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Mastering Misuse with d. Sabela grimes

He’s a choreographer, movement composer and trans-media storyteller: He’s d. Sabela grimes, who grew up in Lompoc, California, and didn’t know that his true calling would be as a dancer, choreographer and teller of tales until he moved to Philadelphia in the late 1990s and met Rennie Harris of Rennie Harris Puremovement. Fast forward several decades, and the multi-hyphenate has not only been teaching hip-hop, dance history, and improvisation at USC’s Glory Kaufman School of Dance since 2014, but, as part of CAP UCLA’s season, he’ll also be performing his latest work, “Parable of Portals,” at the Nate Holden Performing Arts Center on December 11.

“POP Lumberyard” by d. Sabela grimes. Photograph by by Alon Koppel

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The work, which combines dance, video and story telling, was inspired by sci-fi author Octavia E. Butler’s “Parable” series—“Parable of the Sower” (1993) and “Parable of the Talents” (1998)—and was made in collaboration with Meena Murugesan, a video, textile and performance artist. Indeed, it’s certainly been an interesting and fruitful road for grimes, who, along the way, has been honored with a USA Artists Fellowship in 2014 and was a 2021 Bessie Award winner for Outstanding Performer in “The Motherboard Suite.” (As one of seven choreographers that explored the intersection of technology and race, exploitation, and mystical anarchy, grimes also danced in the piece that featured the words and music of actor and slam-poet-turned-musician, Saul Williams, and was directed by Bill T. Jones with his associate director Janet Wong.)

Having been described by the Los Angeles Times as, “One of a mere handful of artists who make up the vanguard of hip-hop fusion,” grimes is also no stranger to Afro-futurism. Some of his other dance theater projects incorporating soundscapes, video projections and kinetic poetics rooted in that movement include, “World War WhatEver,” “40 Acres & A Microchip” and “Electrogynous.” In addition, he’s a 2023 USC Associates Award for Artistic Expression recipient, and, at 56, he could very well be one of the OGs of hip hop, as he continues to invest in what he calls, “the poetics of assemblage, the magic of mutability, and mastering misuse.”

Fjord caught up with grimes by Zoom, with topics discussed ranging from his reverence for Butler and how he sees the next generation of artists expanding on ideas he’s explored, to why he doesn’t actually have, well, a process.


Octavia E. Butler was born in Pasadena and spent her life there before passing away in 2006 at age 58. Your new work translates her prophetic ideas about survival, community and transformation into a living, breathing experience on stage. And you’ve said that there’s nothing you ever created that hasn’t been influenced by her. How so?

I studied English and African literature and translation at UCLA and was introduced to Miss Butler’s work during that time and fell in love with it. I feel like her influence and inspiration have been a part of all my work, and not just as a movement artist, composer, and sound designer; I also think about the world-building, the care for her portrayal of different dimensions of humanity. Then, when I was with Puremovement, I began to revisit what people now call Afro-futurism.

I don’t think it was coined at that moment, but there’s aways been a heavy influence of different futures, especially in popping communities, which is indigenous to L.A. For a particular project, we did a short film called “AdiSea DAWNing,” and some of the text that shows up in the film is borrowed from Butler’s “Dawn.” At the same time, I was working on a piece, “Kinetic Vision,” because she talked abut radio imagination [a type of imagination that is both active and receptive]. 

I was thinking about what it is to be a movement-based artist, to have these embodied practices, and what sort of vision do we have. Then in a lot of Black dance, there’s thing called sensing, where it’s like a kinetic intuition or vision. If you can imagine [being] in a tight circle and know where each of them is and what others are doing—how it’s related to the environment—it’s all the interplay of these elements. I got a [2017] COLA [County of Los Angeles Performing Arts] fellowship for that. It was also around the time of the 10-year anniversary of Miss Butler’s passing, and I said I would create a movement-focused dance honoring her. 

Hip-Hop Dance Collective in “Parable of PassAge” by grimes. Photograph by Jamie Kraus, courtesy of Jacob’s Pillow, 2023

I have a feeling she’d approve! So, grimes, what is your process in crafting a work?

I don’t actually have one process, but I have a core intention: to be in really deep dialogue with the folks  in the community. What does that mean to be in conversation as a part of the process? I’m not interested in coming into a room and saying, “Do this, do that.” That’s nothing to do with my process. It’s really about curating, facilitating. 

I conceive of these ideas, but it’s fulfilling and fruitful for me to say, “Hey, this is what I’m dreaming. Can you see it? Can you feel it? What do you see? What don’t you see? What’s confusing you?” My background is [that] people use a lot of language. I studied technique, I studied dance traditionally when I first started working with Puremovement, but I wasn’t a quote unquote “trained dancer.” 

My time touring gave me a way to be engaged in a variety of different cultural contexts. Wherever we were internationally, how people frame dance and their relationship to the transference of knowledge, I didn’t want to replicate that, so I’m actually community trained. And the reason I could step into Puremovement is because I’ve danced socially—at a party, a club, a wedding. Black social dance has been my training ground.

I flipped that: As a creative process, people consider me a hip hop guy, but when I think about the richness of all the different forms that fall under hip-hop or street dance, to go into the choreographic process where it’s just about me, and I become the sole mind, that doesn’t make sense. Choreography, for me, is about a conversation, about inviting [someone] in. It’s about being challenged. How do we do forms that come from the community? Then I get seduced.

