With TABLERO, Mattia Russo and Antonio De Rosa transform movement into a living reflection on memory, collectivity, and human connection, creating a deeply emotional dialogue between bodies, space, fragility, and presence.
There is something deeply human in the way KOR’SIA approaches movement. Their work does not simply exist to be watched; it asks to be felt. Across the years, Mattia Russo and Antonio De Rosa have built a choreographic language where bodies become landscapes of memory, tension, fragility, and connection, places where emotion takes shape before words can fully explain it.
With TABLERO, created for the Compañía Nacional de Danza, they return to a space that once shaped them, both personally and artistically. But this is more than a return. It is a confrontation with memory, with collective identity, with the invisible structures that hold us together while simultaneously pushing us apart. Through moving architectures, shifting surfaces, and bodies in constant negotiation, TABLERO becomes a living system where nothing remains fixed for long.
What makes KOR’SIA’s work resonate so profoundly is their ability to transform abstraction into something intimate. Their pieces speak about society, about the present, about the way we inhabit the world, yet they always arrive through sensation first. Through skin, breath, weight, rhythm. In a time marked by speed, saturation, and disconnection, TABLERO invites us to pause and rediscover what it means to move together, to listen, and to exist in relation to one another.
TABLERO begins with a very concrete image, a shared surface. At what moment does that image become a choreographic question?
For us, the image of TABLERO already carries an implicit choreographic charge, but it does not truly activate until it stops being a representation and becomes a system of relationships.
The key moment happens when that shared surface stops being a “place” and becomes a “condition.” In other words, when the board no longer simply supports the action, but begins to organize, limit, and at the same time provoke it. At that point, the image stops being something we observe from the outside and starts generating behavior.
In that transition, the visual becomes structural: the body no longer illustrates the idea of the board, but constantly negotiates with it. And it is within that negotiation, between control and loss of control, between strategy and exposure, that the choreographic question appears.
For us, choreography begins precisely at that point of friction: when the image no longer answers, but questions; when it forces the performer to constantly decide what it means to exist within a shared system that changes with every gesture.
The piece speaks about identity and memory as collective constructions. What were you interested in exploring within that tension between the individual and the collective?
What interested us was precisely not separating those two dimensions, but observing how they constantly contaminate one another.
In TABLERO, identity is not understood as something individual and closed, but as something built in relation to others, to space, and to shared memory. The same happens with memory: it is not only personal, but also collective, something that activates and transforms when it is shared.
Returning to the CND, which was our home for many years, made that idea especially present from the very beginning of the process. We were not only working with individual bodies, but also with a shared memory, with a common history that inevitably runs through the creation.
From there emerges the tension we wanted to explore: how the individual tries to assert itself within a collective structure that conditions it, while at the same time that collective is constantly transformed by the individualities that compose it.
It is within that continuous movement between what is personal and what is shared that we feel the piece is truly built.
What does working with the idea of “territory” in the body mean to you? Is it something physical, symbolic, or emotional?
For us, “territory” in the body is all three things at once: physical, symbolic, and emotional. And they cannot be separated.
It is physical because the body occupies a concrete space, measures it, transforms it, and is also transformed by it. It is symbolic because that space is crossed by rules, codes, and systems of organization that are not always visible. And it is emotional because every body carries its own memory, experience, and sensitivity.
In TABLERO, this becomes very evident: the floor, the boards, and the architecture do not function merely as scenography, but as a changing territory that constantly forces the body to adapt.
What interests us most is precisely the moment when these three dimensions merge, and the body stops simply “existing within” a territory and begins constructing it in real time.
Your work often contains a very marked dramaturgy. How does the dialogue between movement, space, and narrative unfold here?
In TABLERO, the dramaturgy does not emerge from a linear narrative, but from the living relationship between movement and space.
The starting point is the space itself: the boards, their arrangement, their transformations, how they appear and disappear. They do not function as a background, but as an active element that organizes the action and forces movement to constantly adapt.
From there, movement does not illustrate a story, but responds to its environment while simultaneously modifying it. From that interaction emerge scenic situations that are built in real time.
Narrative then appears in a fragmented way, closer to memory than to a closed storyline. There is no single story, but rather an accumulation of images, metaphors, and tensions that transform throughout the piece.
What role does the scenography, that “board”, play in the choreography? Does it condition movement or provoke it?
TABLERO begins from a very concrete image: boards as a foundational element. Surfaces that, when joined together, construct a floor, a base from which to begin building, both in a literal and metaphorical sense.
We were interested in how that material could not only support the scene, but also reveal certain traces of a culture: its images, gestures, and even its sound. In that sense, the boards do not function merely as scenography, but as a living device, an architecture in motion.
They allow us to constantly transform the plane of the floor, alter the perception of space, and, with that, modify the relationships between bodies. This continuous change generates a living architecture in which choreography is built in layers: through tensions, relationships, and what appears and disappears.
