Ido Gidron: “Want to truly dance? Forget how it’s done”

A conversation with a teacher of the Jerusalem Ballet Summer Course—and a reminder that being in his workshop is the kind of opportunity you can only dream of

When Ido Gidron first stepped on stage, it was as if the space around him changed its density—infused with the finely calibrated sensitivity of his presence. Today, he is a choreographer, dancer, teacher, a certified Gaga instructor, and Pilates therapist. But it all began on the slopes outside Jerusalem—in Moshav Shoresh, from where Ido set off on a journey that would take him through Kibbutz Contemporary Dance Company, Batsheva, Eastman—the troupe of Belgian wizard Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui—the Norwegian National Ballet, universities across Europe and the United States, and dozens of festivals, labs, and residencies from Vancouver to Malta. His biography includes Pais grants, Yotzrim awards, a Juilliard intensive, and more. In recent years, Ido has been creating his own works and generously sharing his accumulated knowledge—with precision, humor, and an attention to detail.

And now imagine our joy when we learned that Ido Gidron, the choreographic heir of Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui, one of the most influential voices in contemporary dance, would be teaching at the Jerusalem Ballet Summer Course, working with students on excerpts from a Cherkaoui piece he himself performed just a couple of years ago!

– Ido, how did you first encounter Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui? Do you remember the moment you first saw his work or met him in person?

– I remember it vividly. I could never have dreamed that I’d have the honor of dancing with Larbi for two years—by the way, he doesn’t like being called “Sidi Larbi” (laughs). I’d long wished to work with one of the European choreographers who specialize in floorwork, to study the connection between the dancing body and the ground. And then, by fate or coincidence, the opportunity came: I had been invited to teach for six months at Kennesaw State University in Atlanta, Georgia, in 2021. During the holidays, I went to New York to see the Big City in all its wonder. And as luck would have it, our hotels ended up right next to each other. I was sitting in a café at the hotel square, and suddenly noticed him at the next table. “Sidi Larbi?” I exclaimed. He smiled and said, yes, very nice to meet you. I asked what brought him there—he said he was in town to receive a Tony Award. We got to talking, I told him I had danced with Batsheva, he asked to see my Instagram, watched a few clips, liked them—and invited me to join his Eastman company.

The project I joined—right in the middle of the pandemic—lasted until the end of 2022. It was called Vlaemsch (chez moi), dedicated to his Flemish roots (he’s Belgian on his mother’s side and Moroccan on his father’s). It explored themes of home, memory, and the connections between people and their origins. Despite the Flemish title, Larbi brought in dancers from all over the world—from countries often at odds with themselves: Japan, the U.S., Ukraine, Congo, Canada, Germany, Israel, and more. As he put it, he wanted to extend a hand to us so we could enter the mythical world of so-called Flemish culture—not to impose its values, but to create what he called “cultural contamination.” To ask: How can one share their culture without falling into the traps of annexation or appropriation? And can we ever truly feel safe next to one another?

                               Photo by Ellie Polyrock Haddad

– What in his artistic language felt close to you—or, on the contrary, challenged you?

– First of all, he’s a phenomenal dancer. And, to my delight, he told me more than once that the way I move reminds him of himself. He is incredibly supple, almost rubber-like—we share similar physical abilities. His movement vocabulary feels very close to me. I think our meeting was destined.

And then there’s his unique ability to “dissolve”—the literal fluidity of his choreography, its winding, watery nature. It grabs you from the first minute. And yes, his choreography challenges you—deeply. All those aerial flicks, intricate floorwork, demanding lifts. In Israel, floorwork isn’t that popular, so for me, dancing alongside those who had been doing it since their teens was tough. I was already 27…

– What was it like to live inside his choreographic world? How does his rehearsal process differ from other choreographers you’ve worked with?

– Exhausting—rehearsals from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., ten hours straight. In Israel, I was used to four-hour days. We improvised, we shared materials; the atmosphere was both very free and very structured. Each day had a clear inner direction, but was always unpredictable. Larbi would throw in impulses—musical, visual, conceptual—and watch how we responded. He asked us to create our own solos, our own duets and trios, show them to him—and then turned that material into something outstanding. In the mornings, he would bring in an idea to embody, or sometimes an object: a bicycle, a table, a bed, a lampshade, a picture frame, even a spray can or an imaginary four-story house.

