Dominique Mercy, Jo‑Ann Endicott. It must have been 1978 or 79.

Possibly a little earlier. You had this possibility to study in Osaka, and you decided something else. What happened?

I couldn’t tell my parents. I had to act as if I were losing my mind at home. I stopped going to university. I stayed at home with my hair like this (shows), crying. The whole day like this — I was really acting crazy until I couldn’t anymore. And when my mother passed by, I said: ‘I want to continue dancing. I also want to go to Germany, like this friend.’
Actually, I wanted to go to America, because in Indonesia at that time we were so American‑oriented. But we knew that America was impossible — far too expensive. And then I found out that studying in Germany was much cheaper, because you didn’t pay school tuition. So it was half the price of going to America.
So my dream became going to Germany. For example: ‘This friend is already at Folkwang — why can’t I go there? I already have a friend there. So I would love to continue studying dance in Europe.’

After I behaved like this — acting crazy — my mother went to my father, and then she came back and said: ‘Okay, we have to make your passport.’ So I received my parents’ blessing.
I studied German at the Goethe‑Institut, an intensive course. And I sent my application to the Folkwang School. While waiting for an answer from the school, I continued learning German at the Goethe‑Institut. I was lucky because I could still dance at that time. I performed Ramayana, the role of Sita.
I don’t know if it is like this everywhere, but in Jakarta the Goethe‑Institut gives a yearly scholarship to the most popular artists of that year. At that time I was popular — I was already in my twenties. So they gave me this scholarship to learn German at a Goethe‑Institut in Germany for three months and to live with a German family.
I received the scholarship, and I remember I had to choose which city I wanted to go to. I chose Bremen. I didn’t get it — but later I went to Bremen anyway. [RV: We’ll get to that.]
I was placed in Schwäbisch Hall. I didn’t know it; I had never heard of it. In the south of Germany — Schwäbisch Hall. I lived with a German family, which was actually just one elderly woman and a big dog.
So I went there to learn German, and while I was there I received a letter from Folkwang. They knew I would be in Germany from this month to that month — I had told them I would be in Germany in case something happened. And so they invited me to come to Folkwang to join the students’ examinations. It was too late to do the audition, because the audition is always in June, July or August. I arrived in October 1989 at the Goethe‑Institut in Schwäbisch Hall, and I received the letter from Folkwang in December 1989.
They said: we have three days of examinations for the students, and you can join — do modern, classical ballet — because the teachers will be watching the examinations. Just join us so we can see you.
So I travelled from Schwäbisch Hall to Essen to join the examinations. I did modern and classical ballet classes with the other students. After three days they told me I had to come back the next year to do the audition. Because officially I should audition, but I had arrived too late. So they said: ‘Can you come back next year for the audition in July?’
But I had come to Germany with a Goethe‑Institut scholarship. We were not a rich family. We were middle class, but not rich. I remember it was Frau Mercedes. I answered in my very bad German: ‘I don’t have money to go back to Indonesia and then come back here. My family cannot pay for this. I cannot do that.’
And then she said: ‘Okay, let me talk with the teachers again.’
They talked again, and some days later she said: ‘Okay, you can come to the school.’
So I joined six months later. I officially started in January 1990.

There were many colleagues. First, the teachers: Dominique Mercy, Malou Airaudo, Lutz Förster. Jean Cébron — not a colleague, but part of the company — and Hans Züllig. They were all my teachers.
And the others who later became my colleagues were from different years. They were not from my class. My class was more of a mixture — there were people from the musical theatre and so on.
From the fourth year there were Rainer Behr and Nayoung Kim, and from the third year Ruth Amarante and Stephan Brinkmann. And from the Folkwang Tanzstudio I knew Susanne Linke — the choreographer there — Mark Sieczkarek, and many others like Daphnis Kokkinos and Aida Vainieri. There were many people who later became my colleagues in the company.

Okay, so you started in 1990. Were there many of your future colleagues — people who eventually came to work with you — in the same class?

When you arrived at the school, you already had a lot of ballet. So what happened there? What did you learn that was new, and what were the things you were already good at?

Yes, it’s good that you ask that, because it was really an issue. I was already an amateur ballet dancer — I say amateur because in Indonesia there was no ballet company — but I was already a paid performer, in pointe shoes and everything. Before, I was very classical, even if you can’t see it anymore.
So when I came to Folkwang, I had to start from the first year. I was shocked, because they took everything apart that I could already do. It really started from the beginning again: plié, grand plié, everything. I used to place my legs like this (shows), but they brought everything down to 90 degrees — but with the correct hip placement. I could lift my legs high, but maybe not with the right hip placement. I could do all these things, but they rebuilt everything in the correct alignment. Legs down, everything back to basics.
I was in shock at the beginning. And after only one year, when I went back to Indonesia, I thought: ‘I can’t stand this.’ I spoke to my teacher, Frau Agnes Pallai, my ballet teacher. I had seen that some people in my class suddenly jumped from the first year to the second or even the third year. So I talked to Frau Pallai and showed her photos of me dancing on pointe. I said: ‘I think this class is too easy for me. I already did all this. And now, in this first‑year class, we are learning to go on pointe like beginners. I was already doing pirouettes on pointe in Indonesia.’ So I showed her everything. ‘Can you think about this again? Because I already did all these things. I want to move up. I don’t think I need the first‑year classes.’
She was very kind and said: ‘I’m going to talk with the other teachers.’
And then she came back to me. She said she had spoken with the other teachers, and she said: ‘You are good in ballet, but your modern is not good enough. So you have to start again from the first year because your modern is not good enough.’
And it was true. I had never learned modern dance in Indonesia. So that’s why I had to do all the classes from the first, second, third and fourth year. And I am very grateful that I did all that, because I learned so much more.

Let me ask you a question that maybe you can look at in retrospect. You had all these years of experience in Indonesia, with a woman who came from the Bolshoi Ballet. You have been working here for a long time, and you met Jean Cébron, studied with him, with Hans Züllig, and eventually with Alfredo Corvino. Do you see a value in what they were trying to do? Because you know Vaganova, and you know Cecchetti. So do you see what was happening there — in your impatience, being able to do all those things — and then they come from another school of ballet, the Cecchetti school… you have to tell me: do you see some value in that?

For sure there is a value. I came from Vaganova. My teacher in Indonesia was from the Bolshoi’s Vaganova tradition. Cecchetti I learned from Jean Cébron. There is a value — I am sure it is very useful, and I learned it very well. But there are also many other aspects. One of them is simply whether the teacher sees value in me.
For example, Jean Cébron was not so interested in me — he liked people with really beautiful bodies. I am not fat, but I don’t have these straight hips and long, thin legs. He preferred more balletic bodies. I saw at Folkwang that the people they chose often had this more balletic body — thin, long legs. So he was not interested in me.
It was more Lutz Förster who helped me, because he also had to teach these sequences.