They also introduce a temporal dimension, as if each spatial configuration left behind a different trace. The panels move like autonomous bodies: crossing paths, falling, concealing, and revealing, generating zones of tension and refuge.
In that sense, the scenography does not simply condition movement, it constantly provokes it, forcing the body to fragment, reorganize, and reinvent itself in relation to a space that never remains stable.
How was the process with the dancers of the Compañía Nacional de Danza? What changed compared to working with your own company?
The process with the dancers of the Compañía Nacional de Danza was intense and generous from the very beginning. We encountered a cast with strong technical foundations, but also with a genuine openness toward exploration, improvisation, and less rigid ways of working.
For us, it was especially meaningful because this was not a first encounter: it was a return to a place we know deeply, both personally and artistically. That creates a very particular relationship with the performers and with the entire team, almost as if we shared a collective memory.
The difference compared to working with our own company lies mainly in the starting point. With KOR’SIA, there is already a language that has been built over many years and feels very organic to everyone involved. At the CND, however, that language has to be activated in the present, negotiated with bodies and trajectories that are very diverse, and that opens up different possibilities.
We do not see that difference as a distance, but rather as a richness. With the CND, the process becomes one of constant discovery, whereas with KOR’SIA there is a familiarity that allows us to reach certain places more quickly. Here, instead, everything feels more immediate, more present, and in some way more unexpected.
Do you remember any particularly revealing or unexpected moment during the creation of TABLERO?
More than one specific moment, it was the entire process itself that felt revealing.
Returning to a place that was once our home, reconnecting with former colleagues, costume department, production, technicians, was deeply emotional. There is a very strong shared memory that accompanied the work from the very first day.
And regarding the dancers, it was a pleasure to work with a group so generous, so available, and so eager both to surprise themselves and to surprise us. That attitude made the process feel incredibly alive and open.
Perhaps the most special thing was precisely that: feeling that the entire environment of the CND was part of the creative process, not only as a context, but as an active part of the piece itself.
Your pieces often contain references to cinema, literature, or sculpture. Where does a new KOR’SIA creation usually begin?
We do not begin from a specific discipline, but from a need or an initial image that activates an investigation. Sometimes it is a very abstract idea; other times it is a highly physical material, as with the boards in TABLERO.
Cinema, literature, and sculpture are certainly part of our imagination, but not as direct or illustrative references. Rather, they appear as layers throughout the process. More than quoting them, we are interested in how those disciplines help us think about the body and space from different perspectives.
Usually, the process begins with a question rather than a form: something open that forces us to investigate. From there, the choreographic language develops organically, in dialogue with the performers, the space, and all the elements involved.
In that sense, each creation is a system that gradually reveals itself, rather than a closed idea applied from the beginning.
Do you work from a clear initial idea, or do you prefer the material to emerge in the studio through dialogue with the performers?
We always work from a fairly clear initial idea, which functions as a starting point and as a framework for investigation. But that idea is never completely fixed or closed; it is constantly tested in the studio.
The real material appears and transforms through dialogue with the performers. They are not merely executors, but active participants in the creative process, and very often they are the ones who evolve — or even shift — the original idea.
We would say there is a very defined direction, but the path itself is built in the studio, in the encounter between that intention and real bodies. That is where the work truly becomes alive and finds its final form.
What obsesses you as creators right now? What questions keep following you?
We always begin from something in the contemporary world that unsettles us: the changes we perceive in bodies, in relationships, and in the ways we share space and memory.
We do not work from a closed obsession, but from questions that remain open. We are very interested in how to speak today about collectivity, identity, and belonging, and about how these concepts are no longer stable, but constantly shifting.
We are also fascinated by what destabilizes us: what we do not fully understand but nevertheless feel compelled to explore. In that sense, every creation is a way of approaching those questions without trying to completely resolve them, but rather keeping them alive throughout the process.
How do you manage the balance between control and risk within the creative process?
We always work within a very delicate balance between control and risk. Control is necessary because it allows us to build a structure, a clear direction for the project, and a shared language with the performers. Without that, the process would disperse.
At the same time, we need to leave space for risk, because that is where the unexpected emerges and where the material truly comes alive. That risk is deeply connected to studio work, improvisation, and the ability to listen to what is happening in the moment.
It is also connected to something more intimate: listening to oneself and allowing oneself to be carried by intuition, by things that cannot always be explained rationally, but nevertheless guide many decisions throughout the process.
We do not try to eliminate either one, but to allow them to coexist. Control provides the framework; risk is what activates and constantly transforms it. It is within that dialogue that the piece finds its energy.
In recent years, contemporary dance seems to have expanded toward hybridity and interdisciplinarity. How have you experienced that evolution from within?
We have always worked through a mixture of languages, so this expansion toward hybridity feels more like a continuation than a rupture.
It is very interesting to us because dance today can no longer be understood as an isolated territory. It exists in constant dialogue with other disciplines and with other ways of thinking about the body and space.
