 The discourse of visibility says: show up, be loud, be seen. Visibility is framed as proof of existence. If you are not visible, you don’t matter. If you are not growing, you are irrelevant. But visibility is not empowerment, it is exposure.
The more visible you are, the easier you are to find. If you can be found, you can be mapped. If you can be mapped, you can be expected. And if you can be expected, you can be neutralized. This is why political activism that relies on visibility quickly becomes predictable. It becomes easy prey: a spectacle already accounted for. In contrast, invisibility protects. Invisibility resists capture. Invisibility allows unpredictability: appearing where no one expects, withdrawing before being consumed. Invisibility is power. The obsession with visibility is not accidental. It is useful for those who govern. A visible movement is manageable. It can be categorized, appropriated, framed. It can be tolerated as long as it performs within predictable limits. Institutions do not fear what they can see. They fear what they cannot locate. The same logic governs growth. The rhetoric of coalitions, of “convergence of struggles,” appears noble, but too often it functions as a strategy of dilution. Small groups merge, merge again, until they form one shapeless body. The amoeba expands, but with every expansion it loses its edges, its clarity, its urgency. What was once sharp becomes vague. What was once dangerous becomes harmless. Growth, like visibility, produces not strength but vulnerability: an exposed surface, an empty core. The myth of visibility promises recognition, but delivers capture. The myth of growth promises strength, but delivers dilution. Both are traps. Both redirect energy away from the work itself toward the performance of existence. I believe that real resistance does not need to be seen. Real struggle does not need to be big. The most powerful actions are often the smallest, the most transformative movements are often invisible.
0 Comments
 I wouldn’t ban. I don’t believe in bans. I come from a context, geographically, historically, emotionally, where punishment was the default pedagogical language. Where alterity was absent. Where your own desire, curiosity, will, were the last ones to be heard. Where you had to erase yourself to be accepted. Where to exist, you had to disappear.
And it never worked. Or rather, it worked too well: it created submission, fear, silence, and deep fractures in confidence and self-worth. So instead of banning, I challenge. I encourage internal disobedience. I invite unlearning: unlearning intimidation, unlearning the limiting thoughts you’ve inherited about yourself and your capabilities. Unlearning being the last one you listen to. Unlearning academic automatisms, institutionalized patterns, lessons we picked up during our studies without realizing how harmful they are. So, I can’t say what would I ban, but here are three things I intentionally challenge in my educational model: 1. Competition as structure. I challenge the idea that artists must prove themselves against one another. That creativity is a race, and success is reserved for the few. I’ve seen too many voices silenced before they ever spoke, convinced they weren’t good enough, or worse, that someone else was better. My learning spaces are designed for collaboration, not comparison. Here, no one wins at the expense of another. We grow side by side. Each person brings something irreplaceable, incomparable. Difference is not a threat, it’s the foundation of community. 2. Overload as virtue. I challenge the worship of exhaustion, the belief that being overworked is a sign of commitment, that intensity equals depth, that rest is weakness. In academic art schools, the norm is long days, no time to pause, multiple projects to juggle at once, and always a final product to present. In contrast, I value digestion. I believe in giving time and space: time to rest, to reflect, to step back. Not every process needs to be visible. Not every journey ends with a polished outcome. Slowness is not failure; it is often the only way to access nuance, to notice details, to allow real depth to emerge. Because depth doesn’t grow in haste. It requires focus. And focus takes time. 3. Scale as success. I challenge the equation of size with success. I’ve been running the School of Disobedience for years, and I’ve made a deliberate choice: to stay small. I don’t want to grow bigger. I don’t want more visibility, more recognition, more followers. That’s not my path. Traditional art education often encourages the opposite, it teaches you to desire expansion. To seek fame, to network endlessly, to scale up at any cost. Visibility becomes the metric of value. But I resist that narrative. I believe in smallness. In details. In focus. My groups are tiny (no more than four participants at a time) and that is entirely intentional. Smallness is not a limitation, it’s a radical choice. A form of resistance that protects the essence of what we do. It allows us to go deep, to stay present, to truly see and support one another. In a world obsessed with more, I choose enough.  Where does it escape from? From the Latin fugitivus, “one who flees,” related to fugere, “to flee.” There is motion in this word, not just in body but in state. A fugitive escapes not only from place, but from category. From what was imposed. From what collapsed. From what burned.
