TRANSFORMATION
IS THE KEY

PH. MARCO CELLA

Bacolod-born and Brussels-based, Joshua Serafin is a multidisciplinary

artist whose work transcends conventional boundaries of performance, dance, and visual art.

At the latest edition of the Venice Biennale, Foreigners Everywhere,

Serafin’s multi-media performance Void stood out among the emerging

voices at the Arsenale. Combining mythological narratives, ethereal soundscapes, and meticulously crafted choreography, Void

presents a vision of transformation that resists imperialist notions of

identity, beauty, and existence itself. Serafin’s work explores identity,

transmigration, queer politics, and the ways bodies inhabit space.

Their performances act as living rituals, invoking the mythologies

of the Philippine archipelago while envisioning a speculative future

where gender-diverse beings transcend human limitations.

In Void, movement becomes a vehicle for creation, a nonbinary deity manifesting their own world through gesture and fluid expressivity.

This act of self-creation suggests an alternative paradigm of being, one that is in constant flux, resisting fixed categories and embracing perpetual transformation. Trained in dance in the Philippines, Hong Kong, and

Brussels, Serafin merges their background in contemporary choreography with a deeply personal interrogation of identity and postcolonial history. Whether performing on stage, in museums, or through video and

photography, their artistic practice functions as a sociological exorcism, unpacking the historical violence embedded within Filipino

identity and its lingering feudal structures. Their work has garnered international acclaim, with performances showcased across

Europe and East Asia, bridging the worlds of contemporary dance and visual art. As we enter the newly begun Year of the Serpent, we asked Joshua Serafin to guide us through their imaginative universe...

RICCARDO CONTI: Your work immediately struck me for its rich imagery and layered cultural references. I admit I don’t know much about Filipino culture, but I understand it holds fascinating contrasts; Christianity, Buddhism, spiritism, and more. You seem to weave these elements together

into a new mythology through performance and art. How did you start exploring this approach?

JOSHUA SERAFIN: I grew up with a mix of influences, both artistic and cultural. I left home early, moving through different cities (Manila,

Hong Kong, Brussels) and experiencing life in a transient way. This shaped my perspective: I became a body that absorbs cultures, transforming

and adapting. Over time, I developed a manifesto about this: how my body consumes and embodies society, history, and personal experiences. This

idea led me to create my own mythology, a world where I could belong. One of my key creations is Void, an alter ego that gathers diverse influences,

from sci-fi and Power Rangers to burlesque, BDSM, and social media. It became a way to transcend conventional labels of nationality, gender,

and artistic categorization. My goal is to craft a new identity, one that is fluid and adaptable, resonating across different audiences, regardless

of their cultural or intellectual background. My background also plays a role in how I perceive and construct my work. I was raised in a Christian

household, yet spirituality in various forms has always intrigued me. I draw from different belief systems, merging elements of ritual and mythology

with performance. This hybridity creates a space where art becomes a language beyond disciplines, blending sculpture, installation, video, and

movement.

It’s fascinating how contemporary art has this transcultural potential to generate new individual mythologies...

I think that for me; building a mythology is also about finding belonging. Because I’ve lived in so many different places, I have always questioned

where home is. Is it the Philippines? Is it Brussels? Is it the cities I pass through? Over time, I realized home is not a fixed location; it’s a

concept I can build through my work. I manifest this through W, through performance, through the constant reinvention of my identity. My understanding of identity is also deeply tied to movement.

In my life, I have never been fixed in one place, and that sense of fluidity extends to my creative practice. I do not see art as something static or confined to a singular medium. Instead, I see it as something that breathes, that evolves, that interacts with the world around it. I find myself drawn to the in-between spaces, where identities merge, shift, and redefine themselves over time.

Your work transcends disciplines; visual arts, choreography,

performance. How did you come to use your own body as the central medium?

I wasn’t born into an artistic family, but I was always drawn to creative expression. I trained in theater, ballet, and contemporary dance, absorbing

different techniques and philosophies, Stanislavski, Grotowski, physical rigor, and sense memory. Dance was my formal training, but I also worked

with visual artists, which broadened my approach.

