Jiří Kylián, Discipline and Freedom

The world-renowned Czech choreographer and multimedia artist Jiří Kylián was recently honored with a retrospective festival at the Oslo opera house. For “Wings of Time,” running from May 29 through June 14, 2025, Kylián’s creative fingerprint was everywhere. His sculptures adorned the building’s façade, his photographs and large-scale installations took over the backstage spaces, four of his dance films were screened in the smaller theater, and seven of his greatest ballets (spanning from 1978 to 2008) were performed by the Norwegian National Ballet.

Jiří Kylián amid flashmob at “Wings of Time” festival at the Oslo opera house. Photograph by Ilja Hendel

Kylián was born in Prague in 1947. His mother, a former dance prodigy, took him to see his first ballet at age nine, and he fell in love with the art form. He trained at the Prague Conservatory and then at the Royal Ballet School in London, where he met John Cranko, who invited him to join the Stuttgart. He began choreographing while there and was soon appointed artistic director of Nederlands Dans Theater, a role he held from 1975 to 1999. He remained with the company as house choreographer until 2009.

I was able to sit down with Kylián during the festival, in a light-filled room off a balcony in the stunning Opera House. Over coffee, we spoke about his relationship with Cranko, his many artistic projects, and the preciousness of time.

How do you feel—right here, right now—about this festival dedicated to you?

I’m a very happy boy, that’s for sure. And I’m grateful that we are able to make this island of peace, creation, and inspiration in the middle of the madness that is going on around the world. It’s unbelievable.

How long has the festival been in the works?

Well, “Symphony of Psalms,” the last piece in the performance tonight, was created 47 years ago. So, in that way, it took a while. Moving Still, the [installation of 3D-printed] statues on the façade windows, took about two years to make. It was a very complicated project.

What made you want to be a choreographer?

I always felt that it was better for me to express my ideas and feelings through the bodies of other people, because their bodies are much better than mine. And I love collaboration. I love sharing. I think that if you have some kind of knowledge and you don’t share it with anybody, it’s worthless. Share it! Share whatever you can.

Jiří Kylián's installation Moving Still at the Oslo opera house. Photograph by Ilja Hendel

How old were you when you first choreographed for a company?

I was about 21. It was dedicated to John Cranko. His life. And his death, actually. I danced his work for seven years in Stuttgart. That’s where I met my wife. He was a very fascinating man. He died much too young. He was 47.

Was he a mentor to you?

In a way. He was the first one to let me choreograph on professional dancers, and with an orchestra.

What other choreographers did you look to when you were young?

Cranko was very classically minded. His ballets are almost 19th-century, his “Romeo and Juliet” and “Onegin,” and so forth. But he was hugely intelligent and aware of what was going on in the world, and he invited Glen Tetley [to the Stuttgart], a great choreographer. And Cranko said to me, “Look into the next studio where Glen Tetley is working. You will love it. The way of moving is completely different.”

How would you describe your movement style?

It’s not possible. Absolutely not possible. You see, I use the music of Beethoven, Benjamin Britten, Arne Nordheim, Tōru Takemitsu, Igor Stravinsky. How can you use the same vocabulary for completely different styles of music, completely different things? It’s funny you should ask, though, because I saw an old interview with me when I was young, when I did my first piece, and in it I said I think that choreographers should invent new vocabulary for every new piece they’re doing [laughs].

The other night, I was struck by, at least for those three pieces, “Wings of Wax,” “Gods and Dogs,” and “Bella Figura,” how completely different they were from each other. So I’m looking forward to tonight’s program, too.

It’s even more different!

But I want to talk about your musicality, because I’ve been trying to put my finger on it. There’s something that you do with music that’s different. To me, your movement actually brings out the music more.

You know, the conductor [Vello Pähn] told me the same thing! I am a trained musician. If you dance, or want to dance professionally, in Czechoslovakia—that’s where I come from, now the Czech Republic—you go to the conservatoire and you must play piano. My teacher was the greatest Bach interpreter. So I did my state exams with the Italian Concerto by Bach.

Wow. That makes a lot of sense! And explains your relationship with music.

My grandfather was a conductor, my father sang in a choir, and my mother was a dancer. So it’s kind of in the genes.

Do you ever start choreographing without knowing what the music will be? Or does the music always come first?

Actually, for my recent works, like my last 14 works, the music was written for me. I usually use existing, mostly Baroque or early classical music. You heard Beethoven in “Gods and Dogs.” But it’s always treated with a contemporary spirit. It’s cut up in a strange way, or sound-edited. But I like the bridge. I like the link with history. It’s very important for me.

This is a hard one, but of the seven ballets on the program, which are you most proud of?

Well, if you have seven children…

I know. I knew you were going to say that!

But there are some very specific moments, and I’ll tell you. The second piece tonight, “No More Play,” which is done to Anton Webern—from the Second Viennese School, atonal music—that’s very close to my heart. And the last piece, “Symphony of Psalms,” which I mentioned, still holds up after 47 years. So those are definitely cornerstones of my work.

