When Nick Coutsier moves, boundaries blur. The Belgian-Congolese choreographer doesn't just dance — he flows between disciplines like fashion, film and performance art with the same fluid grace that defines his approach to identity itself. As a Black, queer artist and second-generation immigrant, Coutsier has learned to be a chameleon, adapting and transforming while never losing sight of his authentic core.
From collaborating with Beyoncé to working with fashion house Marine Serre and spending time at The Standard, Brussels, Coutsier's movement vocabulary speaks across industries. His latest project, Volt, marks a pivotal moment: his first fully personal work, a three-part journey beginning with a short film this September. It's a bold step away from collaborating under others' visions towards carving out space for his own narrative. For Coutsier, authenticity isn't a destination but an ongoing practice — one that unfolds through movement rather than manifesto.
Growing up in Belgium in the '90s, he discovered dance through MTV videos and Congolese family celebrations, where movement was simply joy and connection before it became art or activism. That instinctive relationship with his body remains central to his work today, where being political isn't about intention but about presence — existing and creating from his intersection of identities becomes radical by default.
Coutsier refuses to be boxed into single categories, whether artistic or personal. His queerness fuels this resistance to fixed definitions, embracing what he calls "being plural" across fashion shoots, theatre stages and gallery spaces. He's not trying to meet industry standards but trusting that showing up as himself is enough.
From citing Dennis Rodman's radical self-expression to championing the degendering insights of poet Alok, Coutsier draws inspiration from those who march to their own beat. His message to the queer creative community is simple yet profound: keep moving — physically, emotionally, intellectually. Because when thinking solidifies, growth stops.
We spoke with Coutsier about how his intersecting identities inform his choreography, the vulnerability of creating his first fully personal project and why movement itself has become his means of questioning boundaries.
My movement is deeply tied to who I am — as a Black, queer artist and second-generation immigrant. These intersecting identities shape how I move through the world: how I enter spaces, how I'm perceived, how I adapt. That constant negotiation between vulnerability and strength has become central in my choreography — it's a form of resilience.
I've often had to be a chameleon, whether to blend in or protect myself. That adaptability shows up in my dance — shifting styles, resisting fixed definitions. My queerness fuels that refusal to be boxed in. Ultimately, my work embraces transformation, fluidity and the freedom to remain in progress.
Volt is my first fully personal project — a three-part journey that begins with a short film premiering this September, followed by a solo performance and eventually a group piece. It marks a shift in my artistic path: from working under others' visions to carving out space for my own voice and narrative.
Creating Volt has been both liberating and vulnerable. I've had to quiet the noise of external expectations and really ask myself: What do I want to say, and how do I want to say it? That process pushed me to follow instinct, to take risks and to embrace the unknown.
For me, authenticity isn't a fixed point — it's an ongoing practice. I'm still learning who I am and how I relate to the world, and dance has become my way of processing that. I seek authenticity in the places, people and moments where I feel safe enough to be fully myself.
My first encounter with movement is tied to my Congolese roots. Dance was always part of celebration — weddings, family gatherings — it was joy, music and energy. As a kid, I didn't think of it as 'dance' yet. I was just hyperactive, impatient, always moving, needing to release something from my system.
Growing up in the '90s with MTV and MCM, I'd watch music videos and imitate the choreography. That became a way for me to connect — with myself and with others, especially at school. Before I saw dance as self-expression, I understood it as a tool for connection.
It wasn't until much later that I realised dance could become a career. It was never 'a passion' in the traditional sense — it was just how I existed in the world. And to this day, I'm more attached to movement than to dance itself. It's what allows me to express, to release and to communicate.
I never start a creation with the intention to be political or to challenge something directly — I follow instinct, emotion and intuition. But sometimes, just existing and creating from my perspective as a queer, Black artist becomes political by default, because not many people with my intersections get the platform to share their narrative.
I think what's queer in my practice is the fluidity — the ability to move between disciplines like fashion, film and theatre, and not be limited by one space or expectation. That freedom to move, literally and artistically, is how I challenge norms. Movement itself becomes the tool to question boundaries — not through confrontation, but through presence.
For me, movement is bigger than dance — it's what allows me to flow between different spaces. Fashion, performance, commercial work… I see them as interconnected. I don't feel the need to box myself into one thing, because I don't believe we are just one thing. I believe in being plural.
I admire people who dedicate themselves deeply to one craft — but for me, navigating multiple fields feels more honest to who I am. I don't approach these spaces with the question of "do I fit in?" but rather with the belief that I bring value just by showing up as myself.
I'm not trying to meet an industry standard — I'm just trying to do me. And I trust that I'm the best person to do that. No shade.
I'm lucky to be surrounded by incredibly inspiring artists and creatives — many of whom I get to call friends. Their presence and work constantly nourish my own process.
I'm also slightly obsessed with Dennis Rodman. Though he was a Black, cis, heteronormative NBA star, his expression was radically queer for his time — from his fashion to his unapologetic attitude. What he wore back then is what the kids are wearing today.
Another big influence is Alok — an amazing poet, thinker and activist. Their work around degendering fashion and unpacking the deep roots of gender in our society is mind-opening. I see them as a powerful source of knowledge and reflection.
To be honest, I don't think I'm there yet. I'm approaching my work from a humble place — just trying to follow my instincts, take things step by step and create with integrity. I'm focused on making work that resonates with me first, and hopefully with others as well.
If sharing my process, even through something like this interview, can contribute to visibility and inspire someone else, then that already means a lot to me. But I'm not here claiming that my work is reshaping queer performance in Europe — not yet. For now, I'm simply putting one foot in front of the other and letting the work speak.
I'm not sure it's dance itself, but rather the institutions around dance that play a key role. Dance is about the body — how we move, how we express, how we're perceived — and that makes it deeply political. Thankfully, many institutions are now led by people with more deconstructed and inclusive views, creating safer spaces for LGBTQ+ folks to explore and express themselves through movement.
But there's still a lot of work to do. Many forms, like ballet, remain heavily gendered and carry deep racial and colonial histories. Even contemporary dance — which should, by definition, stay current — sometimes struggles to evolve. So yes, dance can be powerful for queer and trans youth, but only if the environments that hold it are truly inclusive and critical of their own structures.
I'd hope to remind people to keep themselves in motion — physically, emotionally, mentally. To stay moved, and to keep their thoughts moving too. When we let our thinking solidify, we lose the ability to grow, to connect, to resist.
For me, movement isn't just physical — it's also emotional, intellectual and political. The queer community has long stood at the frontlines of change, alongside the Black community and other oppressed groups. What inspires me most is when people have the courage to march to the beat of their own drum.
So that's what I'd hope to leave behind: a call to keep moving — in every sense of the word.