Over time, I felt the need to step away from strict categorization. My work isn’t purely contemporary dance, nor is it strictly visual art. Instead, I aim to

create an experience beyond classification. My body became the primary tool because it carries my lived experience; it is the most authentic medium I have.

It must not be easy to be constantly “inside” your own body

while simultaneously conceiving and activating it as a tool…

I’ve also struggled with my body; dysmorphia, the possibility of transitioning, and ultimately deciding to remain non-binary. Through my work, I reclaim

my body as a site of transformation, questioning the structures imposed on identity. Covering myself in liquid materials during performances abstracts my form, allowing me to be seen as pure energy rather

than a fixed gender or ethnicity.

The most immediate interpretation is that the pitch-black liquid

evokes a sort of primordial broth, recalling the aesthetic

category of the “formless.” But then your body emerges, and

it’s as if the history of human figuration unfolds before the

audience…

In some ways, my body functions as a vessel, a carrier of multiple histories and possibilities. Early in my career, I explored clubbing culture, nightlife,

and underground queer spaces. These environments were formative in my understanding of movement and presence. They were spaces of liberation and experimentation, where the body could be something

else each night, an idea I have carried into my artistic practice. I was also trained in a range of traditional and contemporary techniques that inform

my approach. Filipino folk dances, for example, have an innate storytelling aspect that I incorporate into my movement language. I am also inspired

by Butoh, the Japanese dance form that embraces slowness, transformation, and the grotesque. These elements merge into my practice, helping me

craft performances that defy easy categorization.

There’s also a strong connection to ritual. Whether I am performing in a gallery, an open space, or a nightclub, there’s always an aspect of transformation, of entering another state. I think about

performance as a kind of exorcism, an expulsion of emotions, of past selves, of histories embedded in the body.

Your performances take place in vastly different spaces; from

black box theaters to open landscapes. How does the venue influence your work?

The environment plays a crucial role. Some works, like Pearls, are designed for traditional theater settings, while Void thrives in open spaces,

engaging directly with the surrounding architecture and landscape. Performing outdoors, whether in Osaka, Mexico City, or New York, allows for

expansive, high-energy expression. Conversely, in smaller venues like Venice or Hong Kong, I adapt by internalizing the movement, making it more

contained. Each setting alters the performance’s impact, and I enjoy the challenge of reconfiguring my work to interact dynamically with different

spaces. Architecture influences how I move, how the performance unfolds. In New York, performing in a parking lot surrounded by graffiti felt like

landing a spaceship in Brooklyn, whereas in Mexico City, being in front of a Diego Rivera mural created an entirely different dialogue. These juxtapositions are fascinating and fuel my process.

I also consider how close or distant the audience is. In smaller venues, the audience is right there, close enough to touch, which creates a different energy. In outdoor spaces, the scale expands, and

I must project that energy into the vastness. Every performance is unique because of these shifts.

Your work also involves sound, do you have a specific sound aesthetic?

I gravitate towards slow, droning beats, something steady and immersive. My brain moves fast, so I need soundscapes that anchor me. When composing for performances, I collaborate with musicians whose ideologies and creative approaches align with mine. Void, for instance, features three composers, blending eclectic textures without traditional

harmony. Because I’m blindfolded in Void, I rely entirely on sound vibrations to guide my movements. I also think about sound as another

layer of transformation. Just as I reshape my body through costume and movement, sound reshapes the atmosphere. It dictates how people feel, how

they move, how they experience the work.

I bet you’ve been asked this question a thousand times, but your beautiful tattoos seem deeply personal. Do they mark significant moments in your life?

Actually This is the first time that I received this question! and yes: I design all my tattoos. They represent my creatures; versions of Void at different stages. Each one marks a transformation in my life. My latest tattoo, done just weeks ago, reflects my current shift. Last year was difficult: I needed to break, heal, and transform. This tattoo is a reminder of that metamorphosis. It symbolizes unapologetic self-ownership, stepping into confidence without fear or hesitation. I’m claiming this new narrative for myself, both in art and in life.I see tattoos as another form of performance. They are permanent marks, but they also evolve as my body evolves. They are my personal mythology written on my skin.