A fugitive is not only someone evading capture. It is a condition of instability. Of impermanence. Of refusal. To be fugitive is to live in the interstice: neither here nor there, not quite legal, not fully safe, never fully seen. Fugitive is a form of survival. Fugitive is a tactic. Fugitivity arises where the law becomes the weapon. Black fugitivity. Queer fugitivity. The undocumented, the dissident, the exile. In these cases, the fugitive does not signify danger. The law does. The fugitive reveals the violence of the system by the sheer act of slipping from its grasp. There is fugitive art. Fugitive practices defy documentation. They resist capture. They choose decay over permanence, breath over market. They are ephemeral as they refuse to stay here. There are fugitive states within the body. Moments of trembling. Dissociation. Friction. To listen to the body is to track your own fugitivity, the parts that flee. The body remembers. Each of us is a fugitive from something. Some flee a past. Some a family, a country, a memory, a story... Not everything you create needs to survive. Not everything you are needs to be seen.  Panel Magazine: How did your method emerge? Was it a sort of epiphany, or did it come to you through experience?
Anna Ádám: It was an incredibly slow and organic process. For this reason, I can’t even say when exactly I “opened” the school. It wasn’t an event, but a layering, built step by step, brick by brick. I followed my interests, desires, instincts… and slowly, everything emerged. And it’s still emerging. It’s a living material, always transforming. Movement is everywhere in my methodology. First, the school itself is nomadic, we don’t have a fixed address, and this is intentional. Second, the method is a moving thought, always shifting through observation, analysis, adjustment. And third, I work with performance, so movement, the movement of the body, its meanings, its rhythms, is my main raw material. These three kinds of movement coexist in me and in the school. That’s why it feels like floating. It’s fluid, and that fluidity is what allows flexibility. Panel Magazine: Who comes to the School of Disobedience? Who are your "students" and your audience? Anna Ádám: Good question. Honestly, I don’t know. People just find me. There is no typical profile. They come from all over, recently, I had applicants from the Galápagos Islands, Colombia, New Zealand, the UK... Same for age: between 25 and 65. Backgrounds are diverse, some from art, some from theory, some from social practice, and some from unexpected places. But what unites them is sensitivity, they are receptive to my language, to my values. They care about agency, autonomy, and independence. They are warriors who still believe, in this cruel world, that other options are possible. My school wants to be that option. An island of hope. Collaboration instead of competition. Friendship instead of rivalry. Curiosity instead of fear. We all agree: we want to open. Relate. Make things happen. Panel Magazine: What’s a moment at the school that almost broke you—but also made you certain you were doing the right thing? Anna Ádám: Oh, many. Many times I felt I was done. Tired. Exhausted. Desperate. Sad. Disappointed. I wanted to quit, to leave, never return. But then… things shifted. I understood situations, understood the “why.” I saw my own responsibility. I took it. I accepted it. I learned from it. And I continued with more clarity, more strength, and more experience. Panel Magazine: Participants come from many different countries to your retreats. How does this diversity of backgrounds, cultures, and artistic traditions shape the energy, challenges, and discoveries at the School of Disobedience? Anna Ádám: Diversity is beautiful, but I’m not just talking about where someone comes from. Cultural difference is easy to applaud. What’s harder, and more interesting, is diversity of thought. Of perspective. Of political and emotional position. That’s where it gets challenging. Because unfortunately, in my milieu, there’s a kind of “clivage”, ideological fractures. There are certain topics where only one interpretation is acceptable. It becomes dogma. And when disagreement is no longer allowed, that’s a problem. There’s a formatted mindset. And it’s hard to say out loud that the mainstream artistic discourse is just one way of reading reality. So yes, at the School of Disobedience, I’m proud that we question everything. Even what’s uncomfortable. Especially that. Panel Magazine: If you could ban three "rules" of traditional art education forever, what would they be? Anna Ádám: I’m not sure banning helps. I come from a world where punishment and bans were everywhere, and they didn’t work. But I can tell you what I consciously challenge: One: the idea that we’re in competition. We’re not. Each of us has our own singular place. I choose collaboration. Two: the belief that intensity equals