Norwegian National Ballet in Jiří Kylián's “Bella Figura.” Photograph by Erik Berg

None of these pieces were made for the Norwegian National Ballet, right?

I never made anything on this company. But they have been very faithful to me, presenting 27 of my existing works over 30 years.

Watching the dancers in “Bella Figura,” I thought, how could it not have been made for them? They really took it on.

I’m very happy working with them, and they’re very happy working with me. It’s a really special relationship. They soak up my ideas like sponges, and they take them further. Many people say they never saw them dance like they danced two nights ago.

They look like they were made for your choreography.

The people who taught the works were my original dancers. The ballets were made on them. So they know everything backwards, and they do it with an enormous love and understanding. But you have to meet people halfway. You cannot impose. I cannot say, ”You must do it like Stefan did it five years ago.” No, you have to figure out what this person is about.

Did you allow them to make any little changes throughout?

Well, it depends. In “Gods and Dogs,” all the first solos are improvisations. And then it’s all choreography. You know, dancers are extremely disciplined people. Extremely disciplined animals. Did you see [the company dance between] the films?

Yes.

So there you have it. Did you see the discipline? [He imitates the dancers’ classical arm positions during his “Port de Bras,” performed between the films.] And then the freedom [he does the loose, improvised arm positions that came later in the piece]. That’s what life is about: freedom and discipline.

When did you start visual arts, and which medium did you try first?

I designed sets and costumes on and off. I’ve always had a great influence on the design.

I was wondering about that, because I noticed the dances themselves are very visual. Like there’s a sort of world that’s created with these images–the set design, costume, lighting. And I was wondering how much of that was your vision.

I have a huge influence on everything in it, on every detail. I’m a terrible person to work with [laughs].

Norwegian National Ballet in Jiří Kylián's “Gods and Dogs.” Photograph by Erik Berg

I understand that this is the first time you’re presenting large installations. How about photography?

I photograph an incredible lot, and my wife tells me, “When will you exhibit it? For God’s sake.” And I say, “There are so many fantastic photographers. Why should I?” One of my great heroes just died. Sebastião Ribeiro Salgado, a great, great, great man. They’re dying too quickly, eh?

And film! Car-Men was your first, right, in 2006? That must be so fun. It’s such a completely different genre.

Huge fun. But I pre-choreographed everything in the studio. And then we set it in the coal mine, which looks like a desert. When we got there, it started raining, so we were dancing in mud. But then when we started filming, the sun came out. It was great fun.

Is there an artistic medium you haven’t tried yet but would like to?

No, I think that’s it. That’s plenty. I have slowly left the world of choreography. I don’t see myself inventing new steps. I’ve made more than 100 pieces. So these kinds of things–the films and installations–are now closer to my heart. But I must say, seeing the dancers like that, it’s quite remarkable.

Your work still exists. It will always exist.

About ten or twenty years ago, I thought they would not perform my work anymore. I was sure of it.

Well, you’re wrong! And because of this festival, this generation now has it in their bodies.

It’s important for them. Many of these pieces were made when none of them were born! They’re almost historic pieces.

But they don’t look like that.

Thanks.

What advice do you have for younger dancers and choreographers?

I would say: don’t waste time and be occupied with things that are worthwhile. Life is short. There’s a story I tell often, about when the Dutch National Ballet first learned “Wings of Wax.” My assistants taught them fantastically. When I came to watch a rehearsal, they ran it, and it was great. Hardly anything wrong. I called over one of the girls and I said, “Can you tell me, where do you come from?” And she said, “China. Mongolian border— Gobi Desert,” and I said, “Okay. Great. And how does it feel to do this dance here?” She said, “Nice. Yes, it’s fine.” And then I asked her, “Can you do this movement again, like you’re doing it in the piece?” And so she did. And then—I didn’t prepare anything, I was just improvising—I said, “Do you realize that when you started the movement, you were a little bit younger than when you finished it? You became older. But not only you, me too. And everybody who is standing around and all of Europe and the whole world and the entire universe.” Dead silence. I said, “Okay, let’s try one more time.” And it was like a different piece. Because you suddenly realize the preciousness of time that is to your disposal. It is just so short.

So that’s what I would say to a young artist. And with these words, I should say goodbye.

Caedra Scott-Flaherty

Caedra Scott-Flaherty is a freelance journalist based in New York. A former dancer and choreographer, she writes about dance for Observer, Pointe Magazine, Dance Teacher, and The Brooklyn Rail, among other publications. She received a B.A. in American Studies from Brown University and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from New York University. Her short stories, essays, and poems have appeared in The Rumpus, New England Review, One Story, and elsewhere. She has been awarded grants from Millay Arts, the Brooklyn Arts Council, and the Murphy Writing Program at Stockton University.

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