From within, we experience it as a natural opening of choreographic language itself. Not as something added on, but as something embedded in the way we think and create from the beginning. That porosity allows us to expand the field of choreography and lets each project find its own form, without being limited to a single code.
Do you think audiences have also changed? Do they relate differently to dance today?
Yes, we believe audiences have changed, although not uniformly. Today there is a greater diversity of perspectives and also a greater willingness to engage with works that do not necessarily offer a single or linear interpretation.
We feel that contemporary audiences are more accustomed to visual and hybrid experiences, and that allows them to relate to dance from different places: not only through narrative understanding, but also through experience, intuition, or emotion.
At the same time, it is difficult to generalize because everything remains highly subjective. Some people need to understand and search for a clear meaning, while others prefer to surrender to the experience without trying to decode everything. In that sense, there is no single correct way of looking.
What we do feel many spectators share is the search for emotion. Beyond the way they approach a piece, there is a common desire to be moved, to experience something that affects them directly.
At the same time, this also creates a challenge: to create works that do not close meaning too tightly, but instead keep it open and allow multiple entry points. In that sense, the audience is not passive, but an active part of the piece’s system of interpretation.
We live in a social context marked by crisis, hyperconnection, and image saturation. How does that affect the body — and therefore dance?
We feel that today’s body is constantly stimulated, but also deeply fragmented. It receives an enormous amount of information, yet often struggles to find silence, pause, or depth. And that translates into the way we move, perceive, and remain present.
In dance, this leads us to question how we can recover a more genuine attention toward the body: how to return weight, listening, and presence to it amid so much external stimulation. It is not about denying the context, but about moving consciously through it.
In some way, dance becomes a space where we attempt to slow down that saturation, where the body can reorganize its perception of time, space, and others.
Do you feel dance carries a political or social responsibility today?
Yes, we believe dance carries a social and political responsibility, although not necessarily through explicit discourse.
For us, that responsibility lies in creating a shared experience capable of moving people, gathering them within the same space, and opening new ways of relating to what is happening on stage.
Dance can make us think, but it can also affect us in a very direct way: it can make us laugh, move us emotionally, make us uncomfortable, or even become a form of care or catharsis.
We do not believe it has a single function. It can be many things simultaneously: a space for reflection, but also for emotion, pleasure, or even relief. And those things are not contradictory.
Ultimately, what matters is that it activates something in the spectator, that it involves them and, even for a brief moment, pulls them out of indifference.
Photos by ALBIRU MURIEL
In what way does a piece like TABLERO dialogue with the present? Can dance contribute to rethinking the collective?
We believe dance can contribute to rethinking the collective, not so much by offering answers, but by generating situations in which bodies must organize themselves, listen to one another, and negotiate their presence within a shared space.
In TABLERO, this happens through the scenic device itself: a living system in which bodies, space, and materials constantly affect one another. That interdependence makes visible something deeply contemporary: that individuality does not exist in isolation, but in constant relation to the collective.
In that sense, the piece does not speak “about” collectivity — it enacts it in real time.
You defend the body as a place of thought and knowledge. What can the body express that words cannot?
For us, the body is a place of knowledge because it does not translate things, it passes through them.
It can express states, tensions, or emotions that do not need to be explained in order to be understood. Sometimes words even arrive afterward, trying to name something that has already happened within the body.
Words organize, define, and delimit. The body, on the other hand, is more ambiguous, more open, and precisely because of that, more complex. It can hold contradictory things simultaneously and change meaning in an instant.
In that sense, it is not about opposing body and language, but about understanding that the body opens another form of thought: one that does not always seek explanation, but experience.
Many of your works revolve around communities, systems, or collective structures. Why does that interest return so often in your work?
We are inspired by what we live through, by the present, by what crosses us as individuals and as a society. We do not begin from abstract ideas, but from real experiences, from what we observe, feel, and share in everyday life.
What interests us is translating those experiences into the language of the body and observing how they transform into movement, space, and relationships with others. In that sense, each piece also becomes a way of reflecting on the moment we are living through.
How does someone become part of KOR’SIA? What do you look for in a performer beyond technique?
It is difficult to explain in a closed or academic way. It is something we perceive when we have the performer in front of us, working in the studio.
Beyond technique, we are interested in what that person communicates: their presence, the way they listen, their creativity, their musicality, and their willingness to enter a process of research. It is a combination of many things, not one single criterion.
It is also important how they relate to the group, how they adapt, and how they contribute something personal while still being able to exist within a shared system.
We would say it is a mixture of all those elements, something very alive and difficult to define with words, but very clear when it appears.
After TABLERO, what would you like the audience to carry with them when they leave the theatre: an image, a question, a feeling?
Above all, we would like the audience to leave with an emotion.
Not a closed idea or a single interpretation, but something more difficult to name: a sensation that has passed through the body and remains there for a while after leaving the theatre.
For us, if the piece succeeds in leaving behind that emotional trace, even if it is different for every person, then it has already fulfilled its purpose.
