This article belongs to Springback Magazine, Léa Poiré.
Lithuanian choreographer Agnietė Lisičkinaitė locate her work at the crossover between art and activism, dancing and demonstrating – and going from black and white to grey.
In the heart of Paris, a small crowd holds up signs, hands raised above their head. A typical Saturday in France and any big city – at least in countries where demonstrating is not a crime. But look closer, and the signs are confusing. One side stands for the ‘traditional family’, the other says ‘I am bisexual’. One recto reads ‘covid doesn’t exist’, its verso ‘I’m vaccinated’. Reactionary vs progressive, misogyny vs feminism, plus some more unpopular ideas such as ‘vegetarian are just bad hunters’. Performed in the streets, Hands up by Lithuanian choreographer Agnietė Lisičkinaitė creates an intervention that makes us face a reality: every idea implicates its opposite; one can stand for as much as against; democracy is never one-way.
With this piece, applauded in over 20 countries, Lisičkinaitė has reached a broad audience and made public protest a core of her choreographic practice. Nevertheless, she has never considered herself a pure activist. She explains: ‘Deliberate starvation through hunger strikes, demonstrations, marches, sit-ins, occupations… for me, every fight for or against ideas begins with the body. I see the world first and foremost as an artist.’ She started dance at the age of six thanks to her grandmother, a practising member of a non-professional free-dance group who imbued Lisičkinaitė with her love for and knowledge of dance. Lisičkinaitė went on to study choreography at the Lithuanian Music and Theater Academy; art is truly in her DNA. Moreover, her entry point into Hands up was not its central subject – protest – but through her own body.
Agnietė Lisičkinaitė: Hands Up. Photo ©️ D. Matvejev
‘It all started during the first lockdown,’ she explains. ‘Like many people, I was looking for a way to calm down.’ She recalls a yoga pose where you extend and hold your arms out to the side. ‘Because physical pain comes immediately, you let go of your thoughts,’ she laughs. ‘It really worked on me’. As she practised the pose over and over, she began to modify it. ‘I raised my hands over my head every day for five months, from five minutes at the beginning to one and half hours at the end. I became fascinated by this gesture that embodies many different contexts: religion, praying, clubbing, wars, public violence, surrender and… protest culture.’
From this practice, she created a first choreographic sketch, for New Baltic Dance Festival in 2020, presented in her city, Vilnius. Face and body painted white, she invited audiences to raise their hands. Just like her. ‘I did this a few weeks after the political events in Belarus and huge street protests against the regime,’ she explains – referring to demonstrations against President Lukashenko’s contested re-election with almost 80% votes, sparked by allegations of electoral fraud, and agitating for democratic reform. One can easily imagine how her gesture, in a neighbouring country, was immediately politically coloured by the context.
Lisičkinaitė didn’t stop there. ‘I decided to perform this in front of the embassy of Belarus,’ she says. Five minutes after she started, she was arrested, and spent four hours at the police station. ‘I thought this would have dissuaded me from continuing, but it encouraged me! At this point, I had the feeling this project was truly needed.’ A few months later, in front of the same embassy, she did it again. ‘Alongside a video artist, we used red flowers to symbolise the official flag of Belarus. By holding my hands very gracefully, wearing high heels, I created a sexualised and elegant character, the opposite of the common portrayal of a protester.’ Hands up was almost there: Lisičkinaitė understood the power of public space, and part of every performance has taken place on the streets.
Agnietė Lisičkinaitė: Hands Up. Photo ©️ M. Pavone
For Lisičkinaitė, art should not be confined to secured studios and comfy theatres. ‘Art is a tool for change, whether personal, social, political, physical or mental.’ she explains. She considers herself ‘a document collecting different stories, beyond my own’, and pays particular attention to listening to other voices. Two months after Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, she wrote a new sign with the number of casualties on one side, and ‘bombing for peace’ on the other, holding it on a bridge in Vilnius while counting out loud until she reached 2435 casualties. It took her two and a half hours to complete the action, ironically titled It is not only number. When working on Hands up with refugees, she encouraged them to write their own problematics on the double-sided signs. ‘I am really afraid to impose’ she says.
In the professional world of dance, she also inspires a collective spirit. The dance company she cofounded with her fellow choreographer Greta Grinevičiūtė – named Be Kompanijos after their foundational duo B&B (2015) – is ‘an umbrella organisation for contemporary choreographers looking for a home’; currently seven artists are hosted.
Community work with marginalised minorities, choreographed riots for students in her Rave of Riot (2024), street demonstrations in Hands up: Lisičkinaitė embodies what we might call a committed artist. However, she is also aware of the other side of the coin: ‘For a long time, I was quite aggressive and provocative on social media. For instance, I used to think there is no such thing as a good Russian. Everything had to be black or white.’ This shifted when she met Belarus actor and performer Igor Shugaleev, who had fled his country. His performance 375 0908 2334 / The body you are calling is currently not available presented disturbing resemblance to Hands up: ‘In his work, he invites us to assume the same position as prisoners in Belarus. After five minutes your body starts to shake, and you realise that while you are not in danger, these people are, and they are forced to hold that pose for hours.’
The two pieces were often programmed on the same evening, leading to the inevitable meetings between the two artists, and a desire to work together. Coming from two countries in conflict with each other, their collaboration is already political: ‘in western European countries, people would tell me how great it is to built bridges. In the Baltic states, however, people are suspicious and ask: are you sure he’s not part of soft propaganda?’ Lisičkinaitė foresees that working with Shugaleev will raise a central question, for art, life and protest: ‘how to find a grey zone in this world?’ Contrary to what you might think, she hasn’t really abandoned her fervour: this call for complexity is perhaps one of the most radical struggles of our time.