No net. Just movement.

This month, we hear from New York-based choreographer and mover Sarah Albee!

In this blog, Sarah reflects on the Vice Versa New York pilot show, and the adventurous spirit of jumping head first into a collaborative improvisatory process.

Please shed light on where your art is rooted and how improvisation relates to your artistic process. How does your creative process shift when collaborating with others?

I began my personal material with three solo studies inspired by our theme of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Normally, I start with a curated word bank—little linguistic stepping stones that guide me into movement. But this time, I decided to forget about the words and head straight into the unknown. No net. Just movement.

I started asking myself the important questions: How would a rock move? Not just any

rock—but a rock with a full life story. A pebble-rock toddler. An angsty adolescent

boulder. A wise, weathered cliff face nearing retirement. What is a rock’s emotional arc?

And then there were scissors—sharp, precise, a little dramatic. What if my limbs were

scissors? Could I only hinge? Only slice? Only open and snap shut with metallic

conviction? And paper—delicate yet resilient, floating yet firm. Could I crumple? Tear?

Drift? What did all of this mean and how could I translate this into physical material?

It all began from a literal place. I met these objects head-on, gave them personalities,

quirks, habits. I let them be stubborn or fragile or dangerously decisive. That was my

doorway in—befriending the inanimate until they weren’t so inanimate anymore.

Once I knew the theme, I built some material independently to bring to the group. But

truthfully, I prefer to enter collaborative spaces a little blind. There’s something electric

about walking into a room not knowing what your fellow artists have created. It feels

like opening presents on a holiday where everyone is wildly creative and slightly

unhinged in the best way.

photos by Asia Mielezko

Fast forward a few months: I’m in the room with these brilliant artists, witnessing their

creations for the very first time. As I listened to their interpretations of “Rock, Paper,

Scissors,” I realized my take was wildly different. And instead of feeling off-balance, I

felt thrilled. Suddenly, the world expanded. The playground got bigger.

I found myself revisiting the notes from our first brainstorming session—the day we

spilled ideas across a giant roll of brown paper like artistic conspiracy theorists

mapping out a master plan. I remember the buzz in my body, the mental gears clicking

into motion. I wanted to stand up immediately and try everything. To embody these

new words. To see what they felt like in bone and muscle and breath.

Working with Brendan, Elena, and Dan, who built the sonic landscape around us, felt

both grounding and adventurous. Music has always been a central force in my creative

process. Typically, the music comes first. It’s the foundation, the architecture, the emotional climate. Movement grows out of it, around it, and through it. There’s comfort in that structure; the sound creates a home, and the movement simply lives inside it. But this process was different. The music and movement were unfolding simultaneously, like two people telling the same story in different languages and somehow understanding each other perfectly. No one knew exactly where we were headed. There was no pre-drawn map. Just a shared agreement that we would arrive

somewhere, together.

Because of that, the journey became the point.

Instead of chasing a polished, final product, I found myself sinking deeper into what

was already present. The half-formed ideas. The in-between states. The messy, vibrant

middle. The more we stayed curious about what was happening in real time, the more

space opened up for discovery.

Most of the work I’ve performed in the past has been set choreography to set music.

Even when I draw from visual art, the piece already exists in its finished form. You can study it, decode it, research the artist’s intention. There’s context. There are answers. But what happens when the artist is creating right in front of you? When the paint is still wet? When the sound hasn’t fully settled into shape?

In those moments, I had to quiet the analytical voice in my head—the one that likes to

label, organize, and justify. Instead, I leaned into instinct. Watching Anne and Bri create

in real time made me hyper-aware of the immediate exchange between my eyes and

my body. I became fascinated by the possibility of removing the “middleman.” What if

the information didn’t have to pass through careful thought? What if what I saw could

travel straight into muscle memory, into impulse, into motion?

As someone who typically dissects every choice I make as a dancer, this was

unfamiliar territory. And I loved it. There was freedom in letting go of the need to

understand everything before responding. There was honesty in reacting before

reasoning.

Looking back, this entire process felt like playing an expansive, layered game of Rock,

Paper, Scissors with myself and with others. Sometimes I was the rock, grounded and

steady. Sometimes the scissors, decisive and sharp. Sometimes the paper, open,

receptive, ready to be reshaped. I learned that I don’t have to begin with language to

find movement. I learned that uncertainty can be a collaborator rather than an obstacle.

And most importantly, I learned that when I trust instinct over analysis, I uncover parts

of myself that logic alone could never reach.

I enjoyed this process more than I can fully articulate. It stretched me, surprised me,

and reminded me why I make art in the first place: not to arrive neatly at an answer, but

to stay curious inside the question. Through rocks, scissors, paper, and the beautifully

unpredictable humans around me, I discovered that I am braver in uncertainty than I

thought, and far more playful, too.