ezdanza

It started during lunch breaks.

We were in the middle of an intense creation period at the Licenciatura en Artes Circenses Contemporáneas (Escuela Cirko de Mente, LACC) in Mexico City. Between sessions, I would often step outside to catch some air, stretch my legs, maybe review some notes. But what I began to notice during those breaks changed the way I saw my collaborators, and performance itself.

While most of us stayed behind to eat or rest, a few of the students would quickly change clothes, grab a handful of props, juggling clubs, a monocycle, or balls, and rush out the door. At first, I assumed they were going to rehearse somewhere. But they weren’t. They were heading to the nearest semáforo, the traffic light.

Fifteen minutes later, they’d return: sweating, laughing, maybe with a few coins in hand. I eventually followed one of them, curious. What I saw stunned me.

Right there, at the edge of a bustling intersection, my collaborators, who I had just seen refining intricate sequences in the studio, were performing full-out routines in the street. Not just random tricks, but tight, rhythmic, inventive performances. As soon as the light turned red, they’d step into traffic and give it everything they had, for 60 to 90 seconds, before the green light sent them darting back to the curb.

It was electrifying.

As someone who comes from dance, a field so tied to structure, curation, and controlled environments, this was completely outside my frame of reference. We spend years training to prepare for perfect conditions: sprung floors, lighting cues, an attentive audience, silence. Yet here were these artists doing backflips on pavement, juggling between cars, improvising with honking as background music. And they weren’t doing it as a gimmick. They were doing it with artistry, urgency, and pride.

I later learned this practice has a name in Latin America: El Faro, or “The Lighthouse.” It’s a poetic term for a gritty, everyday reality. In cities like Mexico City, Santiago, and Bogotá, circus artists perform at traffic lights not only for income, but to keep their skills sharp, to stay visible, to connect. The semáforo becomes their stage. The red light, their curtain rise. The drivers and pedestrians, their unpredictable audience.

This experience didn’t change how I choreograph or direct. It didn’t alter my methods or shift my aesthetic. But it did something quieter, and in many ways more lasting. It deepened my respect.

Back in the studio, I began to see my collaborators differently. There was a presence in them, a groundedness, that I hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just their technical ability or their physical intelligence. It was something that felt earned. I realized that the artists I was working with weren’t just students refining material for a future performance. They were already performers. Already artists. Already giving themselves to an audience daily.

The rehearsal space, for them, wasn’t a bubble or a waiting room. It was a rare and precious opportunity, a place with clean floors, lighting, time to explore, and the chance to build something deeply intentional. And because they knew what it meant to fight for visibility, to dance and tumble and clown in the face of indifference or chaos, they brought an extra sense of love and humility into every task we undertook.

They didn’t see the process as something owed to them. Instead, they approached it with care, almost reverence. Their work in the streets didn’t make the rehearsal process feel smaller. It made it feel more meaningful. Because they had seen what it meant to perform with nothing, they didn’t take anything for granted.

I went to Mexico to teach and create, but what I left with was something I couldn’t have planned for. As a choreographer living and working in Canada, I’ve been shaped by systems of rehearsal, support, and production. I’ve built my career in spaces that protect and elevate artistic practice. I’m grateful for that.

But witnessing these circus artists at the semáforo taught me something I hadn’t known I was missing. It reminded me of the raw urgency and courage it takes to perform without a net, literally and figuratively. They showed me that performance doesn’t always need the right conditions to matter. Sometimes it’s more meaningful when it happens in spite of the conditions.

I didn’t change how I create. But I did change how I look at the people I create with.

Now, when I step into a studio or rehearsal hall, especially with young circus artists, I carry that experience with me. I understand the quiet depth behind their presence. I understand what it means to love your craft enough to risk indifference, danger, or discomfort, just for the chance to share it.

And that, to me, is the true heart of performance. Not just artistry or technique, but the simple, powerful act of being present, being fully committed, giving something real, wherever the world meets you.

Photos:
First photo: Photographer unknown
Second photo: Lukas Berger
Artists: Juan Hernandez Hernandez (malabarist and monocyclist), Lucia Hernandez Cruz (dance trapeze aerialist and malabarist)