PROCESSING CHAOS
Brussels, March 2026
I open the door of Nick Coutsier's place in the morning, where I will spend the next two hours. It was exactly a year after the last time we met when he told me about his first creation, which he was currently working on. There, he mentioned the process he was already going through: building a project in three steps, the first of which would be a short film, Volt, recently presented at the prestigious Belgian museum Bozar, in collaboration with Art Brussels.
I met the Belgian-Congolese dancer and choreographer for the first time over six years ago, when Coutsier was already exploring his movement across many different areas — from dance studios to fashion campaigns and music videos — making dance a committed and queer way to blur the boundaries between mediums. His work now counts many collaborations with choreographers such as Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui and Damien Jalet, and music icons like Pharrell Williams, Beyoncé and Robyn. The artist is now opening a new chapter that brings together his experiences with image, sound, movement and fashion into a more singular, personal and vulnerable project.
During those two hours, we dived into what lies at the heart of Coutsier's world and thoughts — work that is both a homage to queer and Black cultures and an invitation to process, connect and transform.
Can you tell me a little more about Volt and how you plan to present this project?
Volt is a 16-minute film. I wondered how to present it in a more immersive way than just on a screen. So, I came up with a multi-stage, progressive experience. First, an installation—based on my research for the solo and the live performance—so that people arrive in a space where they can get used to the world of Volt. There will also be a sound installation by the composer Andreas Tegnander, followed by a 15- to 20-minute live performance. This allows people to encounter me first physically, then digitally. Then there will be a procession to the theatre for the screening.
This is your first personal work. How did the desire to create for yourself come about?
It all started with a moment of deep self-reflection, about two years ago. I was working a lot for others in fashion and film. I love that, but I started asking myself, “What am I giving to myself? Who am I giving myself to?” Faced with the chaos of the world, I asked myself what my place was as an artist, on a personal level. How do I process this flood of information coming at me? Aside from absorbing it, what do I do with it? And that’s when the idea of starting to create for myself came to me.
It’s a three-part project. How did you develop each stage?
The film was made in a pretty instinctive way. When I saw the footage, I realised there were things that needed to come out – “Baby, you need therapy.” [Laughs] I used this opportunity to get to know myself better, and to let the people around me and those I want to connect with see me in a more vulnerable, authentic way.
After the film, there will be a solo piece for which I did a two-and-a-half-week residency with Theatre of Rotterdam, with support from Productie Huis. It was the first time I had my own team: the set designer Théo Demans, the composer Andreas Tegnander and the dramaturg Mohamed Boujarra. The first time I could hire people and share responsibilities. I have about 45 minutes of the solo so far, which still requires more time in residence. I’m still thinking about how to present the third part, but it will probably include the project The Sea Is A Black Body that I did in Senegal. What I’ve mostly learned from this whole journey is that the key is to create a good working environment. Creativity is interesting, but fostering a space where people want to participate in the project is the heart of the craft.
If we look at all your past experiences—as a dancer, movement director, choreographer, and more—how have they led to what you’re developing today?
All these experiences with sound, image, costume and staging have allowed me to understand that there are other languages, and to develop my own body language. I am made of sound, image, matter, and space. How do I play with all these threads that I weave and that simultaneously shape who I am? At one point, I felt that being so multifaceted might work against me, given the way people wanted to categorise me. As a queer person, I realised I wanted my practice to be queer too, in the sense of not letting myself be boxed in. Originally, I was just supposed to create a solo, but that wasn’t enough for me. I asked myself if I could do it differently, and the answer is yes, of course—provided I surround myself with the right people. Whether it’s the staging, the costumes, rave culture, or queer culture, all of that influenced the project. It’s energising to give yourself the chance to create something that’s a kind of blueprint of who you are.
How do you convey this notion of multiplicity and of not being confined to a single box in this film?
Tied to this idea of boxes is the notion that we spend our lives trying to be solid, in the sense of defining ourselves as being this way or that way. Whereas in reality, we are profoundly fluid beings, made of movement that flows. I see myself as a fluid being, just as my reflection in the mirror is ever-changing, always shifting. The film evokes this through the water of the body, and through the use of a chainmail that plays with the idea of reflection and protection. If the mirror were fluid, would my reflection ultimately be closer to who I am? If I allow myself to be fluid, to move as I please, to cry, to laugh, to sweat, perhaps my glistening skin becomes a mirror in which you can see yourself reflected. When you see someone who allows themselves to be who they are, it inspires; their skin becomes a mirror for you.
You did mention the idea of opening up a dialogue by presenting yourself from a more vulnerable perspective. Perhaps art is precisely—and solely—about facilitating certain conversations. How do you relate to this idea?
I think today we’re overwhelmed by information, triggered by so many things, that we’re constantly in a state of immediate and performative reaction. We no longer take the time to ask ourselves, “How does this truly make me feel? What do I make of it?” I felt the need to process. The art I want to make is the kind that allows a conversation to begin. Not to be patronising and telling people how to think, but rather to place something in a certain space and open up the possibility to talk about it. That’s why I’m more interested in reactions like “Ok, I don’t know how to take this, it’s a lot,” which prompt people to process, than in “I loved it, it was great, let’s go grab a beer.”
I totally get your point. People can sometimes be afraid of expressing the need to process something, we don’t really know how to truly react anymore. Besides all this meaning, there is also a strong, quite polished aesthetic in your work. And I know you love image, we both do. [Laughs] How do you balance aesthetics with sensitivity and authenticity?