Lutz Förster was the one who asked me to come to the rehearsals when he had to teach ‘Recueil’. Cébron asked me once as well — we were only two or three girls learning it. Of course he gave me some attention, but I realised he was not actually interested in me. I felt it. Or maybe it was because in class I liked to ask questions. I always asked questions, because I am curious. I really want to know. I want to learn. Once he became nervous because I asked too many questions, and that made me anxious. I am very sensitive, and then I felt: he is not my thing.

I think that makes an interesting point about finding a teacher you connect with, independently of the technique they are teaching. That is what I take from what you are saying — it is a very important point for moving forward.

But as we are now talking about Jean Cébron, I must say that when there was this young choreographers’ showcase — every student was free to create their own choreography — I made a solo. Because nobody asked me to dance with them or for them. I was too different, too special, too small — I don’t know what. So I created my own solo.
And as I created a solo for the first time, there were many corrections, and Lutz helped me in the rehearsals. I asked him to come and help. I finished the solo and showed it, and Cébron was the one who gave me the most compliments. Because your own personality is very important at Folkwang. He said there was a lot of personality, that it was very unique, really my own thing. He was the one who was happiest about my solo. So I think that was my connection with him.

Certainly also because Jean Cébron is known for having developed his own very personal style, which is also connected to Balinese and Indonesian dance. So perhaps on that level there was an artistic connection between the two of you. We’ll go on.

So, during these years at Folkwang, there is always the possibility to come and see performances in Wuppertal, dress rehearsals. What did you see? Did anything stay in your mind — what was that experience like?

Well, I saw a lot of Pina’s pieces, because as a student at Folkwang we could always watch the general rehearsals for free, since there is a connection between Folkwang and Pina. When I arrived, it was the transition period from Pina as director to Lutz. So it was a transition — Lutz was always there, but Pina sometimes came to watch performances or to watch the examinations.
So yes, I watched many performances. The first thing I saw — I was in the second year — was Palermo Palermo. I didn’t like it. It was like: ‘I see this and I don’t understand it. Are they all crazy? I don’t know why they are doing this or that. They are all crazy. What is this?’ Because I was still so much in the classical ballet world.
Then there was an intermission between the first and second part. I remember I had a friend in my class, an Italian girl. She asked me: ‘So, do you like it?’ I said: ‘No. I don’t understand anything. I don’t know what they are doing. I think they are all crazy.’ And she said: ‘You don’t have to understand. Just watch.’
Wow. Okay. She said I didn’t have to think why it was like this or that. So I tried. In the second part I just watched. I didn’t think anymore. I didn’t make it so intellectual. And after the performance was over, I liked it. If I just watched without thinking so much — why they do this, why they do that — I liked it. I don’t know, there was something that made me feel something.
This was the first Pina Bausch piece I saw while at Folkwang. I didn’t even remember that ‘Sacre’ from before. I didn’t know that Folkwang had this connection with Pina, and that The Rite of Spring I had seen in Indonesia was hers. I didn’t remember that — it wasn’t important for me then.
The second piece I saw was Iphigenie auf Tauris. And there I fell in love with the movement. ‘Ah, now I understand why so many students want to work with Pina.’ From Iphigenie auf Tauris I can also say: I want to work with Pina. It was so wonderful, so beautiful. All this movement — I felt so connected to it. I was still in my transition from ballet to modern, but I always loved beautiful movement. From there I started to change my mind and think: ‘I like Pina, and I want to work with her.’
But okay, that was the second year. After that, of course, over the years, I watched many other pieces. I remember Nelken very well. I remember laughing so much. I was in the first row, and Lutz was onstage — he liked me, and he saw me laughing, and he stared at me, and then I laughed even more.
I remember Bandoneon. The first entrance was with Janusz Subicz. He didn’t do anything — he just entered the room — and I started laughing. I don’t know why. He didn’t do anything, just entered, and I laughed. What is this?
And then I remember watching Auf dem Gebirge hat man ein Geschrei gehört, Bluebeard. While Listening to a Tape Recording of Béla Bartók’s Opera “Duke Bluebeard’s Castle” with Beatrice Libonati and Jan Minařík. And I think I also saw the ‘Madrid Piece’ [Tanzabend II]. I watched other things too, but I don’t remember all the titles now. I watched many performances.

After you graduated, what happened? What was your next move or your next possibility?

We had, every year, this prize for the best student of the year — from the fourth class. I received this prize. Before me, Rainer Behr also received it, and Ruth Amarante as well, from the Josef und Else Classen Stiftung.
Still, my dream — like many at Folkwang — was to work with Pina. To do that, I had to audition. But for me, the closest and most realistic thing was to work in FTS, the Folkwang Tanzstudio, because it was right there. As a student, they already looked like adults to me — real professional dancers. I had never been a professional dancer, so for me it was a big thing to be at FTS. So my dream was to go and work at FTS.
For that, I had to audition, and the audition was here in the Lichtburg with Pina. And I didn’t know that at that moment she was also looking for a dancer for the company — at the same time as the audition for FTS.
I remember Pina and Lutz sitting next to her. I auditioned for FTS, and I got the job. I got into FTS and started working there. I was so happy — my dream came true. I became a dancer. I was happy to be able to work; I was finally a dancer.
One month later, suddenly, Susanne Linke asked me to come with her to Bremen — she was going to be the new director there. She said I still had to audition, but not to decide whether she would take me or not — only to compare me with the others, for size and everything. She and Urs Dietrich, her partner, both wanted me to come to Bremen. But I had only been at FTS for one month, and I was very happy. And I still dreamed of working with Pina.
In my simple mind, if you were in FTS, then afterwards you would surely go to Pina. Which is not actually how it works — but I didn’t know that, in my simple mind.
I was confused. So I went to Lutz: ‘I don’t know what to do. Because Susanne Linke wants me to come to Bremen. She and Urs Dietrich already made a duet for me, made a solo for me, but actually I want to work with Pina.’
He said: ‘Okay. You are too young.’
I was already twenty‑seven, but maybe I looked young.
And then he said something very important for me:
‘It is very important to work with someone who really wants to work with you.’
And this I understood. Because if someone really wants to work with you, then you will get a solo role, you will be important in the piece. But if you go to someone you want to work with, maybe you are just in the group, or something like that, and it is more effort.

You had a contract with the FTS. You could not just break the contract. How did you manage that?

Yes. First, I had this conversation with Lutz, and I believed him. He is my guru. He helped me so much during my Folkwang years. He is really my favourite teacher. And I said: ‘Okay, with a heavy heart, I will go to work with Susanne Linke. But you will see — in five or ten years I will work with Pina. I will come to Pina.’ And it is really true — six years later I started working with Pina.
But to answer your question: I had only been one month in the FTS, so I still had to finish the one‑year contract. At FTS you can stay for three years, but I had to complete the first year. And then we all moved to Bremen, because Susanne Linke was also the choreographer at FTS. She had not yet started in Bremen, but after one year we all moved there together.

