 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
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 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.  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.  The Performance Now! Festival is not merely a festival. At least, not just that. Above all, it is a community art practice that aims to provide space for other community art practices. A mise en abyme: art within art, community within community.
Thus, Performance Now! uses the form, the means of expression, the medium of a "festival," but fundamentally represents different goals and values than festivals typically do. Here, collaboration, joint creation, and community building are clear priorities; the aim is to function as an arena where people meet and connect. It's a priority to hold space and give space: for creation, experience, learning and teaching, mutual development, and reflection. The "together" is important, that everyone matters here, that the "festival" as an artistic form structures, organizes, and systematizes, provides a framework, thus offering safety, creating opportunities, and opening doors. It connects and forges. Builds and enables. The "together" and the "equally" are important: here, everyone gives and receives, teaches and learns, puts in and takes out. The festival is practically organized by a community of 100 people, of which you are also a part. There's the organizing team, students of the Art Theory and Curatorial Studies Programs of the Hungarian University of Fine Arts, and those who have connected with us: either by hosting a foreign artist, writing about us, providing dramaturgical consultation to the artists as theoretical experts, attending professional programs to network, students who photograph, friends who collect tickets, people who, in one way or another, contribute their knowledge and time to then gain the experience, the learning, the connection that the festival offers. This is barter trade, an alternative to the capitalist system, proof that it can be done this way too. Differently, and like this. I'm not claiming this is "the" solution, but I'm actively experimenting to show that creating quality art, forging relationships, developing, and learning doesn't cost millions; there's no need for NKA, Creative Europe, scholarships, grants, or sponsors because everyone contributes a little. This is the essence of this festival: everyone contributes a little to create something big together. And here, "big" doesn't mean visible, glaringly shining, overflowing from everywhere, but valuable and essential. Defining. Because it's human. The fact that, instead of the obvious capitalist setup, barter trade is our business model means that we've eliminated monetary transactions as much as possible; our currency is not the forint but the festival pass; this is the basis of our system. You don't have to agree with this; the formula is very simple: if you don't want to be a member of our community and trade with your time or knowledge, you can still buy a pass; we keep this option open, but we don't specifically support it. Why is it designed this way? For the reason I started with: because the focus here is on "together." That this festival is primarily a platform for meeting and connecting. And the entire organizational model is nothing more than a sincere gesture in this direction. It's a filter, and the filter is a focus. At this festival, with this organization, the people present over the next two days are those who believe in these values, who understand this, and who see the "deal" in this, that they actually get much more if they come to collect tickets for three hours than if they buy a pass... Those who are here now, and those who will be present over the weekend, are primarily those who want to join the project, and only then the festival. So, those who were captivated by the community in this, our values, and only secondarily the program. Because, essentially, here the community itself is the program, the value, and the goal. I warmly welcome, therefore, at this press conference, members of our community who have joined this in one form or another:
Thank you for being here and for this being important to you too! February 7, 2025 3. Performance Now! Festival Press Preview  During my time teaching at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, my students often asked, "What is the role of the artist today?" I believe the artist’s role is not just to observe but to learn how to truly see, to make visible the tangled web of existence we so often overlook. While political rhetoric, religious doctrines, and dogmatic ideologies attempt to streamline reality—bending it to fit their agendas—artists dive into the mess of contradictions, paradoxes, and uncertainties that shape our lives.
Politics simplifies. It reduces the complex to digestible slogans, aiming to persuade, not to explore. Religion and ideology, too, provide comforting frameworks, but these frameworks can flatten the intricacies of perception, imposing truths where there are often only questions. What is lost in this process? The richness of life’s diversity, the subtle interactions, and the contradictions that make us who we are. Artists, on the other hand, reject these shortcuts. They reveal the layers, the connections, the things that don’t fit neatly into a box. They lean into ambiguity, embracing the shades of gray that others avoid. Their work does more than capture a moment—it uncovers how emotions, culture, social structures, and our environment are woven together in ways that are impossible to reduce to simple answers. Through this exploration, artists present a more honest, pluralistic view of existence. When we engage with art, we are asked to look deeper, to push past surface interpretations. Art reflects back at us the complexity of our own lives, inviting us to question, to reflect, and ultimately to embrace the uncertainty that surrounds us. That’s why artists are feared by those in power: they disrupt the narratives, they expose what’s hidden, and they inspire change in ways that shake the foundation of rigid systems.  In the world of political activism, we often talk about systems and structures, about dismantling the forces that oppress and silence. But rarely do we start where all true transformation begins: with ourselves. Self-empowerment is not about ego, nor is it some isolated act of self-improvement divorced from the larger fight. It is the essential root of any lasting change, the bedrock from which all activism must grow. Without this foundation, any movement risks being hollow, a mere reaction to external forces rather than a force of its own.
