When encountering dancer and choreographer Akram Khan at Sadler’s Wells Theatre in London, a sense of subtle transformation is palpable. It’s an elusive change – a familiar yet different presence. Perhaps a leaner physique? Or a hint of weariness, though quickly dispelled by bright eyes and an engaged demeanor. Or simply the usual constraints of a tightly packed schedule.
In truth, all these observations hold a degree of accuracy. A passing colleague remarks on Khan’s ‘trim’ appearance, confirming the initial impression. And yes, time remains a precious commodity for Khan. Despite the late hour, lunch is yet to be had, and our meeting is interwoven with bites of food, squeezed into a narrow gap in his day. Currently, he is immersed in the creation of two new works – Dust, for the English National Ballet, premiered in April, and Torobaka, a collaboration with flamenco innovator Israel Galván – alongside his work with the National Youth Dance Company and the ongoing international tour of Desh, his compelling 2011 solo performance.
However, the most significant catalyst for this perceived shift is a deeply personal one: fatherhood. The arrival of his daughter, Sayuri, last year has been transformative, reshaping his perspectives, priorities, and even the trajectory of this conversation. Initially intending to discuss the next phase of his career as he approaches 40 – a milestone where dancers often confront the finite nature of a stage career – the focus naturally shifts to navigating life’s evolving landscape. Instead of future plans, the conversation centers on adapting to present realities.
Practical considerations and efficient time management have become paramount. ‘A child fundamentally alters your life,’ Khan states simply. ‘Their needs become the immediate priority. You cannot superimpose your schedule onto them.’ Sayuri’s arrival triggered an unconscious reprioritization of time, placing moments with her at the forefront. This shift has led to a reduction in extensive touring. When tours are necessary, he aims for a maximum duration of three weeks, endeavoring to coordinate trips allowing Sayuri and his wife Yuko to visit family in Japan. Khan’s familial bonds have always been strong, now amplified by proximity, with his parents and sister residing nearby in south London, providing invaluable support in his new family life.
In terms of his artistic endeavors, Khan clarifies, ‘I don’t believe I am working less, but rather compressing my work into intensely focused periods, recognizing the value of time. Previously, studio discoveries unfolded organically through extended exploration. Now, preparation is significantly more thorough. Studio time becomes more concentrated, more deliberate. While not my preferred method, it fosters a distinct sharpness and precision.’
Fatherhood, while demanding, has unexpectedly become a source of creative impetus. ‘Undeniably, Sayuri requires considerable energy,’ he concedes, ‘yet I believe she reciprocates even more. Observing a child’s growth is profoundly inspiring. It’s a return to fundamentals, witnessing how simple gestures and interactions resonate with her. These seemingly small moments are far from trivial. As adults, we often take so much for granted. Witnessing a baby’s discoveries allows for a shared rediscovery. That is truly exceptional.’
This sense of rediscovery and rejuvenation has directly influenced Torobaka, the collaborative piece Khan is developing with Israel Galván, himself a father of two. ‘We did discuss our children and introduced them to each other,’ Khan recounts. ‘Torobaka is rooted in shared inspiration from simple elements. Desh was a complex, multi-layered work, but with Torobaka, we consciously sought the opposite approach. We returned to the essence of sound before it becomes recognizable music, to the foundational movements and gestures inherent in childhood.’ Both artists, deeply versed in their respective disciplines – Khan in kathak and contemporary dance, Galván in flamenco – found common ground in this pursuit of simplicity, connecting through the lens of infancy. ‘Flamenco and kathak both originate from fundamental human expression, and we aimed to revisit their origins, to imagine the nascent stages of these forms, when they were still in the process of self-discovery.’
An engagement with infancy naturally brings an awareness of age – of growth and the inevitable process of aging. As a dancer, Khan has become acutely aware of the physical demands and the passage of time on his body. In 2010, a shoulder injury delayed the premiere of his duet Gnosis. ‘A dancer communicates through their body,’ he remarked then, adding, ‘this time, my body responded.’ In 2012, a ruptured Achilles tendon sidelined him for months. Is it, perhaps, a time to consider easing the physical intensity?
Contrary to expectation, Khan appears to be intensifying his commitment to physical conditioning, precisely to mitigate the risk of injury. ‘My preparation is more rigorous than ever. I now dedicate two additional hours to preparation before entering the rehearsal studio compared to my twenties and early thirties. Prevention is the guiding principle.’ Not only preparation but also recovery demands greater attention. ‘In youth, recovery from time off is swift, a matter of days. Now, the recovery period is significantly extended. Consequently, I can no longer afford the breaks in training I once took. Frankly, the preparation itself loses its appeal; the true joy lies in creation and performance.’ Nonetheless, he remains a profoundly physical dancer, not yet inclined to transition to a less demanding stage. ‘I suppose I naturally gravitate towards high-energy dynamics,’ he reflects. ‘Embracing a slower tempo is a process I am –’ he pauses, then laughs – ‘slowly embracing.’
A further connection between Khan and Galván emerges: kathak and flamenco traditions often see performers continue their careers well beyond the typical lifespan in ballet or contemporary dance. ‘That’s true,’ Khan affirms. ‘The techniques place different stresses on the body. In any case, one also recognizes that beyond mere physical agility, age imparts an emotional depth to the body. The focus shifts to conveying emotions, as the physicality becomes so ingrained that overt display becomes less necessary.’
This interplay between physical and emotional presence is compelling for a performer. Khan ventures to suggest that ‘the years between 35 and 45 might represent a golden age. It’s a period of exploring and layering upon the foundation of years of training.’
This perspective is echoed by Israel Galván, contacted by telephone amidst his own demanding schedule while traveling from New Zealand to New York. ‘To dance flamenco as a true professional,’ he asserts, ‘youth is not the defining factor. A young dancer may exhibit virtuosity or raw energy in flamenco. However, authentic flamenco expression emerges from experience. A different kind of energy develops to fuel the dance. A balance between age and power, right? That is why I believe the ideal age for a dancer – provided they maintain fitness – is between 50 and 55.’ (Galván is currently 41.)
Galván expresses admiration for the renowned Butoh dancer Kazuo Ohno, who lived to 102 and danced until his centenary year. ‘He posed a fundamental question,’ Galván reflects. ‘What holds greater significance in dance: the athletic prowess or the spirit?’ The implication is that a dancer possesses something that transcends the physical act of dance itself. ‘The truth is, art is a way of life. It extends beyond dance performances or even dance itself. For instance, even when I am at home relaxing, my daughter tells me: ‘Daddy, don’t dance!’ Because she perceives that my mind is perpetually engaged in dance. Art is intrinsic. Even in periods of non-creation or performance, your mind is always dancing, you understand?’
