The first performance is by the incredible, internationally acclaimed Matthew Hawkins, who trained with the Royal Ballet School, and has worked with the Michael Clark Company, Merce Cunningham and Rambert, among many luminaries. This piece was inspired by both his late father, who played Beethoven CDs towards the end of his life, and his own long illustrious career.

Hawkins moves instinctively, a constant shapeshifter, utilising every part of his statuesque form, and much of the studio space. But it's also a promenade piece, responding to the outdoor space. He tentatively strokes the sighing leaves of trees, making nature itself a collaborator. His capricious choreography sees him perform languorous extensions, only to smack his hands together. It's as though he's determined to interrupt the flow, to disrupt any existing preconceptions of ballet's five basic positions. Limitations are ripe for exploration at every corner. His hands are rarely still and his expressive face lets the captivated audience into some of his thought processes. Elsewhere, he's as inscrutable as a prowling tiger.

Elegiac or playful; prone, flexing or swaying, he's a bewitching dancer. Such presence is innate. The heavenly piano sonatas bleed with the sounds from around the venue: all is control; all is chaos. As he slinks off into the breezy afternoon air, he instructs, “Watch me up close, or from a distance.” I do both, and it's a rare privilege to see the tension in his thigh muscles working as he goes from lying sideways, straight into splits. Matthew Hawkins is a genius, forever dissolving form and interrogating experimentation.