So you left FTS after one year to join Susanne Linke in Bremen. And before that, you challenged yourself — or you challenged Lutz, or the world, or fate — that you would be back here in Wuppertal working with Pina. While you were in Bremen, how did you get in contact? What happened there?

While I was in Bremen, I still had in my mind that I wanted to work with Pina. I didn’t want to watch any of Pina’s pieces — because it hurt. I actually wanted to be there. So I didn’t want to watch anything until 1999. By then, it was no longer a good moment for me in Bremen. I didn’t like it anymore. I still wanted Pina. Bremen was no longer exciting for me.
Then there was a performance of Der Fensterputzer. I went with a colleague, an assistant of Susanne Linke, to watch Der Fensterputzer — the first time after six years. After that it was clear: ‘I have to come here. I have to work with Pina.’ Oh, I fell in love with all the dancers. They looked so beautiful. The piece was beautiful. Everything touched me. It hurt to watch. So the wish became even stronger.
Then I started to think: ‘What should I do?’
I had a friend from my FTS time, Nayoung Kim, and she was already with Pina. Again the same thing: if Nayoung can, why can’t I? I always had this rivalry — which is actually good for me, because I am very shy. We were friends at FTS.
So I called Nayoung and said I wanted to visit her. I came here — five hours by train from Bremen, a cheap train. And I said to her: ‘I really want to work with Pina. I don’t know what to do.’ And she said: ‘The only thing you should do is talk to Pina. She has to know this. How can you work with her if she doesn’t know?’
So I did it the next day. She told me: ‘Go to the Tanztheater office.’
I arrived at 10:00 in the morning, but the office door was still closed. So I waited, sitting on the stairs, because I couldn’t open the door. It was probably too early. After waiting a while, suddenly I heard someone calling from downstairs: ‘Hallo! Hallo!’ Carrying something heavy, putting it down on the stairs, calling for help. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know who it was. I just sat there.
Then the noise came closer and closer. And suddenly, in front of me — Pina appeared!
And from nervousness — I am really a very shy person by nature — I just spoke very fast:
‘Pina, I want to work with you. I was in FTS. I worked with Susanne Linke for six years. I just want to talk with you. Ten minutes. Ten minutes. Can I talk with you?’
Just like that, very fast.
She looked at me, with my big bag from Bremen.
Okay. She said: ten minutes.
She opened the office door with her key. I went inside — my first time in the Tanztheater office. Nobody was there. Many rooms, but nobody. I think I was the first one there — alone with Pina. What a chance! And because I am shy, this was very good for me. If there had been people around, I would have hesitated more. But I was alone with Pina. It was perfect.
She brought me into her office. I told her I wanted to work with her. She asked for my telephone number and my address, and gave me a piece of paper. I wrote in big letters so she would remember my name and my number. Then she hugged me, and I went back to Bremen.
I couldn’t believe that Pina Bausch hugged me. When I came in 1999, the company was already very famous. Pina was very famous — a star. Everyone was a star. I couldn’t imagine that this famous person hugged me.
And then nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.
Once, I remember Urs Kaufmann called me. He said they were going to perform The Rite of Spring. And if I had time, I could learn ‘Sacre’. I could come to Folkwang, because they were going to teach ‘Sacre’ at Folkwang. So I took two weeks off. I came to Folkwang to learn ‘Sacre’. Urs said: come only if you have time. We will be very happy if you can come and learn ‘Sacre’.
So I thought: I will just learn for two weeks, and then I will go back to Bremen. I didn’t know that it was not only for two weeks — that it should continue afterwards, that I should continue rehearsals in Wuppertal until the performance. But he didn’t say that. He only said: if you have time, we are happy if you learn ‘Sacre’.
So I came back after two weeks of learning ‘Sacre’ at Folkwang — and that was it. Nothing happened. There was no continuation.
But then, luckily, I saw in my ballet magazine — Ballet International or Tanz Aktuell, one of those magazines with many auditions listed — that there would be an audition for Pina Bausch in March 2000. So yes!

I auditioned — again here in this room, with 300 dancers. But I didn’t know that Pina was actually looking for a tall dancer, because Chrystel Guillebeaud was leaving, or had already left. So she was looking for a tall dancer. And I, with my 1.50 metres, came with my confidence — in dance I am always confident. I knew I already had all this experience. I had been in Bremen, in the Folkwang Tanzstudio, and in Indonesia I had danced so much. I had come a long way in dance. So I just did the audition.
And then she selected seven people out of the 300. I was one of the seven chosen dancers. And we had to come again one month later. Actually, it should have been sooner, but she asked the seven of us: ‘When can you come again?’ I was still in Bremen, and we still had a South American tour — Mexico, Bogotá, Caracas. So she waited until I came back from the South American tour. That meant the next audition with the seven dancers was in April 2000.
So I did this audition, and afterwards she spoke with each of us individually. She said to me: ‘Yes, I like you very much. You have a very good quality. You have a very good personality.’ And she repeated that — the good quality only once, but ‘good personality’ she repeated several times. ‘But you are too small,’ she said. ‘Maybe for a solo it is possible, but if I put you in the group, it can be complicated.’
Then she said something good: ‘But let me think. Maybe I have to think differently. Maybe not all the dancers have to be the same size. Maybe some can be big, small, like this, like that (shows). Let me think. Maybe I have to change the way I think. So call me. I will think about it. It can be complicated, but for example, Rainer Behr — do you know Rainer Behr?’
‘Of course I know Rainer Behr from Folkwang. I was in the first year when Rainer was in the fourth year, and I know him very well. I also worked in one of his pieces when we were in FTS.’
Pina said: ‘I also thought with Rainer it would be difficult, complicated. But in the end it was no problem. So let me think. Maybe I have to change the way I see it. So call me. Maybe I will make a decision, maybe not — you can call anytime.’
Of course, call the office. Urs Kaufmann was the assistant in the office at that time.
So I called. I called. I called. There was always no decision. ‘Pina hasn’t made a decision.’ For three months — April until June — I called many times. During that time I did other auditions. I did four different auditions, and three of them accepted me. Still no answer from Pina. But I always said no, even if they wanted to work with me — in my mind I only wanted to work with Pina.
But after so many calls, Urs Kaufmann felt bad for me. And he said: ‘Look, I will give you Pina’s telephone number at home. But don’t say that I gave it to you. You can call Pina directly.’ He felt bad that I always called and got no answer. But I never called. I couldn’t call.
Until one day — 14 June 2000. I was already sleeping at home. I wasn’t working anymore because I thought: I want to stop dancing. I don’t want to dance anymore. I want to go back to Indonesia. I want to work with disabled children. I was so sad. I also had personal problems. I didn’t like the work in Bremen anymore. So I thought: I will go back to Indonesia. I don’t want to dance anymore.
I had already made up my mind, and I was already happy. I had been in a depression, but I had found another way to live. I was in a very good mood, because I knew I wanted to go back to Indonesia and I had everything planned. That day I thought: ‘Tomorrow I will send all my money to Indonesia and buy a one‑way ticket to go back.’
Then that morning, suddenly the telephone rang at 9:00. I was still in bed because I didn’t go to ballet training anymore. Normally I never answered the telephone, but that day — I don’t know why — I picked it up. And it was Urs Kaufmann. He called from Paris, because they were performing Wiesenland there.
He said: ‘Pina wants to work with you.’
And my answer was: ‘No.’
Because I wasn’t thinking about this anymore. I wanted to go to Indonesia. ‘But I want to go to Indonesia,’ I said. That was my first reaction.
‘Pina wants to work with you because Ruth Amarante is pregnant, and she wants you to learn the solo of 'Sacre'. You should learn Der Fensterputzer, Ruth’s part. So you have to learn this solo and this solo.’
Suddenly I was a dancer again — but I didn’t say that. He asked me to come to Paris to learn the solo of ‘Sacre’ — the Chosen One — for a few days. I couldn’t say anything. But when I put the telephone down, I walked in circles in my small apartment:
‘No, no — I’m a dancer again, I’m a dancer again.’
I really didn’t think I would ever dance again. For me it was over.

