The choice of Batty Bwoy as a title is no accident, given that Jamaica has been described as the most homophobic place in the world. Do you consider your work to be political?

Even though my work dives into political questions and is driven by them and that’s what motivates me, I don’t want to label it as political art. It has a certain power and urgency, but I don’t want to reduce it to only having a function of being political. This solo piece had a very specific starting point. I was watching a documentary about the circumstances of homosexual people in different countries, and Jamaica came up. I found it fascinating because I hadn’t been there for a long time. It quoted the lyrics of extremely homophobic, violent dancehall songs from the 80s or 90s. My father listened to this kind of music when I was a kid! The documentary also mentioned different insults used around the world. It’s like a sort of consensus was formed about the queer body in order to denounce it. But what is that body? A dangerous, perverse body that spreads actual or moral diseases? All these ideas seemed to be embedded the language that’s used, which intrigued me. I thought, “You think you know what it is? Then I’ll show you what you think it is.”

I chose the title Batty Bwoy because I find the term at once banal and blunt, ridiculous and violent. But I could have used any other epithet. I understand why people want to link it to my roots, but it goes beyond just the Jamaican context—it’s universal. It’s funny, because now if you search “batty bwoy” on Google, my face comes up. It’s like I’ve really taken ownership of the term.

Our gaze is part of the work. How did you decide that was necessary?

I wanted everyone to be in the same space, sharing this charged moment in the here and now. The audience witnesses what unfolds together, fully aware of each other’s reactions. Even though the structure of the piece is set, I try to maintain a certain openness. My perception of the audience’s energy influences what I experience while dancing. An action might seem very powerful, then become embarrassing or humiliating a moment later because at the same moment in the piece, two people may react completely differently. I try to give weight to all these shifting feelings and play with them, allowing them to shape the atmosphere of the work in real time.

For me, I’m not confronting the audience. Unpredictability is more important than confrontation. Of course, it’s a power game, but since the lights are all turned on, the audience can change the situation if they want to. It contains an element of risk since everything can change quickly depending on how people react.

This solo piece is full of contrasts – in terms of the space, the sonic environment, and your presence and gestures. How did you approach composing it?

I work in a somewhat haphazard way. I’m not really someone who likes working in the studio. Of course, I work on developing movements, but it’s not where I like to start. For this project, I did a lot of work outside the studio, meeting with members of the queer community in Norway and Jamaica and all of these meetings deeply informed the work and process.

Half of the piece revolves around a dance move called dutty wine, which I break down and reconstruct. It’s a circular movement involving the head, hips, and knees, and I perform it in different ways—sometimes using the whole body, other times isolating just my head. If you know the move, you’ll recognize it. The circularity of the entire piece stems from this simple yet charged move.

I refer to it as disgraceful duty wine—a play on words that hints at both exhaustion deconstruction, as well as the weight of repetition. Since I like my work to remain ambiguous, much of the material consists of actions like this, which I continuously transform. They never change completely, but they shift, mutate, and are interpreted in different ways. Their meaning remains fluid, never fixed.

The piece is set to progressive rock music that creates an intense and volatile mood. Could you tell us about this choice and what it means?

During the process of creating the piece, I was watching Italian horror movies from the 1970s. The progressive rock band Goblin composed the music for many of them. I was fascinating by the combination of their up-tempo and groovy music with violent imagery. It can become so bombastic and suggest so many different worlds in just a few minutes.

In the end, I asked Ring Van Möbius, a Norwegian band that plays retro progressive rock, if they wanted to create the music for my piece. I remember that in the week before the premiere, I had a lot of doubts. I felt that it worked, but it scared me as well! The music is so eclectic, and it has a bold, theatrical quality. It really influences the perception of what I do, shaping the way and opening up for existential modes. It’s uncompromising and unrestrained, sometimes clichéd but always real.

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