In 2008, after nearly twenty years of creation, I gave myself a gift: I imposed a creative fast on myself for five years. This decision was made with full awareness—to stop a sequence of intuitive–necessary–essential–rich–exciting–exhausting–tiring–demanding activity within a productive and achievement-oriented artistic system; a decision stemming from deep fatigue and the feeling that I already knew what I was doing and how to do it. I gave myself the opportunity to slow down, wait, observe, and think—like in the story of a person walking along a path who meets an old Native American sitting by the side and asks him: "Why are you waiting?" The old man replies: "I have walked a long way at a fast pace, and now I am waiting for my soul behind me to catch up."
The voluntary fast began with a sweet and liberating sense of freedom, yet it soon cracked with the appearance of hunger and longing for work in the studio—for focus, dedication, and the unique pleasure derived from bodily movement. I missed what the time in the studio had offered my life: an island of calm, truth, serenity, and turbulence; a world of rules of my own making, where I could choose what to do, how to do it, and how it would look—down to the finest details, almost without risk, interference, conflicts, or disasters.

 

The longing naturally erased, of course, the productive nature of studio work, which was usually geared toward producing a specific creation, within a specific timeframe…
From this longing for the studio arose the idea to offer a choreography workshop. This, I thought, would allow me to return to the studio without violating the "fast." Four young creators joined the workshop: Tal Grabinsky, Tami Leibovitz, Michal Khersonski, and Mia Yogel. During June 2009, we met for four hours every Tuesday. Each session began with a choreography lesson, in which I presented various choreographic exercises I had developed over many years of teaching, working with different creators at the start of my artistic path, and especially throughout my independent choreographic work. After the lesson, each creator presented her ongoing work.

It is hard to pinpoint exactly where the magic and glue of these meetings came from, or to find a single reason for their success; perhaps it was the temporary distance from goal-oriented creation, which allowed a renewed appreciation of the pleasure in the act itself, perhaps it was the generosity with which the creators shared their work with each other, perhaps fatigue from creating alone and from the accompanying solitude, perhaps the need for practical training with partners who have knowledge and experience and a willingness to share, guide, and collaborate when needed, and perhaps most of all it was the possibility given to each person to bring her own, and the feeling that everything has its place without taking over something else’s.

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The hunger for creative work was real, and the space created for it during the meetings was so tangible, clear, and necessary, that at the end of the month-long workshop, it felt right and joyful for all of us to continue meeting and working. We chose to continue the choreographic practice and the presentation of thoughts and works—in a process that gradually extended over time and retrospectively became the first year of Kelim's activity. During this year, additional creators joined us: Hila Karkash, Yifat Pele Barkai, Inbal Shahar, and Moran Abergil. The group grew, and the meetings themselves lengthened accordingly.

During this period, discussions emerged through which insights were formed regarding the necessity of the framework and the way it supports each creator's creative processes. We recognized the great importance of working with the group as a choir of voices accompanying the formation of a new creation, intimately familiar with the DNA of the creative process at every stage—the group functioned as a sort of information center or memory center of motivations, interests, emotions, questions, research, and evolution of every process.

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I fell in love with my new work. I tangibly encountered the experience I had accumulated over the years, and this encounter allowed me to channel and deepen my thinking about work practices, teaching, and artistic guidance. During that year, I entertained the idea of establishing a choreography department in one of the higher education art schools and began mapping existing programs. In the course of this mapping, I met Tal Grabinsky to discuss the curriculum for a master’s degree at the Laban Centre in London, which she had recently completed. During our conversation, Tal suggested creating an independent choreography school rather than joining an existing institution.

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The name “Kelim” (Tools) emerged in the early stages of thinking about creating a permanent framework for choreographic work and thought, originating from the mysterious source from which new ideas emerge. Although the word "Kelim" likely echoed many times in our studio in relation to work tools, the choice refers specifically to tools as containers—the creators define a space that receives content, desires, and creative materials. The name was reaffirmed when Ruchama Weiss, a mentor in the “Kolel” Fellows Program in which I participated, referred me to the Kabbalistic story of the “Breaking of the Vessels,” which shed new light on the desire to create a space for creation and creative forces within Kelim.

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Gradually, the space for creation began to develop and expand into broader and new areas. In the second year of work at Kelim, additional creators joined the workshops as facilitators: Arkadi Zides, Tamar Borer, and Joseph Sprinzak. That year, we worked with models of work and explored creative models across different disciplines in relation to choreographic practice. Among others, we examined models such as Mosaic writing, sewing a garment, the creation of the world, and more. We also explored models by extracting and formulating a model from a creation. Later, Lior Avitzur was invited to expand the choreographic engagement with models in a workshop conducted as part of the research program.

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The work processes at Kelim during these two years created a space that allowed for artistic research, since there was no pressure toward a specific outcome. Although each creator worked on her own piece, there was no pressure of time or required product, giving us the freedom to question every assumption, examine every stone in the different works, and reflect on the creation process of dance works to identify conventions and habits disguised as certainties of "this is how it is" or "this is how it’s done."

We tried to identify and map sensations that were merely habits, opening up new possibilities. Devoting time to practical research in the studio, research not necessarily connected to producing new work, is an artistic and political statement, calling attention to the fact that the way we do our work—the “how”—is just as significant as the creation itself—the “what.” This realization led us to initiate another type of research, of which this book is a product: workshops, lessons, presentations, and discussions were documented in writing by the participants. Various texts were collected documenting the work processes at Kelim, including exercises, discussions, and insights. Alongside gathering materials, the desire arose to share them with the dance community and other creative communities, organizing the extensive practice into structured research. Tal and I reached out to Iris Lane and Ran Brown to refine and clarify the research topic and methods. We aimed to focus on the creative processes of choreographers and other creators while continuing engagement with creative models. Ultimately, a new research program was initiated, designed by Ran Brown, centered on observing, articulating, and revealing the complexity of creative processes.

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During the past year, alongside implementing the research program, Tal and I intensively engaged in fundraising, locating a permanent workspace, and, once found, establishing a home for Kelim. I realized that while we were exploring models as choreographic structures, we were simultaneously building the physical space. It became clear that the desire to examine structures of creativity and articulate processes merged with the process of creating the space itself, weaving a background connection between theory and practice, expressed in the architectural and design decisions we had to make, and ultimately in the space itself.

Thus, upon completion of the research, we moved to our own space in the business district of Bat Yam. The building, formerly a military warehouse, was renovated and minimally adapted into a choreographic studio. The space remains as open and exposed as possible: no front or back, no stage or audience seating—no predetermined divisions. There is ample room to enter and exit, moving between inner psychological spaces and the studio space, recording old and new words and movements in endless combinations.