Joshua Serafin: Decoding Identity Through Body Language

Sometimes humans are unable to recognize and accept their body — the asymmetry, the lines, the curves, the bounce, the gait — all the minutiae that define one’s physicality. This disconnection affects how the self interacts with the world from nurturing an authentic identity to expressing desire. The body is the basic unit of autonomy in the community. Without tending to this individual social unit, the collective can atrophy like a muscle group at prolonged rest. 

Dancer Joshua Serafin shines a light on this subject by exploring the nuances of his identity. As a Filipino artist based in Belgium, he explores various notions on transmigration, queer politics, and states of being. “I believe dancing is one of the many practices which can be used to heal oneself. To dance gives us an opportunity to listen to the most natural rhythm of our body,” he says. 

With training and persistence, Serafin has transplanted himself in another continent without losing his balance. L'Officiel speaks to him about this unique position and how he fosters a deep sense of identity and belonging through the art of rhythm and movement, .

How did you get into dancing? What made you decide to focus on dance among other modes of expression and performance?
I’m the kid in the family who always just danced and moved. But my first formal training was dance with Ballet Philippines’ summer workshop when I was 13. It was just after my first year in the Philippine High School for the Arts. I was a theater major back then. After high school, I decided to continue studying dance at UP Diliman, but after a year, I was given a scholarship from Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts where I stayed for two years. I was accepted to PARTS (Performing Arts Research and Training Studios) in Brussels where I graduated in 2019. There wasn’t really a monumental period where I said, “Okay, I’ll just dance.” I always say that I ride this boat called dancing, and I just follow where the current leads me, while also taking a lot of decisions with the choices that are dealt with me. At an early age, I was exposed to different works, modes of production, and practices from people I was surrounded with. So, I always thought art-making is just one whole thing with different forms. But there was also a stronger sensation — one which gave me the will to create works that are more ambiguous in a sense of form. I wanted to work with the body, and I believe dancing has more possibilities and malleability on what a performance can be.

Your work deals with questions about identity, transmigration, queer politics, and representation, states of being, and ways of inhabiting the body. How did dancing help you unravel your identity?
Dance has always been something that is constant. It's an entity that is always there. It’s my work — but I can’t really draw a line between life and work. They’re the same. Dance, for me, has become a platform to tackle and materialize all of the ideas I’m interested in. But it’s also a two-way relationship — while dancing gives me this platform, it’s also the practice that allows me to discover these ideas too.

Do you think other people can connect more to their inner self through dancing and movement? In what ways?
Definitely! We listen to our breathing and to music; we listen and create movements and gestures to find what’s pleasurable for us. Also, dance brings people together. We listen to the collective rhythm we create in a shared space. 

What's your favorite music to dance to?
I really enjoy experimental music, classical, techno.

Tell us about your recent projects.
I’m currently taking my master’s degree in Visual Arts at KASK School for the Arts in Ghent. I just finished teaching and choreographing a work with Ballet Philippines for the past 11 months — the work is titled, Dystopian Body. I've collaborated and created three performances from two artists based in Europe and one from the Philippines, which is Eisa Jocson’s Manila Zoo. I’m also participating in and creating new work for Viva ExCon situated in Visayas. Besides this, I’m developing a new piece called, Cosmological Gangbang. What also kept me busy is my first work and solo called, Miss, which is an hour-long performance based on Filipino queer beauty pageants. 

Your work, Miss, is very interesting because it distills the essence of rural queer pageantry through the economy of artful movements. How did this come about? What experiences led you to this concept?
I’ve always been interested in transformation, becoming, and embodying queer forms and narratives. The earliest memory of rural queer pageantry was when I was four in my hometown, Bacolod. One night, I was playing with a friend of mine, and we came across a bunch of people and a stage in front of them. My four-year-old self experienced glamor, curiosity, and confusion due to the queer contestant onstage. Fast forward to 2017, when we were asked to make a solo in PARTS, I wanted to create something that’s coming from my context, so I decided to create something out of the Philippine pageant culture. I’m fascinated with the labor of becoming and performing perfection, beauty, and the fantasy of womanhood in these competitions — all of the hardships and the unforeseen politics that are hidden to spectators. 

I'm sure you train rigorously — which is something we don't see. Can you describe your work behind the scenes before completing a performance? 
When I prepare for a performance or creating new work, I always make sure that I am physically, mentally, and psychologically fit, which is very difficult to maintain all the time. My physical work consists of running, yoga, and dance training. I also make sure that I’m eating healthy, and I also learned that giving myself a break is very important.

I juggle between intense rehearsal periods, then I step away from the work and give myself time to wonder and reflect, then engage in moments of nothingness, and then I come back to work again. 
To create a work, it takes a lot of trying, failing, and reorganizing. It’s a puzzle. A lot of inspiration for my work comes mainly from images that just pop into my head — some come from my dreams and personal desires of becoming. It's an accumulation of these images that sometimes could take years for me to define them, materialize them, and give birth to them.

To give a more concrete idea of the process I put in my work, in the context of creating a performance, I would divide the process into two things. The first part is the theoretical part of the work where I do research, interview people who are knowledgeable on the topic, watch films, go to museums and galleries to see artworks that revolve around the topic, and everything that would give me more insight and context on the topic. The second part of the process is bodily practice. How do I translate all of the insight that I have accumulated and use that as a choreographic tool, then be situated in space and time, and organizing the body in it? A huge part of the process is showing the work and gaining insight and feedback from my colleagues and collaborators.  Creating a performance is not just all about creative composition, half of the work is administration — writing proposals, looking for funding, communications, and all the paperwork.