Aesthetics, for me, is a code, an invitation. Aesthetics can make you want to push the door. My earliest influences were MTV, TLC, Missy Elliot, Ciara, Aaliyah, and all the powerful black female artists and figures. All of that made me gag as a kid from the country site, that pop culture aesthetic was my only source of “wow,” my first queer influence too. I fully own that. Even if, through the lens of the contemporary world, those references might seem a bit dated today, I want to honour them.
The visual aesthetic serves as a gateway for people who love imagery, fashion, sound, and movement. That’s also why the project is divided into three parts: perhaps the film won’t resonate with everyone, but the exhibition The Sea Is A Black Body might. I’m also aware that the imagery can give the impression of a commercial music video. What’s interesting is to play with the balance between a visual aesthetic and a sound that brings that image to life. The challenge is ensuring there’s no disappointment once the door to the aesthetic has been opened. And that’s why the spatial arrangement and the dialogue with other mediums is needed—to activate something essential.
The film has a rather dark tone. Why?
I’ve been very interested in the concept of chaos lately. In our society, chaos is associated with disorder, something we want to eliminate. But in Greek, chaos is what comes before light, religion, heavens. It is the birth of everything. Chaos doesn’t happen when things go wrong, but when things need to change form. And scientifically, chaos doesn’t follow any rules we can define. What may seem like a mess actually has its own logic, which human beings cannot understand. Similarly, black in my work is not the negative. In African cosmology, black is the womb, the place of birth. It is hardwired into our collective language to be wary of the dark, even though that is where everything is created. And if we frame this in terms of race: yes, black is the unknown, but unknown in relation to whom? Through what lens? It is for all these reasons that the overall aesthetic of Volt is dark: the more you acclimate to this darkness, the more you see that things have the potential to transform.
I’d like to talk about The Sea Is A Black Body. The video you posted on social media about this project really struck me, and if I’m not mistaken, you filmed it during a workshop you led at the École des Sables in Senegal. How did this project come about there?
Yes, that’s exactly right! I was invited there as part of the African Diaspora project, a 10-week program for 30 dancers from the African diaspora. I was supposed to come for two weeks to work on the concept of the Black imagination and share my practice. One day, we visited Gorée Island with the dancers, where the old slave houses are located. Suddenly, we could see the conditions in which people lived, crammed into rooms measuring 2 by 3 meters. That island was a gateway to the ocean with no possible return. It was a real shock. That very evening, I started doing research. The first theme that emerged was that there are countless Black bodies in the ocean that will never be found—people who threw themselves into the sea, shipwrecks. The second is that in science, the sea is called a black body—a state that absorbs light without reflecting it. I began to be struck by an analogy between water, bodies in the sea, and a Black body that is as black as space.
The next day, when I arrived at the studio, I told the dancers, “Guys, I want to do something different.” I laid out my entire concept, and they were hooked. Then there was a moment of cathartic creation. I needed to bring all those separate, emaciated bodies back together. My dark fantasy—my utopia—would be: if all those bodies emerged from the water for an hour, what would it look like? We did that on the beach on the last day. It was deeply meaningful. There was something extremely collective and personal at the same time—these traumas passed down through generations, like the fear of water. Then we all ended up in the sea; it was so beautiful.
It seems like something very deep came up from an unexpected part of what you experienced there.
Definitely. I didn’t know what I was going to do with these videos I’d taken on my iPhone. Back in Brussels, I posted them, and the response was immediate and unexpected. I realised that something had emerged through catharsis rather than inspiration—it had become an emotional pretext for people to want to have a conversation. Sometimes you do things without realising what will come of them, and that’s ultimately what turns out to be the rawest, the most authentic. That’s why this exploration will be part of the trilogy, because individual and identity-related history is undeniably collective and cultural.
That’s quite powerful. And I was wondering, does Volt come from “révolte” [uprising in English]?
Yes, it was at first, in the sense of something assertive, mostly related to the energy that raves and parties raise. Then it shifted focus to the unit of electrical measurement. The volt is that inner rhythm that drives me to do things—a voice that is sometimes a bit demanding, uncompromising, but that keeps me moving forward. Volt keeps me alive because it keeps me connected.
You mentioned that the starting point for this project was a need to process. Aside from creativity, how do you process things today—both externally and internally?
Therapy helps a lot; it gives me insight into my own patterns. Connections with my friends and our conversations are also very important. And then there’s movement. I hadn’t necessarily realised how much moving helps me process things. I try to make movement a regular practice, especially when I don’t feel like it. Movement goes hand in hand with taking a break, which is also super important. It’s in those moments of pause that I’m able to process things and also to sit with an emotion that isn’t always comfortable, without trying to numb it. This notion of discomfort goes against all the societal models we’re fed—the pursuit of aesthetics, perfection, instant gratification. When in fact, it’s just a fucking mess. [Laughs]
[Laughs] After Bozar and this ongoing project, what’s next?
In December, I’ll be working on my first commission for ZFIN MALTA, the National Company of Malta, a 40-minute piece that will be named Future Memory. The premiere will be in February 2027, and I hope this piece can then resonate with other companies and lead to further creations. This is going to be a big thing for me, to arrive with my own material and to have nothing else to do but create. Because what Volt taught me is that working as a choreographer involves many other skills, like production, fundraising searches, etc. So, I’m really excited about going back to studios, both for solo and collective projects. I believe the most important thing is to keep challenging our work and to wonder where it can exist and resonate.
Interview by Hanna Pallot
All pictures by Nikola Lamburov