It was a complex creation—almost a philosophical manifesto of modern Flemish masters. Renowned Belgian artists, musicians, and set designers collaborated on it. We changed costumes at least five times. Larbi drew inspiration from the flourishing Flanders of the 15th century—an era when the region’s fame was deeply tied to its art. The traveling fiamminghi—Flemish painters—appeared as innovators, free spirits, breaking traditions and boundaries. Some even said our performance was Larbi and his collaborators sowing the seeds of a new Renaissance.

– By the way, what themes or images in your collaboration with Larbi struck you the most?

– I was deeply drawn to the idea of “hybrid identity”—how, within one body, within a single gesture, different cultures, traditions, and memories can coexist. In Larbi’s work, it comes across as a personal poem about multiplicity and the freedom to be complex. This speaks very much to me—as someone who grew up in Israel but has tied his life to the European context. Incidentally, in the production only two of the dancers were Flemish; the rest, in Larbi’s vision, represented other ancient cultures. He gave us brushes, and we “painted” one another and ourselves, gradually shaping identities. A beautiful image of entangled relationships and cross-pollination, in my view.

And there was something else: it was fascinating to become not just a performer but a co-creator of the space. Larbi has no hierarchy — he offers material, but waits for each of us to contribute something personal. This requires absolute honesty — you can’t hide behind technique or form. It’s just you and your inner truth.

– Can dance be understood as a form of critique of cultural heritage?

– Absolutely. Dance can be a way of asking: Where do we come from? What in us is truly ours, what is imposed, and what is suppressed? It’s a way of conversing with the past — not necessarily through negation. Sometimes critique is simply deep attention, an attempt to listen. In my own work, this often emerges — when the body argues with memory, with rhythms, with expectations. Sometimes even with itself.

– What other challenges have you faced in your ballet life?

– Challenge is an inseparable part of a dancer’s everyday existence. Waking up early, going to rehearsal, doing the exercises, staying focused… I got used to this way of being back in my Batsheva days. You know the physicality of Batsheva dancers is unbelievably demanding—we even fainted during studio run-throughs. You have to be completely present all day, and then, imagine, at six in the morning you’re already up, traveling to perform in Be’er Sheva…

– Exactly! I’ve always wanted to ask—what’s it like to dance early in the morning? Can the body really be ready to move at that hour?

– Well, you have no choice… Discipline, inner discipline, self-discipline—we’re like athletes in that sense. With Cherkaoui, there was another challenge altogether: dancing with people I had never danced with before, learning tons of new material, and building a cohesive work in just two months.

– Do you feel that working with Sidi Larbi has influenced your own choreographic practice?

– Without a doubt. He taught me so much—above all, the language of movement. How he perceives movement and turns it into a bodily text. How he expects the same of other dancers. Since then, I feel a responsibility to continue developing this way of seeing and transmitting movement.

                                 Photo by Ellie Polyrock Haddad

– You also worked with Idan Sharabi, didn’t you? He, too, explored the concept of “home,” like Cherkaoui—arriving at the thought that many people today don’t feel at home, but instead perceive themselves as a reflection of home itself…

– Yes, I learned a great deal from Idan as well. Above all—physical strength and expressiveness, that unmistakable physicality he has in abundance. His approach to the body and movement is a wellspring of creativity and freedom in dance. In the end, all these influences shape your own identity, with all its nuances and shades.

– You teach Gaga, which is closely tied to inner sensitivity and attentiveness to the body. How did you come to this practice, and what does it mean to you personally?

– Gaga is a deeply layered concept. Ohad Naharin used to tell us daily, when I danced with Batsheva: “There is no ballet, no modern—there is only Gaga.” This language unites all the dancers in his company, it penetrates every movement, every cell of the body. Gaga isn’t just a technique; it’s an entire philosophy, carrying countless meanings, tons of information, and profound processes happening within the body. It’s a way of self-discovery and a careful study of one’s own being. And each of us teaches Gaga in our own way, because this language is flexible and alive.

– And how would you, as a Gaga teacher, explain its essence to a newcomer just encountering this method?

– I’d say that dance isn’t the privilege of professionals—it belongs to everyone. Through the language of the body, anyone can express whatever they carry inside: the sensation of water or air, something round or angular—anything born in the soul and body. I first encountered Gaga at 16, as a student at the Ballet School of the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance. This system profoundly shaped my understanding of how to nurture and educate the body. I’d emphasize that Gaga is, above all, improvisation—a freedom of creative exploration through movement. I find it fascinating to see how this language resonates within different people’s bodies.

– What will you be teaching students at the Jerusalem Ballet Summer Masterclasses?

