t h e o r y s l o 0 p —

NO I AM NOT A CHOREOGRAPHER

Introduction: The weight of the label

The title “choreographer” carries with it a heavy load of expectations: authority over creative decisions, authorship of artistic work, and legitimacy within institutional and professional hierarchies. To be called a choreographer is to be recognised as a maker who directs movement, who shapes meaning through dance, and who holds a position of leadership within the field. These associations have been historically tied to the centralisation of power and the enforcement of norms regarding who may create, what counts as dance, and how value is assigned.

In recent years, however, there has been a notable trend among dancers, movement artists, and creators to resist or refuse this label. Many express a preference for describing themselves as “just dancing,” as “movement practitioners,” or as participants in collective, non-hierarchical processes. This refusal can be a deliberate political gesture — a challenge to the traditional gatekeeping functions of the choreographer role and an embrace of fluidity, openness, and shared authorship.

Yet this widespread reluctance to claim the choreographer identity also raises important questions. What does it mean to refuse this title in contexts still deeply shaped by institutional power? How might such refusal serve to both resist and obscure dynamics of domination? And what space remains — or must be made — for politics that address power beyond the terms of authorship and authority?

Refusal as resistance

Refusing the label “choreographer” can be a powerful form of critique against entrenched hierarchies in dance and the broader arts world. The title often signifies a concentration of creative authority—a single figure shaping and directing the work, whose vision defines what counts as art and who is included or excluded. In this way, the choreographer role is embedded within a system that privileges individual authorship, institutional recognition, and clear lines of command.

By rejecting this title, many practitioners challenge these normative power structures. This refusal can be an explicit political statement against the gatekeeping and centralisation of authority that the choreographer role traditionally embodies. It opens up possibilities for practices that are more horizontal, collective, or fluid—where authorship is shared, decisions emerge through collaboration, and the boundaries between creator, performer, and audience become porous. In doing so, refusal aligns with wider movements in contemporary art that question fixed identities and hierarchical modes of production.

Several artists and collectives have articulated this position clearly. For example, the collaborative dance company [insert example, e.g., Rimini Protokoll or Chunky Move] emphasizes shared creation processes where leadership is distributed rather than centred. Similarly, testimonies from dancers who identify as “movement practitioners” rather than choreographers often highlight the political importance of maintaining openness and resisting categorisation. For these artists, refusal is not mere modesty or avoidance; it is an active resistance to dominant modes of artistic control and a refusal to be confined by narrow institutional definitions.

Refusal as limitation

While the refusal to claim the label “choreographer” can function as a critical resistance, it can also operate as a shield—sometimes unintentionally—against political accountability and deeper engagement with the complex structures of domination within dance and the arts. When the response to questions about power, hierarchy, or exclusion is simply “I’m just dancing” or “I’m not a choreographer,” the door closes on collective dialogue about how authority circulates and how inequalities persist.

In this way, the trope of “just dancing” can be weaponized, functioning as a rhetorical barrier that dismisses or deflects critique. It allows practitioners to evade responsibility for addressing issues such as gatekeeping, access, and the reproduction of norms. This dismissal can silence those who raise concerns about power imbalances, effectively positioning the refusal to engage as a form of privilege that protects the status quo.

In my own research experience, this dynamic became painfully clear. Within a project where multiple co-researchers participated, some repeatedly referenced their credentials as “dancer” in contrast to my position as a “choreographer.” This not only marked a division of legitimacy but also limited space for collective reflection on domination and power. The refusal to identify as choreographers was often accompanied by an assumption that dance practice alone was inherently “just enough”—an assumption that foreclosed opportunities to question or intervene in existing hierarchies.

Such experiences highlight the ambivalence of refusal: it can open space for political experimentation but also risk shutting down the very conversations needed to build more equitable and conscious practices. Recognizing this tension is essential if refusal is to become a productive gesture rather than a defensive retreat.

The ambivalence of refusal

The refusal to claim the label “choreographer” embodies a fundamental ambivalence. On one hand, it can be profoundly liberating—offering a break from entrenched hierarchies, opening space for fluid identities, and fostering collective or non-hierarchical modes of creation. It can serve as a powerful critique of authorship, authority, and the institutional frameworks that have long governed dance and the arts.

On the other hand, this same refusal can impose limits. It risks becoming a fixed position that closes off deeper political engagement or forecloses opportunities for accountability. When refusal solidifies into a protective boundary, it can inhibit the very conversations and collaborations necessary for meaningful structural change. This dual potential means refusal is never simply a stable identity or stance; it is a political gesture that carries tension within itself.

To navigate this ambivalence, refusal must be approached as an ongoing process—one that demands continuous reflection, critical dialogue, and willingness to revisit its implications. It should not be a final refuge but a provisional move within a broader political practice that remains attentive to power in all its complexities. Only then can refusal contribute to a dynamic and accountable politics of dance and creative practice.

Toward accountable refusal

Refusal of the label “choreographer” holds significant political potential—but to realize this potential, it must be paired with explicit commitments that prevent it from becoming a retreat or a block to collective action. An accountable refusal embraces not only the rejection of hierarchical authorship but also a proactive engagement with the multiple forms of domination that shape dance and creative practice.

This means fostering spaces of collective care and solidarity, where questions of power, access, and exclusion are addressed openly and inclusively. Refusal should be accompanied by ongoing dialogue that welcomes critique rather than shutting it down—recognizing that accountability is not about fixed identities but about relationships and responsibilities within communities of practice.

Politically generative refusal also involves recognizing the diverse positionalities of practitioners: acknowledging how race, gender, class, and other axes of power intersect with artistic roles. By doing so, refusal can become a tool for building coalitions that move beyond individual identity claims toward shared commitments to equity and transformation.

In short, refusal is most powerful when it is not an endpoint but a starting point—a gesture that signals openness to rethink and remake the terms of creative and political engagement. Only by keeping refusal accountable and connected to care can it contribute meaningfully to dismantling domination within and beyond dance.

Conclusion: Refusal as movement, not destination

To refuse the title “choreographer” is not to find a fixed identity or final refuge but to engage in an ongoing negotiation with power, identity, and creative practice. Refusal should not be mistaken for an endpoint where questions of authority and domination disappear; rather, it is a gesture that moves within and against these structures—sometimes expanding possibilities, sometimes confronting limits, and always inviting reconsideration.

This continual movement means that refusal remains open and unsettled. It calls for vigilance against complacency or defensive closure and demands a readiness to engage with critique, care, and collective responsibility. In this way, refusal becomes a dynamic political act—one that refuses to be pinned down, that resists simplification, and that embodies the complexity of living and creating within shifting fields of power.

Ultimately, the refusal to claim the choreographer label is best understood not as a declaration of innocence or separation, but as part of a larger, ongoing process: a movement that challenges hierarchies while recognizing its own tensions; a practice that resists domination while remaining open to transformation; and a politics that insists on dialogue, accountability, and continual remaking.