I asked on the telephone: ‘Why now?’ And Urs Kaufmann said: ‘Ruth Amarante is three months pregnant. Later she cannot show it anymore. So that’s why you have to come now — for as long as she can still show it.’
So I came to Paris, maybe for five days. Then I had to go back to Bremen, because I still had my contract there. The contract ended in July, and this was June when they called me. So I still had my last performances in Bremen. Then I came back again to Paris for three days, to continue learning ‘Sacre’ and Ruth’s solo in Der Fensterputzer. Always back and forth.
I learned the solo of ‘Sacre’ together with Silvia Farias Heredia, and later also with Azusa Seyama.

Did you eventually dance the role?

Yes. I danced the role. I am very lucky, because we were three girls learning it: me, Azusa and Silvia. And I was the only one who had never done The Rite of Spring before. The others had already danced in the group. They had both studied at Folkwang, and ‘Sacre’ always needs more people anyway. So Pina used to take some guests from the school or from FTS to dance in the group. They had already performed in the group.
So I was the only one who had never danced ‘Sacre’ — and I had to learn directly the solo of the Chosen One.
She chose me and Azusa.
After many rehearsals, she asked the three of us to come to the table and talk. She said that because we didn’t have much time — only ten days until the premiere — she had to reduce the number of people. Three were too many. So she asked me and Azusa to learn it.
I remember I was sitting like this (shows), because I was so afraid. She asked me: ‘Are you cold? What do you think?’ And I said: ‘For me, it is like a present from the sky. I can’t believe it. I have never danced 'Sacre'. I have never danced on the earth. I have never danced with the dress showing the breast.’ For me, I had no words for this.

So, it was in June when I learned ‘Sacre’. I came officially into the company in August 2000. My first performance was in October, I think
And then — my first shock.
At that time Julie Shanahan and Barbara Kaufmann were still dancing. They were stars for me. Completely. I am not exaggerating when I say ‘stars’. I remember my first time in the studio: one dancer walked in, and it was Julie Shanahan. I gasped. Then Beatrice Libonati came in. They were truly stars for me — and I had to dance the solo among all these stars.

I will never forget this.
The thing is: the day before the dress rehearsal — there is always dress rehearsal, final dress rehearsal, premiere — I was sick. I had a fever. I was really sick because I had no time to rest. I had never danced ‘Sacre’ before. I had learned the solo, but I still had to learn the group parts. I had to learn the whole piece.
We worked from ten in the morning until ten in the evening, with a lunch break from two until six. And from two until six I had to go to Folkwang to continue learning the group part, then come back here to continue rehearsals from six until ten with Pina. We did ‘Sacre’ morning and evening. In the lunch break I had to catch the train to Folkwang to learn the group part. So I had no time to eat. I was running and eating a cheese sandwich. No time to rest, no time even to eat.
So I had a fever the day before the dress rehearsal. I remember I went to bed at five in the afternoon. I had no energy to cook anything — I just made a clear soup, drank it, and went to bed.
The next day was the dress rehearsal. I was scheduled to do it. I was still very weak, but at least I no longer had a fever. And then I danced the solo — after having a fever the day before. I am sure I didn’t dance well. I had no energy, and I was doing everything for the first time. In the solo, at a certain moment you secretly open the dress so that you dance with one breast exposed. I forgot. I was overwhelmed. The lights, the earth, the movement — it was all so difficult for me.
Because Pina’s movement has so much to do with the arms and the legs. And before, with Susanne Linke, we only had the feet, the legs, the footwork — nothing with the upper body. So it was a huge challenge for me. The technique was so difficult. And on the earth — which is always shifting under you.
So I danced. I think I was not very good. And after the dress rehearsal Pina called me. I remember Ruth Amarante was there, and her assistants Robert Sturm, Marion Cito, Peter Pabst. And Pina was very angry. Very angry. Pina never raised her voice, but the way she spoke to you…
She said: ‘If you dance like this, I will never let you go onstage. And why didn’t you open the dress?’
‘I forgot,’ I said.
‘And why do you dance like this?’
I was new, I was too afraid of Pina. I couldn’t say that I had had a fever the day before. That I had been sick. It was already good that I could dance at all that day — but I couldn’t say it. I just said: ‘I wanted to save my energy.’
That made her even angrier.
She said: ‘You cannot save energy in this piece. You will never, never save your energy. And don’t think that you have to look beautiful.’
I didn’t think I had to look beautiful — but I didn’t know what she meant.
She said: ‘If you dance like this, I will not let you dance onstage. So tomorrow, after the dress rehearsal, you have to do it one more time.’
Imagine: after ‘Sacre’ you are already dead. Especially when you dance the solo — even more so. I know this because later, when I had to share the role, I danced only the group, and I was not tired at all. But to dance ‘Sacre’ with the solo — I think everyone should try it once. You really die. It was my first time.
So the next day, after the dress rehearsal, I had to dance the solo again. I was onstage; the others were already taking showers. I remember I was shaking like this (shows) onstage. And Pina said: ‘Why are you so afraid? It’s only us.’
Well — because it’s only you.
There were five people, all in black: Pina Bausch, Marion Cito, Robert Sturm, Peter Pabst. All in black. Standing there in the auditorium. And I was standing like this. I didn’t say anything.
They put on the music, and I just released myself (shows). I was scared. So I gave everything.
Afterwards I wanted to vomit. I was on the floor, on all fours, on my knees, wanting to vomit because I was so tired. Pina came onstage and patted my shoulder. And she said: ‘Much better. Much better.’
I will never forget it.
Since that time I am traumatised by dancing ‘Sacre’. People say: ‘You are the soloist, you take a bow alone, you bring Pina onstage.’ But I don’t want to dance it. I don’t need this. I was so traumatised, so afraid. I don’t know — I don’t like to suffer, even for such an important role.
But of course it is big — especially for a new person. To bring Pina onstage and take the applause alone.