My entry point was also who I am as a creative writer, who I am as a performance poet. That’s another avenue for me to think about poetry as a score of, “How does what I see in my head around the potential of bodies moving, then come into a written language,” and “How can I formulate and really choreograph the words on the page and then hand them to a movement artist for them to interpret it like I would?” 

Then [I] facilitate the experience or create a world where they can think about it in a more dimensional way, [but] not like instructions. Once again, it’s an invitation, a prompt.


Got it, Sabela! So, where does improvisation fit into your work?

How many times have I been in places and they want set choreography? I’m not going to say names, but they have anxiety around being taken seriously. And to be taken seriously, they have to set the work. That ain’t it for me. If you want this funding, we need to know what you are doing. That’s been a point of resistance for me my entire career. 

Movement sequences in projects—“Bulletproof Deli” or “40 Acres & a Microchip”—the movement sequence is set in that way, but with an open invitation to mess with it. Or to be inside of it and play with it. How many different ways can you do this? How many ways can you take this sequence and respond to the music differently? How can you be responsive to the audience if, for whatever reason, you’re sensing that the audience is attached to something that happened a micro-movement ago, and you just want to stay in that delicious place? 

Stay there. Forget what the next move is supposed to be. The audience is saying, “We want to stay here for a while.” But the way I think about improvisation isn’t just about, “Oh, I’m free. I’m moving my body.” It’s multisensory, it’s the way we listen, the way you listen to me. 

d. Sabela grimes in rehearsal. Photograph by Jason William/Doble Images

How do you see the next generation of artists expanding on the ideas you continue to explore, and what do you think of the state of contemporary dance and hip hop today?

The way I am inspired by my students is immeasurable; it’s literally hard to articulate. The reason I say that is because social media and information, in a really flat way, is available for them. It’s startlingly different than when I was their age. In general terms, social media was always available—VHS tapes, a recording—but the amount of global information available to them is really inspiring.

The ways that they approach it, interpret it, consume it, put it in their bodies, is pretty phenomenal. There probably aren’t too many weeks I can walk through the foyer at the Glorya Kaufman School of Dance and they’re not learning something on TikTok. They’ve probably done six hours a day in ballet, in house or locking. They’ve already done all of these movement classes, but they will prop a phone up, learn the latest TikTok dance and practice it right there in the lobby. 

Their ability to pick up movement is crazy, but it’s a training that happens outside the studio. They’re invested in it, because they just hit a different sort of point for them in their joy space. They’re exploding any notion of contemporary dance. Those people who are tied to what dance is supposed to look like in 2025, for me, they’re stuck. We just need to take in what they’re doing, and maybe it doesn’t fit your parameters of what hip-hop or what contemporary is. Maybe it’s like oozing past the margins of most ideas. 

Let’s just approach it from there and be okay with it. Maybe it is dangerous. Maybe there hasn’t been a genre for this. But something’s happening, and I see it every year. This is my 12th year, and then in the last six years, it’s only been amplified. I also teach composition and choreography, and one of the things that is beautiful about this opportunity is [that] I come in to teach a technique class, my colleagues—nationally, internationally—I keep asking, because improvisation is at the core of what we do—are they asked to teach improvisation?

Most of them say no, unless they have a background in modern, contemporary or ballet. I’m like, “That’s criminal.” But I teach all of these things at USC, including the inaugural class, and we have a fashion minor. I do costume design, and we have improvisational strategies to movement and materiality. So many dancers approach styling for performance and are already bubbling ideas around costume design.

Whether they want to be designers or not—this class helps them think about how to be in conversation around styling for performance. In a nutshell, you have a show, but please don’t tell everyone to wear all black. Think about what your projects are. They also learn how to sew in this class, so we recycle, we’re thinking about sustainability, which I think these dancers have been doing. 

So you go into your closet, you reconfigure things you wear every day, and boom, it becomes this costume. So, beyond the technique block, there’s all these other classes. They learn to put together their own movement scores or a symbolic system. Maybe they want to communicate with their dancers through an image, through words, through a sound or a combination of those things. We’re going to use all that.


Wow, grimes, your classes sound incredible! Finally, though, what do you feel most proud of, and where do you see yourself in the next five to ten years?

I sense the most fulfillment in cultivating a beautiful community of collaborative artists, a core group of people that my not even show up in the program. But in this season of life, there are people I’ve met when I was joining Puremovement and trying to figure out what concert dance is, and I’m still close to them. They really inspired me. 

I’m most proud of the people I’ve met along the way, and I think they’re visioning and thought partners for me. I feel they show up in the work, including my wife/partner, and my children. I have three and they’ve been in my work at this point. Those are things I’m really proud of. I’m a parent, and there’s no distinguishing line between who I am as an artist and a parent. 

Where do I see myself in the next five to 10 years? I don’t. I’m in the present right now. The timeline thing, I’m not even thinking about that. But I do feel like when I look at this garden of what's happening, I can feel the work oozing into what some people would consider the visual arts, spaces, galleries crossing boundaries, I can definitely see that.

Victoria Looseleaf


Victoria Looseleaf is an award-winning, Los Angeles-based international arts journalist who covers music and dance festivals around the world. Among the many publications she has contributed to are the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times, Dance Magazine and KCET’s Artbound. In addition, she taught dance history at USC and Santa Monica College. Looseleaf’s novella-in-verse, Isn't It Rich? is available from Amazon, and and her latest book, Russ & Iggy’s Art Alphabet with illustrations by JT Steiny, was recently published by Red Sky Presents. Looseleaf can be reached through X, Facebook, Instagram and Linked In, as well as at her online arts magazine ArtNowLA.

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