Self-empowerment is not just personal growth. It’s about seeing yourself clearly, owning your strengths and weaknesses, and recognizing how deeply intertwined your internal battles are with the external struggles you fight against. When we learn to empower ourselves, we’re not just becoming better activists; we’re learning to dismantle the internalized narratives that keep us complicit in systems of oppression. And this is where the real work begins. When you begin this journey, you don’t just change how you move through the world—you change how you see the world. The personal becomes political, and suddenly, what seemed like small, individual acts of transformation—speaking out, reclaiming space, challenging your own conditioning—become threads in the larger fabric of revolution. And this is how movements grow. From the ground up. From the individual outward. Self-empowerment also brings with it a necessary resilience. When you’ve worked through your own fears and limitations, you don’t just learn to stand in your truth—you become unshakable. In a world that constantly pushes back against change, it is this inner strength that sustains you, that keeps you fighting when the stakes are high and the obstacles seem insurmountable. And in that steadiness, others find their strength. Self-empowerment is contagious. At the School of Disobedience, we teach that your personal transformation is never just yours. It’s a spark. As you change, so does the world around you. This is why we insist that activism and self-empowerment are inseparable. You cannot fight to free others if you are not free within yourself. Every personal breakthrough, every layer of social conditioning you peel away, every step you take toward your own liberation adds momentum to the broader struggle. We don’t pretend that self-empowerment is easy. It’s not. It requires a deep willingness to confront the ways we’ve been shaped by the very systems we seek to undo. It asks you to examine your place within those systems—where you’ve benefited, where you’ve been complicit, and where you’ve suffered. It’s uncomfortable work, but it’s necessary if we want to create something more than just another iteration of the same old power dynamics. When individuals do this work, something extraordinary happens: the collective shifts. A movement becomes more than just a reaction to injustice; it becomes a vision of a new way of being, a new way of existing together. This is where the real power lies, in the ability to see beyond the immediate struggle to the world we want to create—and in knowing that the world we want to create starts with us. At the School of Disobedience, we teach you to see yourself as a vital part of this transformation. Your growth is not a side effect of activism—it is activism. By aligning personal empowerment with collective action, we forge a path that leads not just to resistance, but to creation. We’re not just fighting against systems; we’re building new ones, ones that make space for everyone, that reflect the values of equality, justice, and freedom. This is the future we envision. A world where self-empowerment is not a luxury but a necessity, where personal transformation feeds directly into social revolution, and where every individual who dares to confront their own shadows becomes a beacon of possibility for others. The systems that bind us fear this kind of power because it cannot be controlled, and it cannot be stopped. This is your invitation to step into that power. To transform yourself, and in doing so, transform the world.  Human desire revolves around the idea of lacking what we do not have, making it a central part of our existence. We constantly yearn for what we perceive as missing, and this perpetual desire keeps us from true contentment. Desire equates to lack, and lack brings suffering.
Happiness is often thought of as having what we want, but it's not about having everything we want. Kant suggests that true happiness is more an ideal of imagination than reason. Real contentment comes from fulfilling a significant portion of our desires. However, we only desire what we don't have, so we are perpetually seeking and never completely satisfied. When a desire is fulfilled, it ceases to be a desire. Sartre said, “Pleasure is the death and failure of desire.” Once we get what we want, it loses its allure, and we start longing for something new. Therefore, happiness isn't about having what we once desired but continuously having new desires. Unfulfilled desires cause frustration and suffering, while fulfilled desires lead to boredom, as the lack and longing that drive us dissipate. The object of our desire, when unattained, seems to hold unparalleled value. But once achieved, it loses its significance, and we quickly move on to desiring something new. Eastern philosophies, particularly Buddhism, emphasize the idea that attachment to desires is the root of suffering. The Four Noble Truths teach that recognizing the nature of suffering, understanding its cause (attachment and desire), and following the Eightfold Path can lead to liberation from this cycle. By letting go of attachment and learning to be present, one can find peace and contentment that transcends the ups and downs of desire. As Schopenhauer states, happiness is not the presence of desire but its absence. You might think, "I would be happy if..." but whether the "if..." comes true or not, true happiness is rarely found. Instead, we oscillate between suffering from unfulfilled desires and boredom from satisfied ones. This leads to the grim realization summed up by Schopenhauer's quote: "Life swings like a pendulum, from right to left, from suffering to boredom." George Bernard Shaw poignantly summarized this paradox by stating: "There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is to get it."  My Fight Clubs are arenas for reappropriation. Here, through practices like self-defense, wrestling, and playful fighting, we not only reclaim but also assert our ownership of voices, bodies, emotions, and spaces that rightfully belong to us but have been unjustly taken away.
My Fight Clubs are also brave spaces where we dare to challenge societal norms and personal limitations. In this nurturing and secure environment, participants are encouraged to explore their physical and emotional boundaries without fear of judgment, allowing for deep personal growth and empowerment. My Fight Clubs are political soft spaces for tactical and strategic thinking, where we learn how to navigate power dynamics, resist domination, and stand up for ourselves. Here, I empower individuals to become agents of transformation, starting with their own personal development. My Fight Clubs are spaces of leadership outside of the capitalist framework. Here, we explore our unique leadership styles and reclaim agency, fostering confidence, and developing the skills necessary to occupy space and effect change. |
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
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