There’s always this thing about never marking, always dancing full out. Is that something you carried with you throughout the years you worked with Pina?

Me, yes. Actually, I don’t like marking in rehearsal, because I think: if I mark, why do I have to come here? I could also mark at home. I am a hard worker. I think I reached this level not because of my talent — maybe there is talent — but because I work really hard. I am a hard worker, sometimes a workaholic.
I know this because before performances, for example, I used to dance my solo three times — full out, three times — and that is too much. Afterwards, in the performance, I was too tired. I’m not talking about ‘Sacre’, but other pieces, like For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow or others. If I had three solos and danced them three times, then in the performance I was exhausted.
I saw Dominique, for example — before performances he only marked his dance. Only the placement: going here, going there. But in the performance he danced wonderfully. So actually it is possible. But because of my insecurity, I thought I could not dance well if I didn’t rehearse many times. And actually it was too much. It doesn’t have to be like that.

Did it change throughout the years? Do you see yourself being able to pace your energy now?

Yes. Because one thing happened in a performance of For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow. There is a moment when I have to wait — Dominique Mercy, Fernando Suels Mendoza and me. And I was like this (shows). I was so tired. And Dominique saw me and asked: ‘What happened?’
‘I’m so tired, I am exhausted.’
And it was just the first part — not even finished yet.
We always warmed up together. I liked to warm up onstage alone: warm up and rehearse my solo. And Dominique was always there too, marking his solo. Then he said to me: ‘Yes, because you are stupid. Why do you have to do your dance three times before the performance? It’s not about that. The moment is what is important.’ He said: The moment.
And of course, I saw Dominique always marking his solo in the warm‑up. But when he danced, it was always fantastic. He was my teacher at Folkwang, he is much older than me. He has this experience — I had to believe him. Yes, he was right.
From that time on, I didn’t dance my solo three times anymore — only once, but always full out. And now, because I am older, I reduce again, because I don’t have the same energy as when I was young. So before the performance I half‑mark my dance. What is important is that I dance the whole movement, half‑marking, with the right placement — because I have to know it, and really go through all the movement.
And it is possible. And in the performance I still dance very well.
So it is like Dominique says: it is about the moment. You give everything in the moment.

Your first creation together with Pina was Água. Can we talk about that? How was the research time and what did you do there?

My first creation with Pina Bausch was Água. I came in 2000, Água was created in 2000, and the premiere was in 2001. I was very fresh from Bremen. I was very happy. Young for that age. I was thirty‑two when I auditioned, so I was thirty‑three when I started here — which is actually not young for dancers, but for me, I felt young at thirty‑three. I was really happy.
I remember that in the beginning Jan Minařík was also in the creation process, before he left. I liked him because he was always very kind to me. When I came to Paris with my small suitcase to learn the Chosen One, he helped me carry my suitcase to the hotel. He was very caring. And I remember that during the creation I asked him to do something with me. I remember Pina smiling, because Jan was a big star, and I — this small person — was asking him to do something with me. I think she was happy to see that.
I remember a movement question that Pina always asked — I love creating movement. When Pina asks you a movement question, the answer doesn’t have to be long, just a small phrase, but it has to be very good. But I have the tendency to create a lot of movement. I remember when she asked ‘sky’. To write ‘sky’. And I moved like this (shows) — on the floor, all over. I remember she said: ‘I asked only “sky”. A short word “sky”. And you still make a long phrase?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just my nature. I just love this. I don’t know.’
So that was my thing: creating movement. I always created long phrases.
Many of us didn’t go on the research trip, because it was only for five people. The research was in Bahia, and to go from São Paulo to Bahia you take a small airplane — there was no space for so many of us. I think we were twenty‑something in Água, so only five people went. She chose five dancers: Dominique Mercy, Fernando Suels Mendoza, Rainer Baehr, Julie Shanahan and Michael Strecker. I remember she said: ‘Oh, not the new dancers.’ It was very hard for her to decide who would come with her. Of course everybody wanted to go. I didn’t have this desire, because I was new and just happy to be here. So she said: first, not the new people. We were some new people at that time: me, Azusa Seyama, Silvia Farias Heredia, Anna Wehsarg and Mélanie Maurin. She chose the five older dancers who were closer to her.
There is one moment in the piece — she asked me during rehearsal in the Lichtburg. After the last audition she had already asked me if I could dance Indonesian traditional dance. And I said: ‘Yes, I can.’ And for Água she asked me again: ‘Ditta, can you dance Indonesian traditional dance? Can you show me?’
I said yes, but not when everybody was there. I only wanted to show her, nobody else. She knew I was very shy, so she said: ‘Okay, we wait until the dancers go home.’
So after rehearsal, in the afternoon, when the dancers left the room, only me and Pina remained. I showed her: ‘Okay, Pina, this is Balinese, and this is Javanese dance, and this is Sumatra (shows). This is Sulawesi — I dance again Sulawesi — and this is Jaipongan.’ I showed her all of this, and she said: ‘Ditta, what is it that you don’t know?’
Then she asked me: ‘Have you ever danced Balinese in a piece?’
‘No.’
‘You never did that?’ She wanted to be sure.
‘No, I never danced it.’
‘Can you imagine dancing Balinese in this piece?’
I said: ‘But I don’t have the music. I thought it should be with Balinese music.’
But she said: ‘No, you don’t need the music.’
‘Oh… okay.’
I didn’t know what to say — but Pina wanted me to dance Balinese.
It was lunch break. In the evening rehearsal, because she had already told me that tonight I had to dance Balinese, I told Rainer — he's been a friend: ‘I don’t know what to do, because Pina wants me to dance Balinese. I don’t know what to do. There is no music.’
And he said: ‘You just make people want to dance with you.’
Oh — okay. Then that is what I will think. It was good that I asked. They were all senior dancers, people with more experience.
So then Pina said: ‘Now.’ She put on the music — Caetano Veloso — and I had to dance Balinese to it. I was so surprised. I didn’t know Balinese with Caetano Veloso music. But I remembered what Rainer said: ‘Just make people want to dance with you.’
So I improvised, danced, even with laughter (shows). I saw Pina smiling behind the table, and she made this pose (shows). She smiled — and it was good, because I wanted to make people dance with me, and Pina was dancing with me.
So that was how I came to dance Balinese in Água. That was my part.

So, at this point, there’s the question of when somebody else had to do it for you. How did you teach them or help them? Because you’re trained in that — it’s something your body knows instantly, your muscles remember. How did you teach that to somebody else?

You mean only for this Balinese thing?

