Our first meeting had left a quiet echo in me — something unfinished, something that wanted to return.
When our paths crossed again in Athens, it didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt like continuation — a moment the universe had kept open for us. What unfolded was no longer discovery, but a deeper conversation between presence, movement, and trust.
A performance that felt alive, and a connection that revealed itself in silence and light.
Athens, Greece | 2025
Only a few weeks after our first meeting, I was back in Athens — this time for a collaboration taking shape with the Leica Academy. By pure coincidence, my stay overlapped with the 6th Contemporary Dance Festival “Compartments Dance Project”. She told me that she would perform there with her piece “Uncovering” — and her new costume, especially created for it. What she didn’t know was that I had returned, barely two weeks after leaving.
By some quiet alignment, the festival’s official photographer and her assistant were there that night — announced only for that evening. They hadn’t been before, and they never came again. Without them being there, I would never have dared to go that close — to rest my camera on the edge of the stage. With 28 mm, it would have been nearly impossible to capture a single good frame — not even from the first row.
If the moment hadn’t unfolded the way it did, some of my favorite photographs from this series would probably never have existed. Hidden in plain sight, I began to work. I was standing in the way of the other photographer. She didn’t know who I was or what I was doing there. I simply told her I belonged, and tried to stay out of her light. I changed positions a few times. And that’s how I came to one of my favorite photographs — when I slipped behind the stage.
Behind the scenes, it had been a long road for both of them. On stage, fragility revealed itself many times — technical failures, entire shows without the live signal of the heart. A construct alive, yet easily broken. But they endured. They refined. They shaped the performance into form.
We both knew this project was her life — her everything. But at some point, she told me she had realized something deeper: that the piece was alive itself. It lived in her, and with her — like her heart, an autonomous organ, beating differently each day, each moment sharing something new.
The performance that night was striking. It began in a crouched pose, arms and body echoing the rhythm of the heart. Then she rose — and the heart came to life. At first, she moved by instinct alone. Animal. Unthinking. Her face blank, guided by something primal — movement born of instinct and quiet fear.
Then the light shifted, and the creature became human. The heart began to glide across the stage — graceful and fierce, always in motion, presenting itself, reveling in its own vitality. It danced as if aware of its own existence.
It awakened — celebrating the sheer fact of being alive. It felt. It loved. And then, as though overcome by its own rhythm, it beat faster, fuller, almost playfully — until it could no longer contain itself, overwhelmed by its own pulse.
But life is not infinite. Neither is the heartbeat. At the height of its ecstasy, it folded into itself — each beat softer, slower, fading gently into stillness. With it, she didn’t just stage evolution — she showed life itself. "You only live once." A truth that’s quietly guided me for quite some time now.
Throughout, Vilelmini carried an extraordinary presence — an energy that could be felt, not just seen. It wasn’t the performance itself, nor the precision of her movement. It was something deeper — a force that seemed to surround her, as if she lived entirely within that moment. You could feel it — like an aura, quiet yet undeniable.
The feedback loop between her and the sound stayed with me —
a quiet exchange of energy, alive and continuous. Her heart would beat, its pulse translated into rhythm — the rhythm shaping the music, the music shaping her movement, and her movement once again shaping the heart.
The light was harsh. The movement relentless. The distance unforgiving. Still, I worked. Moments flickered. Energy dissolved as quickly as it appeared. Yet images emerged — beyond what I thought possible. And as the days passed, more came to life.
Until, on the final evening before my departure, the camera seemed to find its rhythm — the heart of the work beating stronger than ever. That night, I was different too. More present. More daring. For the first time, we communicated through the performance. She knew I was there. She knew what I was looking for. She saw me.
I was so absorbed that only later I realized — this had been our second encounter. The one I had written about after the workshop. It felt like the kind of moment that creates itself — quietly, inevitably. I was exhilarated. The images felt like a small miracle — a triumph against impossible odds.
The workshop photographs suddenly seemed almost naive — like sketches before the painting comes alive. But Vilelmini didn’t see it that way. For her, both sets mattered. The first, raw and imperfect, carried the spark of discovery. The second, forged under pressure, revealed transformation. Not competition. But dialogue. Two chapters of the same story. Through this encounter, we both grew — as artists, and as humans.
Watching her work has been a lesson in presence. She doesn’t move to impress — she moves to understand. The sensors only captured what was already there: breath, focus, emotion. She turned data into something deeply human.
I’m proud of what we created together. And grateful — for the silence, the laughter, and the pulse we shared. ❂