quality. No. I value digestion. Distance. Breaks. These are part of the process. Three: big groups. No thank you. I work with a maximum of four people per program, so I can offer deep, individual mentorship. Otherwise, it’s just noise. Panel Magazine: What’s something you secretly wish people would stop expecting from an "art school founder"? Anna Ádám: I don’t care what people expect from an “art school founder.” That’s their story. I have mine. Panel Magazine: You talk about “unlearning.” What’s the most dangerous or damaging thing we’ve been taught about art or being an artist? Anna Ádám: So many. And the worst ones are invisible — because they live inside us without our knowing. Just a few: Art is not a hobby. Art should be paid. You don’t need to fit in — you have a choice. You don’t need a gallery or a production house to be valid. Success is plural. Not being inspired is normal — and necessary. No art form is superior. Painting is not “better” than performance. It’s all dogma, all layers of bullshit that we have to unlearn. Panel Magazine: For me personally, it’s hard to imagine such a state of inner freedom — not caring about validation, or even about the result. Is it really possible to reach this level of independence, or is it more about the journey toward it? Anna Ádám: I think it’s possible. It takes time. But yes, it’s reachable. Panel Magazine: When was the last time you disobeyed yourself? Anna Ádám: Beautiful question. Often in my personal life. I make huge efforts not to follow old patterns. In my professional life a bit less often. Panel Magazine: What are some of the most powerful or surprising moments you've seen unfold during a retreat? Is there a moment that has stayed with you? Anna Ádám: So many. That’s what keeps me going. Watching someone open up, liberate, unfold, it’s sublime. That gives me energy. That gives me joy. I’m genuinely happy for them. Proud of them. Panel Magazine: At your retreats, you ask people to unplug and reconnect with nature. What have you personally learned from nature that no teacher could have taught you? Anna Ádám: To slow down. And to dare to slow down. To observe in detail. These are more valuable to me than perfectionism. They demand maturity. Honesty. Courage. Panel Magazine: Why are the camps and retreats outside of Budapest important? How does being in nature add to artistic research and transformation? Anna Ádám: I love the countryside. And I love the rhythm: city in winter, nature in summer. It gives shape to undisciplined thoughts. Suddenly, no more walls. More space. More sky. More horizon. More freedom in movement, but also in how we see: the horizon is suddenly enlarged. Panel Magazine: How does the environment we live in — urban, rural, digital — help or interfere with the creative process? Anna Ádám: It’s essential for many reasons. First, it defines the frame. Why do people come? What the space is for. The goal. I’m not saying the effect can’t be healing, it often is. But healing is not the function. We need to differentiate not just spaces, but also purposes and roles. That’s where verticality matters. I hold the space with both hands, gently, but firmly. With clear structure. That structure helps things unfold. It’s the container that allows transformation. Panel Magazine: How do you keep a space radically open—but still safe? Especially when creativity touches on identity, politics, and even pain. Anna Ádám: That’s where experience speaks. It’s subtle. Case by case. But again: the more solid the frame, the more fluid the space can be. The more it is structured, the more it can give shape to the shapeless. Panel Magazine: What makes someone ready—or not ready—for the School of Disobedience? Anna Ádám: Openness. And courage. Openness to the unknown. Courage to face what they find in the mirror. Not easy. Panel Magazine: In times like ours, who and what helps you keep going? Hope. Simply and deeply. Panel Magazine: If you could plant one seed under the soil of Hungary’s future culture—something invisible now but vital later—what would it be? Anna Ádám: Hope. Again. Always. Panel Magazine: Imagine the School of Disobedience in 50 years. What strange, wild, or radical practices do you hope will be happening there that would shock even you today? Anna Ádám: I don’t care about shocking, I never did. Maybe surprise me instead. I’ll be 94. If it still exists, that would be the surprise. Projects have a beginning, a blossoming, and an end. I love what I do, but I don’t need to do it forever. I’m an artist first, I evolve, I change paradigms. Who knows? Maybe by then I’ll open the Pension of Disobedience for elderly rebels. Let’s see. Maria Gyarmati and Masha Kamenetskaya Panel team www.panel-magazine.com  MAD Zine for Arts and Culture (MAD): Anna, thank you for joining us. You’ve often said that holding space is a kind of art. Can you start by telling us what “holding space” means to you?
