During their residency at Beursschouwburg, transdisciplinary artist Loucka Fiagan developed Yet, Light, you are blind, a performance co-produced by La Balsamine and Beursschouwburg. The work explores the shadow as a site for transformative processes. Through shifting forms and genres, they confront inherited hegemonic structures of identity and embrace multiplication, both as an artistic practice and a form of reclaiming freedom as a way of being.
How did Yet, Light, you are blind begin?
The piece started during my two-year residency at Beursschouwburg. I applied because I needed structure and space to develop something more personal. I had been working mostly in groups — I was part of the collective We Don’t Know Yet (WDKY), and I’ve collaborated with Moya Michael and built connections at KVS. I toured her pieces, which I learned a great deal from and really enjoyed.
My work revolves around transversality and what exists in between categories
But at some point, I began to feel the need to define my own aesthetic. I’ve always struggled with the cult of individualism in art, but realised that if you have a specific message, sometimes you need a framework to pursue it fully. The residency gave me legitimacy, continuity and confidence. Before that, I would start many things and not always finish them. I realised I needed one central structure, something solid, so I could still explore new hobbies, side quests and obsessions alongside it. This project became a way of committing to an idea, to a language, to myself.
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What shifted when you decided to define your own aesthetic?
My goal is to focus on creating a discipline that allows me to bring everything together: music, poetry, performance, sound and movement. In just one medium, I feel limited. I find it difficult to compartmentalise. Thematically, my work revolves around transversality and what exists in between categories. That connects directly to resisting imperial structures of control, which are built on rigid classifications, invisible laws and hierarchies that serve only the top 5 percent. These systems are present in every aspect of our lives, so it wouldn’t make sense not to reflect that in my art. I try to embody this conflict in the form itself: mixing genres, breaking expectations and allowing things to escape definition.
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How did you approach the notion of the ‘shadow’ in your piece?
I began by researching Carl Jung’s concept of the shadow — the idea that each persona or the mask we present to the world has a hidden counterpart made up of what we repress. There are personal shadows, but also collective ones: racism, misogyny, internalised beliefs and hierarchies.
For me, shadow became a way to express and inhabit something that is abstract and escapes definitions yet deeply felt
From there, I connected to Frantz Fanon, Denise Ferreira da Silva, Cheikh Ath, and Fred Moten. Fanon, especially, writes about how racial identity is created within a white world and how Black identity is constantly projected onto, reduced, animalised or sexualised. In his book Peau noire, masques blancs, he discusses this collective shadow identity, in which black people are in a state of duality in a white world, having to correspond to a certain image around their daily life, from hobbies to musical tastes. These mechanisms are still present, subtly and even among liberals. For me, shadow became a way to express and inhabit something that is abstract and escapes definitions yet deeply felt. The form of the piece reflects that: it never settles into a single identity.
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How do you connect humour and darkness in this piece?
I try to touch upon topics that are relatable for a lot of people, such as mental health, hereditary violence and wounds, but in a way that implements humour. One section takes the form of stand-up comedy. During my research, I found an opportunity to try something new, and I became interested in stand-up and black/dark humour that deals with heavy topics in an edgy way. Collective laughter can be therapeutic. Humour creates a sense of release — you laugh, but suddenly something deeper hits you. It’s a bit like dissonance in music. Sometimes it makes things more direct because it disarms you first. Growing up between Togo and Belgium, I saw how humour can coexist with trauma. I think it can be wise to face pain without too much seriousness.
Humour creates a sense of release — you laugh, but suddenly something deeper hits you
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There is a strong personal dimension to this piece that you mentioned. Can you share some of that with us?
Making a solo was confronting, knowing that I’m exposed to judgement. But I see this project as the marking of a new stage in my life where I began to assume what I want to pursue both in my
work and personally, and in learning how to hold space for what I find meaningful. Taking and giving space is not always easy to do. I struggled for 10 years with my residency documentation in Belgium, and that instability shaped a lot for me. Now that I feel anchored and I have a more integrated citizen life, I’m approaching my work differently.
It’s not about fragmentation as dysfunction, but multiplicity as richness
This is also me coming out to myself; being a multiple being is central to my work. After reading Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi, I found language for something I already felt. In many West African spiritual traditions, identity is not singular. You can be inhabited by multiple entities. The phenomenon of non-binarity in their bodies is not pathologised; it’s honoured. It’s not about fragmentation as dysfunction, but multiplicity as richness.
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You’re alone on stage, but never really alone. How does collaboration shape the work?
There are three of us behind this piece, and it’s important to acknowledge that. Maureen Beguin is responsible for the lighting, and we’ve been working together since the beginning of the residency, so we’ve had time to understand each other’s processes. Lulu Ramirez co-created the sound design and performs live on stage.
Letting each other into our worlds requires trust, and I’m grateful for the fusion we’ve been able to create
Each of them works from a score, but we also respond to one another. We play with the piece together, and I value that element of spontaneity. Nearly 80 per cent of the work is collaborative, so choosing who I work with is a crucial part of the process. Letting each other into our worlds requires trust, and I’m grateful for the fusion we’ve been able to create.
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What would you like to linger with the audience after the performance?
For one thing, I hope people feel permission to not be too serious. I hope to inspire more generations to play more with creativity and to allow ourselves to disrupt and move within and beyond established structures, and to reconnect with our inner child. The work represents personal aspects of my life, and childhood became a big topic in it. It became a ritual of self-affirmation, a way to heal the past and reconnect to the now. I feel this with more urgency in my work, given everything happening around us. I hope this piece holds space for complexity, laughter and for not just being one thing.
<div class="editorial-banner"> <div class=“editorial-credits”>@loucsvdu<br>@balsamine1030<br></div>
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