Lately, I've had more time to work on my new project, In Search of Nijinsky, which I hope will become my second book. I'm still in the phase of a lot of reading, writing, and creating images—or rather, sketching images. In fact, I think this might be the most beautiful phase. Seeing how something takes shape as you work on it, ideas that suddenly pop into your head when you're not even thinking about them, but also being open to different perspectives and ideas.
This won’t be a documentary project—there are already enough of those. A lot has been written about him, and there’s even a film made about him. What I want to do is translate into images the time when he spoke little or not at all, even with his body, when he was admitted to a clinic. What was going on in his mind? Did he still dance in his head when he thought about his feelings and his life? To me, that is a missing part.
Was he lonely, was he frustrated? And if he were to translate these feelings into dance or movement, what would that look like?
His wife, Romola Nijinsky, documented much of this period. She describes how he was sometimes withdrawn and at other times had disturbing outbursts. She also wrote about his deep-seated fears and despair, as well as moments of apparent clarity when he tried to communicate.
His well-being during this time was very fragile. The schizophrenia and the treatments he received, including electroshock therapy, had a significant impact on his physical and mental health. Much of his creative expression seemed suppressed or lost, although in his diaries and letters, he occasionally reflected on dance and movement, suggesting that his artistic spirit was still active somewhere, even if his body and voice were no longer able to express it.