Anna Ádám (AÁ): Holding space is about presence, not performance. It’s the quiet work of creating a container where others can unfold, express, break, rebuild, risk, play, or simply be. It means not filling the room with your own voice, ideas, or ego, but instead shaping an invisible architecture of safety, clarity, and permission. To hold space is not to dominate, but to anchor and allow. To offer foundations and frames others can build on. To hold space is not to pretend to know everything, but to take responsibility. It’s not fixed. It’s a practice in movement, in constant evolution and adaptation to each singular person and group. Holding space is choreographing attention: observing, analyzing, adjusting. Getting closer and closer, step by step. It’s the art of the case-by-case. MAD: That’s beautifully said. What does this look like practically, in a workshop or group setting? AÁ: First, I arrive. Fully. I check in with myself before I check in with others. Because your nervous system, whether regulated or rushed, sets the tone for the room. Then I tend to the basics:
“Everything here is an invitation. You are always allowed to jump out, and jump in again when it feels right.” It sounds simple, but it changes everything. MAD: You often work with groups that are vulnerable, marginalized, or unfamiliar with artistic spaces. How do you ensure the space remains safe and brave? AÁ: There’s no such thing as a totally safe space, because we each carry our own histories, sensitivities, and wounds. What looks safe to me is not necessarily safe to you. So I don’t impose preconceptions and rules. But we can build safer spaces through slowness, consent, and attunement. And we can learn to become our own safe space. We make spaces brave by normalizing the unknown, and valuing curiosity. By not rushing to conclusions or final products. I acknowledge the process itself as part of the artwork. I name tensions when they arise, without panic. I communicate, I ask, I frame and reframe. Practically:
MAD: Many people think of the facilitator as the leader. You describe something different. AÁ: Yes. Maybe the name of the School (School of Disobedience) creates some preconceptions. But I do build vertical spaces where the facilitator takes responsibility and holds the space. That’s not oppression, it’s care. At the same time, I withdraw. There is a part of altruism in this work. My role is not to shine, but to create the conditions where others feel seen. I hold the frame so that the picture can appear. I open the door, so participants can cross it when it feels right. I never push people out of their comfort zone. I simply make sure the conditions are there, so it can happen when the time comes. It’s an active role, rooted in observation and deep listening. It takes intuition, empathy, and a sincere belief in others' potential. But it’s not about control, it’s about response-ability: The ability to respond to the moment, the people, and to what wants to happen. To adapt. To adjust. MAD: What advice would you give to someone just beginning their journey in space-holding? AÁ: Begin with yourself. Learn to hold space for your own discomfort, your own uncertainty, your own growth. Notice what grounds you. What softens you. What makes you curious. Then you’ll have something to offer. You will make mistakes for sure. Assume them. Accept them. Learn from them. Don’t imitate. Be yourself. Assume your voice, your preferences, your values. Facilitate from your own center. Are you quiet? Be the quiet facilitator. Are you playful? Use that. What matters is not how you perform the role, but how you relate to others inside it. And don’t try to be perfect. People don’t need perfect. They need real, sincere, and present. MAD: And finally, what do you wish more people understood about this work? AÁ: That it’s layered. That it’s political. That it’s art. That it’s alive. Holding space is not just a technique. It’s a form of relating to others. It’s organic, constantly transforming, and perhaps most importantly, it changes you and others in the same process.  I don’t think of ecological practice in performance as just a question of materials—it’s about methods, about how I work, how I build, how I shape and reshape. My approach is one of constant recycling, a continuous process of reusing, repurposing, recomposing. It’s part of my collage method, a way of working that comes probably from my background in visual arts, a kind of inheritance I carry into performance. In collage, nothing is entirely new; everything is made of fragments, remnants, echoes of something else. I treat performance the same way. I compose, choreograph, through layering, assembling, repurposing.