– We’ll be working with fragments from Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui’s piece Vlaemsch, which I’ve already mentioned. It’s a work built on nuance, full of shades of gray—this is precisely how Larbi sees the Belgians, especially the people of Antwerp, who historically are closer to the Dutch. This is reflected in the choreography—a fusion of cultures, a sense of time in motion. Larbi has an incredibly fluid and breathing movement vocabulary through which he conveys the geography, architecture, and very air of his country — its flat landscapes, its urban textures. In Vlaemsch, he positioned us dancers like figures in Rubens’ Last Supper, and then shifted the lens to Da Vinci or Dalí in search of the perfect image. Based on this piece, in the Jerusalem Ballet masterclasses we’ll be exploring key movements and other material that will help us understand and embody Larbi’s language.

– Who can join your workshops in Jerusalem?

– Young dancers aged 14 to 20 with solid technical training—both in classical ballet and modern dance. We’ll be working intensively, so it’s important that participants already have a strong connection to their bodies and a basic understanding of different movement languages.

– What do your students usually feel during your classes?

– Above all, freedom. They arrive with open hearts, attentive and receptive minds, and a genuine desire to learn, to try, to listen to themselves. In such an atmosphere, a space for true transformation emerges—both physical and internal.

– Do you also use dance as a form of healing?

– Yes, you could put it that way. Dance is therapy in itself. It heals, just like any movement — if it’s done consciously and fully experienced. Dance isn’t just entertainment or performance. It’s a way of caring for body and soul. It allows you to release what’s been stored, to live through what hasn’t been spoken, to reconnect with yourself.

– How does the body hold and express memory—personal, familial, collective?

– The body remembers everything. Even if the mind forgets, the body retains traces—of childhood touches, of trauma, of love, of the gaze of others. In this sense, dance is excavation. You move, and suddenly you discover something ancient, unrevealed within yourself. When we dance, we in some way become witnesses, to what came before us.

– And this is reflected in your unique choreographic works, which you’ve been creating since 2017, correct?

– Since 2017, I’ve been officially working as a professional choreographer, though in truth it began much earlier. As a child, I staged choreographic experiments with friends and family members. I must have been about ten when I told my friends: “You go on five-six, and you go on five-six-seven-eight.” I was already fascinated by the idea of composing bodies in space. I would watch the works of great choreographers, trying to analyze them, imitate them, reimagine them.

What interests me most are human emotions and their expression through dance. In recent years, I’ve increasingly turned to Jewish culture and Judaism. Dance and movement are an essential part of our tradition, alongside music and words. I feel a great responsibility when I think about creating “Jewish dance.” It’s something entirely unique. Through choreography, I try to connect with my ancestors—my grandparents, my parents, those thanks to whom I am here, on this land. This is my mission: to speak of Jewish tradition through dance, through respect, through light, through optimism.

My paternal grandparents came from Morocco, and on my mother’s side from England and Austria. I feel I owe them a tribute with every means available to me. I am here by God’s grace, but also thanks to them. In 2018, I created a piece titled Aliza at the Institut za Umetničku Igru in Belgrade, in memory of my grandmother, who had passed away shortly before. It was a deeply personal work in which I tried to express everything: the doubts of adolescence, the pain of growing up, the gratitude I feel. This piece became a moment of connection—with myself and with my ancestors.

                         Photo by Ellie Polyrock Haddad

– I would love to see how all of this can be expressed through dance.

– That’s where the inner work begins. Quiet, not always visible from the outside. And with God’s help, I hope we can create something truly special together with the Jerusalem Ballet.

– In that case, I can’t help but ask: how challenging is this choreography for classical dancers?

– A very good question. When it comes to my choreography—once dancers with a classical background find the right mechanism, the “key” to the movement, everything begins to open up. And then it no longer matters whether it’s classical, modern, or contemporary. It’s like starting an engine: it depends not so much on form as on passion, on the desire to move from within, to dance with your whole being. And classical ballet dancers possess something I deeply respect—an innate sense of beauty, an attentiveness to aesthetics, a filigree technique. It’s a magnificent foundation. All that’s needed is a little trust, in themselves, in the process, in their bodies.

Dance means merging with the movement inside yourself, with the movement of the cosmos, with the space we inhabit, with the atmosphere of the body and the atmosphere of the room, with the energy of the inner and outer worlds. The most important thing is to feel where the movement is born within you, give it form—and begin to dance.

Workshops will take place August 3–15, 2025, at the Jerusalem Ballet Studio, Teddy Stadium, Jerusalem.

Photos courtesy of Jerusalem Ballet