Oh yes — all of these things that you do, that are very special to you.

Well, for this Balinese thing, for example, of course it was difficult because I was improvising. But I was improvising with movements that were already in my body. I learned Balinese dance for years, and it just comes naturally. I know exactly what to move — even if the order is improvised, the movement vocabulary is like ballet: it is always the same movement, and you make different combinations. So it was improvisation, except that I created a structure. In the piece, the spacial placement is important. I go first here, then there — that structure has to stay the same. But the movement itself is improvised.
So when I had to teach this to another dancer — Tsai‑Wei Tien — of course it was difficult. She cannot improvise; she never learned Balinese. So I taught her the basic things first: the hand must be at the height of the eyes, the left hand must be at the height of the chest, the elbows lifted like this (shows), the fingers flexed like this — and if you can, you move them like this – even better, and there is always a moment when you look and flick like this (shows), you have to rehearse your eyes with one fingertip like this.
Then I created short phrases for her — little Balinese movement phrases she had to remember. She learned all these phrases, and then tried to combine them: after this comes that, then this. So she made an ‘improvisation’, but actually not much of an improvisation.

Then in the 2001/02 season there was ‘Iphigenie auf Tauris’ again. Did you learn it then? [Yes.]
Something that was very attractive to you — you had to learn these movements from Pina. Then there was another creation, For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow. Can you tell us about that creation?

Oh yes — wow. My favourite pieces are For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow and Vollmond, because they are not co‑productions. I love that. And also because they don’t have so many dancers. I think only eleven dancers are in ‘Kinder’. Also ‘Vollmond’ — in the beginning we were only eleven. The other pieces of Pina have about twenty dancers. I think Nefés was the last time she had twenty; after that she reduced it to about sixteen or eighteen dancers — which is still a lot.
I love ‘Kinder’. I have three solos, which is really a privilege. I am very glad that Pina loved my solos, and she always asked me after the first: ‘Can you make one more? Can you make one more?’ And I always asked: ‘Do you want it fast or slow?’ That is important for me. For example she said: ‘Slow.’
‘And do you want it happy or sad?’ I asked.
Or she gave a theme — like in Nefés she said: ‘Can you make another solo about Sehnsucht [longing]?’ But that was Nefés.
Well, the first solo was also a story. At that time I had a problem with my stomach. I had a myoma — big like a baby’s head. The doctor said it was a thousand‑gram myoma. It was in and around the uterus. A normal uterus weighs only fifty grams, and mine was one thousand grams. So from fifty to one thousand — that is a big extra thing. I had to have a big operation. I was ten days in the hospital, and Pina called me every day.
That gave me inspiration for my movement in the dance, because my first movement in ‘Kinder’ was like this (shows): I go like this, and then like this. I thought: ‘I take this myoma, I pull it up, and I cut the myoma.’ I made it into movement. I know Pina fell in love with this dance. For me, I always have to dance starting from the emotion — and then the movement.
After this dance was ready, she asked me: ‘Can you make another dance? Now a quick dance — it doesn’t have to be so long, but quick.’ And for me, crazy as I am, and because I love to make movement, after she asked me in the afternoon, I stayed during the three‑hour lunch break and created the movement. In the evening I already showed her the dance. Everybody was surprised — so quickly! She asked, but she didn’t mean that I should show it that day. It could have been next week or something. But I stayed three hours, and in the evening I already had the dance — because I am quick.
She liked it immediately. And then she asked again: ‘Can you make another dance? Now a slow dance, as a memory of the first.’ So that was my third dance — the memory of my first dance. I took some elements from the first dance and made them a little different. Maybe the same arms with different legs, or the same legs with different arms, different hands — something like that. I took the movement from the first dance and changed it for the third dance.
So that was my experience.

For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow was restaged in Munich. So you had to teach these three solos to other people. How did you start? I mean, it’s so personal — it was about your life, your fears, everything that had to happen there. How did you approach that? How did you teach the young woman who had to do it?

Yes. In the audition everybody had to learn the same dance, then we chose two or three people. And for my role, in the beginning, we actually had three dancers. But it was too difficult for me to teach all three, because I cannot look at three people at once. So I always asked them to do it one by one, and then I corrected one, and then the next. It takes a lot of time. Three people were too many.
So I said to Ruth Amarante — because she was leading this project — that three were too many. I didn’t know where to look, and it took too much time to correct each of them individually. And I couldn’t put them all together, because then they couldn’t see properly. So we reduced it to two people.
These two dancers — one came from the corps de ballet, and the other was a first soloist. They had to work together. And actually, the one from the ballet danced even better than the first soloist. Which was surprising. Later I heard someone say that this dancer was considered the ‘worst’ in the ballet — but she was the best for my role. Amazing.
Because to dance my part, you don’t need classical technique — even though there are classical elements, because I also come from classical training. But what is more important is that you can be free from that technique. Otherwise you cannot do it. If you think about the knee, you cannot do the hips. You have to let go. You have to enjoy it. You have to get the emotion first — and then you move anyway like that, if you have the right emotion. I believe this.

In the 2003/04 season there was another co‑production, Ten Chi. Can we talk about the research time, the creation, and what you do in it?

For us dancers, I think we simply take in what we see during the research, because we visit many places. Sometimes we only do research. Sometimes, if it is not in a temple or on a mountain — if it is in Tokyo — we have rehearsals in the evening or in the afternoon, and the rest of the time is for research. Pina gives us questions. What we bring into the improvisation are our impressions of Japan — what we feel, what we absorb from being there.
My impression is that — maybe I am right, maybe I am wrong — Ten Chi is a very lonely piece. There is always only one person onstage. One person feels lonely. And I think Pina did this because Japanese people are lonely people. They are very busy, very polite, but somehow lonely.
We saw that — for example, in a small supermarket like 7‑Eleven. They wear very proper clothes, but they are not ashamed to take a Playboy magazine and look at porn. They are somehow so lonely. Why do they need that? I think Pina also had this impression. And also, they don’t connect with us the way people do in South America (laughs). So I think this is what Pina took for this piece.
I have two solos — one at the start of the piece, the slow dance, and the other at the start of the second part, the quick dance.
For the first one, it was the first time I had to change the whole solo again and again — three times. It was the first time Pina didn’t like what I showed her immediately. Because until then, in every piece I created with Pina, the first time I showed her something, she liked it directly and changed nothing until the stage. The other dancers always had to change or work on everything until we came to the stage. But for me, normally, the first version was accepted.
But in Ten Chi I felt the pressure — that over the years I had made beautiful dances, so this one had to be good. And the more pressure I felt, the more difficult it became. So I had to change the whole solo three times. Three times. Of course I used the same material — because that is what we collect during the process — but I changed the whole solo three times.
It was the first time it was so hard for me.

Interesting. Do you remember what she said after the first one? Did she give directions — happy, quicker, slower, sad, happier? Is it too much to ask?