My pieces exist as trios, but they are assembled from solos that I have worked on, broken apart, and recycled further. Each piece is a layered archive of past works, fragments that resurface in new contexts, revealing new meanings. The same goes for my settings and props: they are not just objects, but tools, spaces, carriers of memory and transformation. "Secret Garden" and "CLASH" are both solos and part of a trio. Their props are not merely decorative elements but also serve as settings and toolboxes for workshops. My work is built on multiplicity and a refusal to obsess over "the new." I stopped wanting to be original and singular the day I understood I was supposed to be. That expectation of novelty, of radical individuality felt like a trap, a limitation disguised as freedom. Since then, I have shifted my focus toward something else. Detail. Precision. Focus. Depth. Instead of constantly inventing, I refine. Instead of discarding, I transform. Instead of chasing innovation, I explore what already exists—in my work, in my body, in the echoes of past movements, past words, past spaces, past experiences. I see myself as a fishermen from the black hole, searching for those things that are lost, pieces, particles, which I carefully store, recycle, and reuse later.  The choice of an open call format is a conscious decision that aligns with the core values of the Performance Now! Festival and the School of Disobedience: curiosity and openness to experimentation, the new, the unusual, the unknown, the unpredictable, the unexpected.
Had the festival been invitation-only, we would have remained within a closed circle, favoring and prioritizing the work of known, recognized, or already established artists over and over again. This often leads to the reiteration of the canon, which—while significant—does not necessarily bring fresh perspectives or new artistic voices. Such curatorial decisions risk reinforcing familiar bubbles and networks while leaving little space for artists on the periphery, for more radical, experimental creators, or for marginal voices. In contrast, the open call creates opportunities for unexpected encounters and for continuously questioning and expanding canonical artistic discourse. It is more democratic, as participation does not depend on prior connections or institutional affiliations but is determined by the submitted works and their relevance. This approach resonates with the ethos of the School of Disobedience, which seeks to provide a platform for disruptive, subversive, and non-canonical aesthetics, discourses, and performative semantics. Moreover, the open call signals that the festival operates as an inclusive and welcoming community, where anyone has the opportunity to contribute to a shared artistic and intellectual exchange. This is not only liberating for the artists but also makes the experience more engaging for the audience, allowing for a more diverse, unpredictable, and dynamic program. Over the course of two days, 68 artists from 14 countries will present their work—emerging and established artists, young and experienced practitioners, solo performers and collectives—offering glimpses into the vast and often hidden spectrum of contemporary performance and community art practices, revealing less visible, overlooked, and unconventional artistic territories.  A nyílt felhívás műfajának választása tudatos döntés, amely összhangban áll a Performance Now! Fesztivál és a School of Disobedience alapvető értékeivel: kíváncsiság és nyitottság a kísérletezésre, az újra, a szokatlanra, az ismeretlenre, a kiszámíthatatlanra, a váratlanra.
Ha a fesztivál meghívásos lett volna, azzal megmaradtunk volna egy zárt körben, amely az ismert, elismert vagy már bejáratott művészek munkáit preferálja és helyezi előtérbe újra és újra. Ez gyakran a kánon újrajátszásához vezet, amely – bár fontos – nem feltétlenül hoz friss perspektívákat vagy új alkotói hangokat. Az ilyen kurátori döntések kockázata, hogy a megszokott buborékok és kapcsolati hálók tovább erősödnek, miközben a periférián lévő művészek vagy radikálisabb, kísérletezőbb alkotók, marginálisabb hangok nem kapnak teret. A nyílt felhívás ezzel szemben lehetőséget teremt a váratlan találkozásokra és a kanonikus művészeti diskurzus folyamatos megkérdőjelezésére és tágítására. Demokratikusabb, mert nem előzetes ismeretségeken vagy intézményi beágyazottságon múlik a részvétel, hanem a beküldött művek és azok relevanciája alapján dől el. Ez a hozzáállás rezonál a School of Disobedience ethoszával, amely a diszruptív, szubverzív, és kánonon kívüli esztétikák, diskurzusok és performatív szemantikák számára kíván platformot teremteni. A nyílt felhívás egyben azt is jelzi, hogy a fesztivál befogadó és elfogadó közösségként működik, amelyben bárki számára adott a lehetőség, hogy művészetével hozzájáruljon a közös gondolkodáshoz. Ez nemcsak az alkotók számára felszabadító, hanem a közönség számára is izgalmasabb, hiszen így egy sokszínűbb, kiszámíthatatlanabb és élőbb program jöhet létre. A két nap alatt 68 művész mutatkozik meg 14 országból: pályakezdők és ismertebbek, fiatalok és idősebbek, egyéni és csoportos formációk, akik művészetükkel bemutatják a “kortárs performansz és közösségi művészeti praxisok” széles és szinte beláthatatlan spektrumának egy-egy elrejtettebb szegmensét, kevésbé látható zegzugát.  Ecological consciousness has many shapes, and none is more valid than another. We have learned to sort waste, to separate materials, to recognize which bin to use, how to contribute to recycling. But what about the waste we generate in performance art? Not just the material—sets built for a single show, costumes discarded after one run, endless prints, props, and objects created in the name of ephemerality, only to be thrown away—but also the immaterial.