No, there is something there. Because I became completely crazy after I showed it. She didn’t like it, and I had to change it. So I stayed again, working during the break, when everyone else went home to rest. But I stayed here to work on it. And then I showed it again — and still it wasn’t enough. Again! I had to show it again.
Once I remember saying to Pina: ‘Pina, I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.’
And she looked at me and said: ‘Do you know the mountain of problems I have in my office?’
Because at the same time there was a Pina festival. So of course everybody came to Pina — all these international people. She said: ‘There is a mountain of papers in my office, with problems I have to solve. I am also lost.’
So I thought: okay, my problem is nothing — it is only the dance. And Pina has a mountain of problems because of the festival happening at the same time.

In the 2004/05 season we had another co‑production: Rough Cut. Can you talk a little about that one?

Rough Cut was a problem for me. Because until then, I had been in all the new creations — and that is not normal. Usually people alternate: one year they do it, the next year they don’t. Pina chooses someone for maybe two years, and then they are out. She cannot have all dancers in one piece; she always has to choose.
I put myself under enormous pressure. After all those years of always being in the new creation, I couldn’t imagine not being in one. I was so scared that Pina wouldn’t take me after Ten Chi. Because from Ten Chi to Rough Cut — from Japan to Korea — is not such a big difference. So I was afraid Pina wouldn’t want me in the new creation for ‘Rough Cut’.

I sort of skipped talking about Nefés. But there is something about Nefés, right before this experience of Rough Cut. And it is very interesting, because it has to do with teaching your material to other people. Can you talk a little about that? Who was it? What was it? Why and when?

Nefés is a co‑production with Istanbul. I had two dances and one duet with Fernando Suels Mendoza — the first dance in the first part, and the other at the start of the second part. She asked me: ‘Can you make another dance?’ And this was the one where she gave me the theme of Sehnsucht — longing.
So I started working on it after my first dance was finished. We were already rehearsing in the Opera House. Whenever I wasn’t needed onstage, I went out into the lobby in front of the small mirror. And I started thinking about this word: Sehnsucht. I always need to find the emotion first, and then the movement. So I asked myself: if I feel this longing, how do I move? What does the body do when it longs for something?
So I began the dance like this (shows). That was the beginning of the scene. And I finished it in one week, during these breaks. Every time I wasn’t onstage, I went out and created movement.
Then Pina asked me: ‘Do you think you can show your dance?’
‘Yes,’ I said. For me the most difficult thing is remembering it — because when you create movement, you don’t necessarily remember it. ‘I hope I remember the movement.’ I thought a lot about it, but the dance was already there.
I showed it to Pina, and she liked it immediately. It was still the time when she always liked my first version.
One year later, there was a Pina Festival, and she wanted a flamenco dancer — Eva Yerbabuena — to learn my second dance in Nefés, the Sehnsucht dance. She said my dance looked like flamenco. I don’t know why, but she made this connection — maybe because there are many movements like this (shows). I did learn flamenco at Folkwang. The teacher liked me very much and wanted me to become a flamenco dancer — but that is another story. I wanted to dance Tanztheater.
It’s funny that Pina said this — that my dance had something to do with flamenco. I use a lot of arms like this (shows), but I wasn’t thinking about flamenco. For me, it was more the energy of Balinese dance that is similar to flamenco — because it has this quick‑quick‑quick and slow pattern (shows). There is this inner tension that is similar to flamenco. Flamenco also has this toro — they take from the animal energy, not the movement. And Balinese dance also has this inner energy. So for me it came from that. But Pina connected it with flamenco.
So Eva had to learn my second dance from Nefés. And Eva invited me to come to Sevilla, her city, to learn flamenco. Because Pina’s idea was that Eva learns my second dance, and I change my first dance in Nefés into a flamenco style. So Eva invited me to Sevilla to learn flamenco and rehearse with her.
In the end she gave me a flamenco dress with a long tail — blue with dots. And I danced my first dance in Nefés changed into flamenco style: still the same movement, but with flamenco accents. My whole dance is like this (shows), and then suddenly maybe I do this — it shifts into flamenco style.
That was our exchange — and I think it was a wonderful idea from Pina.

I have one question there. Maybe it’s relevant, maybe not. When you said that you create the dance out of the feeling — first the Sehnsucht and then something else — is there a process for you when you perform, where you access that feeling in order to be able to perform it?

Actually, it’s a simple thing. I’m an emotional person, so it’s easy for me to take on emotions. That’s why I’m a dancer. I don’t have this logical way of thinking — I’m very much in the heart. It’s really just this: before I start, I need one second to breathe, and then the emotion comes.
So every time I go onstage, I never begin straight away. I arrive, breathe in, and then I start. In Vollmond you see it — I come onto the stage, wait for one second, and then begin. That is very important for me. Even in the quick dance in Ten Chi, for example, I start from outside the stage. Back then Peter Lütke — the stage manager — gave the cue: ‘Okay, go.’ And when he said ‘Go’, I didn’t go immediately. ‘Go.’ And I took that moment to breathe, and then I went onstage — suddenly happy. The second dance in Ten Chi is happy and quick.
I remember once Peter Lütke got a correction from Pina. She said: ‘Yes, this moment when Ditta has to start — you give the cue too late.’ And he said later in the notes: ‘The thing is, there is always this künstlerisches Atem — this artistic breath — before she starts something.’ But I need that. I cannot just start and go immediately. No — it has to come in, come inside. And then I begin. That is the only thing I do.

Were you cast to do Rough Cut?

Oh yes, I was cast for Rough Cut. But I was very afraid, because I had always been in the new creations. Every year — which is actually not normal. Not everybody can be in every piece, because Pina cannot make a work for all the dancers. We are more than thirty people. Normally, if someone is in a creation one year, then maybe not the next year, or there are two years in between. There is always a break between creations.
But since I came into the company — since Água, For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, Nefés, Ten Chi — I was always in the new creation, every year. So for the first time I had this fear that she wouldn’t take me. Rough Cut and Ten Chi — Korea and Japan — are not so different. So I really wasn’t sure I would be in the piece. But I was, and I was very happy about that.
Now, since Pina is no longer here, it has become normal. But before, it meant a lot for the dancers to be in the new creation, because it meant you were with Pina all the time. You worked the most, because you saw Pina every day. If you were not in the new piece, you were somehow “outside”. I know the dancers were always anxious when Pina had to announce who would join the new piece. And I know it was also difficult for Pina, because she felt the dancers’ energy.
We were all like: I hope I’m in the piece!
And I was in Rough Cut.

What do you do there? Is there something special in Rough Cut that you’d like to comment on for us?

How many dances do I have? One slow dance, one quick dance. There are a lot of small duets. And at the end, a little solo — but everyone comes in and out. The first dance is very long. It is eight and a half minutes. Eight and a half minutes — and Pina liked it immediately. I didn’t have to change anything. I showed it once, and she liked it. Wow. It’s such a relief when she likes it. Then you can relax. You don’t have to work any more, while the others are still trying. But not for me, because I finish quickly. When Pina liked my dance straight away, she asked again: ‘Can you make another quick dance, like this?’
My first dance was slow. I made it like this — long, stretched (shows). I created it deliberately in that way. And I don’t know — I got inspiration from the dying swan in Swan Lake. But Ditta’s dying swan, my version. I said to Pina: yes, that is my first solo, eight and a half minutes long.

I’d like to stay now with Vollmond. How was that creation for you in this season?

Wow. I love Vollmond so much. I love doing pieces that are not co‑productions. Because in co‑productions — even if we don’t say it openly — there is always an obligation to show only the good side of the country. Actually, it’s not only that; there is always good and bad. But Pina always shows the good part. That is how it feels for us dancers.
So when the piece is not a co‑production, like For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow and Vollmond, I love it so much. Especially because Vollmond is with water — and I love water. I am Cancer in the horoscope, so I love water. Everything with water — I really love it.
I remember once in rehearsal Pina said: ‘Okay, this one you do like this in the water, and this one…’ And I said: ‘Wonderful!’ Pina smiled and said: ‘She always says “wonderful”.’ Well, because I love water, and it makes me so happy to dance with water.
I remember there was this question from Pina: ‘Vollmond.’ I went home thinking: ‘Vollmond… oh God.’ Full moon. And I came up with the idea of a somnambulist — a sleepwalker. People who walk in their sleep. I thought: because of the full moon, they walk in their sleep. So I made this sleepwalker, and Pina created from that a whole scene for me — the sleepwalker scene in the second part, which I love very much.
It is actually very dangerous, because I have this dress that is very long — so long. And there is a trick to this dress. I have to have my eyes closed — or at least look as if they are closed. When I dance, I really close my eyes. But when I walk, I have to go up on the stone and then go down. And because the dress is so long, and wet, and heavy, I had to find a trick, otherwise I would always step on it. The dress is long in front and in the back. So I put part of the fabric between my toes — between the toes like this (shows). So I have to dance like this the whole time. You don’t see it, but I dance like this the whole time. Otherwise I step on the dress. It is very risky — if you step on it, or if during the lift I lose it, then it’s a problem, because afterwards you have no control over the dress.
It looks easy, but it actually has a lot of tricks.
Yes — but I love Vollmond. I think it is one of my liebling pieces.

We talked about many things, and I’d like to finish the interview today with the season of 2008/09. There is a creation, a co‑production in Santiago de Chile: “… como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí, sí, sí …”. Can you tell us something about that production?

Yes — a lot of things, actually. First, the research was the most beautiful, heart‑warming research I ever had. Even if Japan was beautiful, Chile was different. It was not only beautiful — it was also difficult, because we went to places where the dictator Pinochet had tortured people. And there was a woman who had experienced all of that, and she told us everything. All the things that were there, what happened, how they used these objects we saw. It was frightening, and such a hard story. Hard — but the people were so warm. Wow. We had never experienced such warmth, me and my colleagues.
We went to different places. We were in Santiago de Chile, we went into the mountains, and to the Valley of the Moon. Usually we always sleep in single rooms — everyone has their own room, or two people together, like in Japan in the shrine. But there, sometimes we had to sleep with five or six people in one room. We thought it would be a problem, because we could never imagine sleeping with so many people in one room. But it was such a wonderful experience. We slept in one room — five people, six people — and the atmosphere, the people, were just so heart‑warming.
And there were so many wonderful stories. For example, we were in a desert — the Valley of the Moon or something, I’m very bad with names — but it was amazing. In the desert we slid down the sand from the mountain. We just slid down the sand in the evening, with full moon! And the only light was the full moon. Oh my God. Everything was so wonderful. And the dance, and the food — so nice. Not knowing that it would be our last time with Pina. Now, when I think about that, it is even more sad. I get goosebumps.
In the piece I have two solos — a slow dance, my first, and then a quick dance. And I have a duet with Fernando Suels Mendoza — always Fernando. This duet is… well, many people created duets in that piece, and Fernando and I didn’t. Because we always had duets, ever since Folkwang. Our first duet was at Folkwang: I was in the first class, Fernando in the third, and Susanne Linke created a duet for my final exam with Fernando. Every year I had something with Fernando: in Ten Chi, in For the Children of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, we always did something together. So in the Chile piece we didn’t want to make something together.
Many people showed duets or movement phrases with two people — man and woman — to Pina. And Pina said: ‘No more duets. I don’t want to see any duet. Nothing now.’ But then she asked me and Fernando: ‘Can you make a duet?’
‘Why? We don’t even want to do that!’ It was strange — Pina said ‘No more duets’, too many for her — but then she asked us to make one.
So we were like an old couple. We rehearsed in the Schauspielhaus, and every lunch break we came to the Lichtburg to create the duet. We were always fighting — really like an old couple. ‘Why do you do this?’ ‘Don’t do that.’ We didn’t even want to work together; we had already done too much together. But in the end we showed it to Pina. She had requested it, so she must have liked what we did together. We showed it to her, and it is the only real duet she ever asked us to make.
Later Fernando told me that once she said to him — but he didn’t dare tell me at the time — ‘Can you say this to Ditta? It’s a correction. It’s a critique. Because I cannot say this to her.’ Because in the last days of a new creation I am always very sensitive, very emotional. Anything can make me cry. So she said to Fernando: ‘I cannot say this to Ditta. Can you say it to her? But don’t say that I told you.’ And later Fernando told me that Pina had asked him to give me a correction.

In the end it became a beautiful duet, and people liked it — but it was a fight to get there. Because we really are an old couple.
Then my first solo was ready, and we were rehearsing in the Schauspielhaus, and Pina called me so we could watch my solo together on a monitor. We watched it together, and then I was crying again. ‘I don’t like anything I do. I make everything the same. I don’t like it. I want to do something different. I don’t like what I do. I really don’t like it. Why do I always do the same? I want something different.’
And this is very important for me now, because it is the last important thing she said to me — that moment before she passed away. She looked at me, and she looked at me in such a strange way, and she said: ‘Are you crazy? I also think I always make the same thing. But when you look back, you don’t. When you look back at your first piece and this piece now — it is different.’
And she said: ‘You cannot change yourself from one day to another. It has to happen naturally. You can say: okay, I don’t want to do the same thing, I’ll do something different — but you can’t. It has come naturally, otherwise it won’t stay for long. Look at me — I also think I always make the same thing. I feel like I’m a bad choreographer, always making the same thing. But of course, when you look back, it’s not like that. Look at 'Sacre' and the Chile piece — they are totally different.’
And I can say the same: my dance in Água and my dance in the Chile piece are already different. This was something she told me — that I should not force myself to change from one day to another. Pina Bausch taught me that change has to come naturally.