The movements that are too much. The gestures that do not serve. The ornaments, the unnecessary, the redundant. The excess we produce in rehearsals, the layers we build only to strip away, the hours of exploration that never make it into the final piece. What happens to all that energy, that labor? Does it disappear, or does it linger, an invisible residue of overproduction? Curiously, the very system that claims to champion ecological awareness—through thematic open calls, through mandates for slow travel, through application requirements that demand artists prove their ecological sensitivity—is structured in a way that perpetuates the exact opposite. It demands constant production. More and more, in less and less time. It forces artists into cycles of relentless creation, where the expectation is always to present something new, to justify funding by producing more, to adapt to an ever-accelerating system that leaves little room for reuse, reflection, or sustainable practice. What if ecological practice in performance wasn’t just about the physical materials we use but about how we work, how we create, how we rehearse, how we move? What if it was about stripping away—not out of lack, but out of precision? About embracing used, secondhand material instead of looking for endless novelty? About resisting the pressure to overproduce, to overfill, to overcomplicate? How do we break this cycle? How do we create without excess? Can we resist the pressure to generate always something new, accumulate, discard? Can we learn to create from what is already there? To recycle not only objects but also ideas, movements, entire pieces? To work with an economy of means, where nothing is wasted: not energy, not time, not movement. Where we rehearse less, but with more presence. Move less, but with more clarity. Speak less, but with more weight. Do less, but with more meaning.  Simple doesn’t mean easy. Simple doesn’t mean superficial. Simple doesn’t mean empty, nor boring.
The opposite. Simplicity is sharp. It cuts through the noise, the excess, the unnecessary weight we carry in our movements, in our words, in our art. Simplicity is direct. It demands precision. It forces us to strip away the ornament and stand bare, exposed, with only the essence remaining. And that—standing in essence—is the hardest thing to do. To be simple is to be bold. It is to trust that what is essential is enough. It is to resist the temptation to decorate, to fill space just because emptiness makes us uncomfortable. It is to make choices with clarity, to take responsibility for each movement, each pause, each breath. Simplicity does not mean less effort—it means more presence. More listening. More trust in the weight of each action. It is a raw, condensed intensity. A single movement that speaks louder than a hundred. A single gesture that carries the whole story. A single word that lingers longer than a scream. A single movement that holds everything. That echoes, expands, takes root. And that is never easy. |
Author"I graduated from both ESSEC Business School and ENSAPC Art School in France. As a choreographer, cultural entrepreneur, and community activist, I harness the transformative power of art to build spaces, experiences, and communities. My artistic practice explores new poetic, fragile, and hybrid forms, spanning multiple mediums, including text, image, object, and movement. I create full-length dance pieces, short-format performances, immersive installations, multi-sensory community experiences. Over the past two decades, I've founded the School of Disobedience, established my own performance art company (Gray Box), and launched the annual Performance Now! Festival. I embrace everything unusual, unexpected, and nonconformist. I am not kind with assholes and have learned to forge my own path. I am here to guide you in thinking outside the box and achieving independence. To me, the real party is outside the confines of the established canon." Archives
September 2025
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed