Four years ago, as the pandemic brought the world to a standstill, Tako was simply looking for a place to restart dance, and created a Xiaohongshu account called “Tako Dancing in Los Angeles” to share her training. Little did she know that she would start from scratch in LA’s professional dance scene and, within four years, evolve from a dancer who was “almost like a beginner” to one selected by choreography masters like Keone and Mari, performing on a film set.

“The Heart Was Willing, but the Body Was Weak—Yet It Comes Back with Practice”

Tako’s dance journey has unfolded in two distinct chapters.

Her first exposure was at just seven years old, placed into a gymnastics team. She recalls crying, being stubborn, refusing to do backbends or leg stretches. Later, in elementary school dance classes, she gradually rediscovered the joy of expressing herself through movement.

But dance soon faded into the background amid academic pressures and parental expectations. She studied piano for ten years, and was finally “allowed” to dance. During high school, she went to Japan for a month of intensive training; upon returning, she was noticed by the owner of Shenzhen’s Tianwu IDG and began getting involved in commercial performances and substitute teaching. But even then, dance remained just a hobby, not something she committed to fully.

University pulled her further away from dance. High school, college, graduate school—she stepped onto a standard life path. Then the pandemic hit, pressing pause on everything.

“People say the prime age for dancers is 18 to 25, and I completely stopped dancing during that period,” she says. “Restarting after seven years, I really was like a beginner again. My heart was willing, but my body was weak.” She quickly realized, however, that with systematic training and fitness, the body’s condition can return.

She doesn’t see age as a barrier to dance. She notes that dancers abroad often say “30 is the best age for dancing,” and believes a dancer’s prime might even be around 35.

“LA Can Be Snobby, but Dance Is the Best Companion”

When Tako first arrived in Los Angeles, she juggled a full-time job, a Master’s in Computer Science at Georgia Tech, and squeezing in time for dance. “I eventually realized I couldn’t manage it all,” she says. Coinciding with the wave of layoffs in the US tech industry, she decisively dropped the Master’s program to invest more time in dance.

“For the first year or two, I really had no friends. I just kept my head down and danced,” she recalls. “LA can be very snobby; everyone is like that.” She describes the local dance scene: people check your Instagram, see whose classes you’ve taken, what commercial projects you’ve worked on, which famous choreographers you know—all before deciding whether to befriend you.

“I’m not here to network or climb social ladders,” she states. “Dance is my best companion.”

It wasn’t until the third year that her efforts began to get noticed. “People start to see you getting picked —‘Wow, so Tako can actually dance!’” she says with a laugh. “Then they start wanting to be friends.”

“Masochistic” Training and a “Wolf-Like” Mentor

Tako admits she’s a student who “likes a bit of masochism, because that’s how I improve fastest.”

Her first major mentor is Kolanie Marks, whom she’s been training under for over four years. “The first time I went to his class, I didn’t even know who he was,” she laughs. “I just stumbled right into the lion’s den.”

It was during the pandemic, with only fifteen people in the rehearsal studio. The intensity was extreme; she felt pushed to the brink of collapse almost every class. Yet, it was precisely this training that catalyzed her rapid transformation. “He’s 43, still full of passion, still constantly evolving,” Tako says. “He never lowers the standard or difficulty for his students. Even after dancing with him for so long, I still often find myself in a state of not knowing how to dance.”

“He doesn’t just inspire me in dance; he inspires my outlook on life,” Tako reflects. In four years, she has never seen him take a sick day or miss a class. During Christmas week, he was still in the group chat asking, “Does anyone want to train?” Tako says she learned this sense of “showing up” from him. When she started teaching her own Sunday classes, she made it a point never to cancel lightly. “I feel that as long as I’m there, my students can find me.”

Recently, she found another teacher, Free Boogie, whom she calls “an even more terrifying instructor.” In a choreography session with only four people, Tako couldn’t get one move right. The teacher made everyone stop and sit in front, watching her until she executed it correctly.

“The sweat was just pouring off me; the pressure was immense,” she recalls. “But in that moment, I suddenly understood one of my flaws and exactly how to improve.”

Her learning style is high-pressure, disciplined, and intensely self-reflective. She records her practice from each class and sends it to her teachers. Even if they don’t reply, she persists. “I’m not asking for feedback; I’m holding myself accountable, telling myself I’ve completed the assignment.” Sometimes, months later, a teacher might suddenly share her video. In those moments of being “seen,” she feels it’s all worth it.

A Healing Journey with Keone and Mari

In 2023, Tako was selected by Keone and Mari to participate in a film dance project. She describes it as the most healing experience of her dance career.

“They were so laid-back. They taught the routines incredibly fast. Many people couldn’t keep up on the spot, and they’d just say, ‘I trust you guys gonna work on it,’ and sent us home,” she laughs. “During filming, they were even more relaxed. They said, ‘Just stand wherever you want,’ and honestly, no one fought for the center spot.”

What moved her most was that Keone remembered every dancer’s name. “Forty people, and he remembered them all,” she says. “He isn’t the type to pressure you, but precisely because of that, you want to deliver your best for him.”

During the final scene shot in a church, all the dancers were crying as they performed. “Even though I’m not a Christian, that energy was truly healing,” she shares. “After it ended, I got back to my car and cried for a long time.”

Regrets and “No Rush for Fame”

Tako once came incredibly close to a dancer’s career peak.

This year, she received an offer to be a dancer for BTS member J-Hope’s tour but couldn’t accept due to work visa restrictions. “That was the closest I’ve ever been to the top in my dance career,” she says softly. “But because of my immigration status, I couldn’t grasp it.”

She didn’t let it discourage her; instead, it solidified her resolve to keep training. “I know my skills are sufficient; I just need the right visa status,” she explains. “I’m in no rush to become famous. I’m willing to take it slower.”

She’s seen too many young dancers get lost in the whirlwind of fame and recognition. “If you become famous before you’re ready, you stop making progress,” she observes. She aspires to be like Keone and Mari, letting time and work speak for themselves. “Being hot for two or three years isn’t my goal. I want what they have—staying relevant and respected for years.”

Advice to Her Younger Self: Know Yourself First, Then Dance

At the end of our conversation, when asked what advice she would give her younger self just starting out with dance, Tako pondered for a moment.

“Know yourself first, then dance,” she says. “But you can do both simultaneously. The most important thing isn’t just to dance mechanically, but to think, to understand the world.”

She believes the maturity of one’s dance stems from the maturity of the person. “The more you experience in life, the more flavor comes through in your movement,” she reflects. “Dance isn’t just steps; it’s the expression of your life.”

Tako still trains daily in Los Angeles.

“Dance itself is already a companion,” she says.

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1. The Spider Mama's Name

Lili's Instagram is called Black Spider Mama.

The name sounds absurd yet carries a hint of mystery. She explains with a laugh: "I just wanted to shed those pressures and expectations, to have the most casual, most random, most mischievous name possible."

She says spiders are precise hunters and also wild, resilient creatures — "Others may destroy its web, but it always weaves it back together." In her eyes, this name is like her spirit animal, a way of resisting fragility and embracing fierce femininity.

2. Before Dancing: The Two Years of Losing Dance

Lili has been dancing since kindergarten. Back then, she always shone on stage—Chinese dance, Latin, and then street dance, each step felt destined.

But fate took a turn when she was fourteen. She contracted myocarditis, and doctors forbade her from dancing for two years. “My body was changing, I was gaining weight, and people looked at me differently,” she recalls. "That was the first time I truly realized what dance meant to me—only through loss do you understand what it is."

After recovery, she attended university in the State. She initially studied world literature, then switched to psychology, and finally transferred to dance. She studied ballet and modern dance, but at the most "academic" moment, she grew skeptical of the so-called "system": "They were being abstract for abstraction's sake, deliberately obscure to make others feel they couldn't understand."

She realized she wasn't pursuing a certain "style," but rather an authentic feeling—that kind of real vibration, as genuine as sunset or breathing.

3. Learning to Heal in Street Dance's Family

In Ohio, she found her first real street-dance community—a group of Black dancers who called themselves a Family.

"Family isn't a crew," she explains. “A crew performs together. A Family lives together.”

Cypher, Battle, Session — she learned to express, release, and listen with her body. She says: "That intense, angry, repressed energy eventually becomes a form of healing. Its aggressiveness is actually gentle, it's healing."

But in this black-dominated circle, she also experienced the awkwardness and conflict woven from culture, gender, and race. She admits: "Sometimes they wouldn't treat me as an equal. Some teachers would cross boundaries." She experienced sexual harassment—"I just wanted to learn the culture, but they had other intentions."

She once fell into confusion and anger because of this, but ultimately chose acceptance and understanding: "You can't control others; you can only learn to protect yourself. When you accept this reality, you regain power."

4. The Cost of "Freedom"

When Lili is asked about why she still stays in this chaotic dance world, she answers quickly: "Because it's free."

She says the chaos and beauty of the dance world are two sides of the same thing. "Freedom can give birth to what you love and also what you hate. But if you only stay where you won't get hurt, you'll never become strong."

New York, to her, is that kind of wild soil — noisy, chaotic, yet full of vitality. She says with a laugh: "This city is like a womb, nurturing all kinds of things. The key is—you need to know what kind of seed you are."

5. African Drums and the Rhythm of Breathing

Later, she began learning West African dance. It was a more primal, more intricate world. Twenty drummers playing simultaneously, rhythms overlapping, chaotic, yet precise.

"In African dance, no one counts five-six-seven-eight," she says. "You have to listen to the drums to know when to start, when to change movements."

She loves that feeling of having "no safety net"—"It forces you to listen, to feel. That sense of rhythm is like life itself."

She believes dance has never been about stacking techniques, but about breathing together with the earth, air, and music. "I've found that those who dance best are actually like babies — they're completely immersed in a movement, and that pure energy is divinity."

6. The Moment of "Stopping Dance"

"If you start counting beats, thinking about how to dance, at that moment you've actually stopped dancing."

She talks about her understanding of "dance"—"It's not you dancing; it's letting your body do what it does. Walking, breathing, sweating, closing your eyes... these are all dance. As long as you're flowing, you're alive."

She laughs softly, a laugh containing the serenity of letting go.

7. "I'm Not Trying to Be a Good Dancer"

When asked about her view on "becoming a good dancer," Lili shakes her head: "'Good' is a meaningless word. Comparison is meaningless."

She explains: "I don't feel I'm better now than before. I'm just different. My dance then was me at that time; my dance now is me now. Both are real, both precious."

She even refuses to use "progress" to describe change. "If you say I’m better now, it means you’re denying who I used to be." She pauses, "I don't want to deny any version of myself."

8. Expressing Authentically

Lili speaks with the clarity of someone who has lived many lives in one body. When she talks, she often leaps from the physical to the spiritual, from the personal to the universal.

But ultimately, all her answers return to one word: truthfulness.

"When I stop judging myself, I also stop judging others," she says. "When I find someone interesting, it’s because I am too. All the power is in my own hands."

At the end of this podcast episode, she says softly—

"If you want to dance, first allow yourself to be a complete person."

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When Justin “Ice-o” walks into a room, there’s no mistaking the calm, self-possessed presence he brings with him. Born and raised in the Bronx, the 37-year-old popper has turned what began as a playful wave with his cousin into a life of artistry, discipline, and unapologetic authenticity.

A Wave That Started It All

Ice-o formally stepped into the world of popping in 2013. But his bond with dance began much earlier — with a single wave. One day, his cousin casually performed the ripple-like arm movement, and it captivated him. They passed the wave back and forth, like a game, but the seed had been planted.

Soon after, Ice-o was scouring YouTube, teaching himself slides and glides. His first battle was a disaster — he had no preparation, no connections, no chance. But at that same event, he saw Monster Pop and Venom Pop perform: two tall, Black dancers, dressed like him, in hoodies and sneakers.

“That was the moment,” he recalls. “I realized popping didn’t have to be corny. It could be me.”

“I Don’t Dance Just for Social Reasons”

For Ice-o, dance is not just movement — it’s research. “A lot of people dance for social reasons — and I do too, sometimes. But more than anything, I dance because I want to be good.”

He breaks down patterns in music like equations, experiments with isolations in front of mirrors, and treats his practice like a scientist running tests. “Every time you dance, you’re doing physical research,” he explains. “It’s about min-maxing — refining your preferences and sharpening your skills.”

He goes to the gym before shows, before battles. “Taking care of my body makes my dance better,” he says. “Most people turn on their brain for dance only when others are watching. For me, it’s constant.” He records practice sessions, rewatches them, and picks apart every detail. He talks about dance like a scientist: using words like “muscle contraction” and “tension” to describe what others simply call “groove.”

Some tell him he “overthinks.” He disagrees. “Analyzing doesn’t kill the love — it makes me love it more.”

A Late Start, a Fierce Drive

Unlike many dancers who began formal training as kids, Ice-o didn’t commit to popping until the age of 25. Far from a disadvantage, he now sees it as a gift. “I chose dance when I was ready,” he reflects. “Because I was older, I took it hyper seriously. I never took weeks off. I also didn’t wreck my body doing reckless tricks at ten years old.”

His obsession bordered on superhuman. He recalls working a 6 a.m. shift, commuting hours into the city, battling until 2 a.m., then sleeping 30 minutes in his car before clocking in again. “People think it’s impossible,” he laughs. “But when you want it bad enough, you find a way.”

The Hard Part Wasn’t Dancing

For Ice-o, the hardest part of this life hasn’t been dancing — it’s the things around it.

“I thought being good would be enough. Work hard, train, you’ll get opportunities. That’s not true. Sometimes without network, without connections, you never even get in the door.”

So he forced himself to learn video editing, social media, and the business side of being an artist. “Those skills have nothing to do with dance — but if you want to survive through dance, you need them.”

Reconciling With Himself

Dance itself has never betrayed him. The frustrations came from politics, unfair battles, and people. But once he returns to a practice room, all of that fades.

“I’ve never felt tired of dance. If I’m frustrated, it’s because of people — never because of dance.”

Though he radiates composure today, Ice-o admits he struggled with confidence. The turning point came when he stopped relying on others for validation. “I don’t ask if my outfit looks good anymore,” he says. “I decide for myself.” Over time, he’s learned to build confidence internally, not through applause. “When people tell you you’re good, they’re using their own standards. My most important standard has to come from myself.”

This mindset even shapes how he navigates relationships and rejection. “If I don’t get an audition, it’s fine. I know who I am. I’ll keep working until the right door opens.”

“It All Begins in the Mind”

For Ice-o, dance is more than movement. It’s a discipline of life. He treats training like eating or sleeping: necessary, non-negotiable.

He has already performed with Passion Fruit Dance Company at Duke University, graced an Off-Broadway stage with his name on the marquee, and won battles against New York’s best. But he’s never complacent. “I always need the next thing,” he admits.

In a community full of uniforms and traditions, Ice-o insists on individuality. He doesn’t need costumes to validate his identity. His method is obsessive, solitary, even ascetic at times. But through it, he has built his own system.

“Dance isn’t about looking like someone else,” he says. “It’s about looking more like yourself.”

Advice to his younger self

His message to beginners — and perhaps to his younger self — is simple but profound: “Learn to love training. Make it part of your life the way eating is part of your life. Don’t wait for opportunities to prepare. Be ready, always.”

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* Class Schedule

* Popping @Peridance

* Floorwork @ MODEGA

In the studios of New York City, 17-year-old Una is often the youngest in the room. But don’t let her age fool you. Barely a year into her life in the United States, she has already carved out a place for herself on stage after stage. For her, dance isn’t a passing interest—it’s the foundation she has grown up on.

From Ballet Shoes to Street Beats

Una’s first steps into a dance class came at five, when her mother, tired of watching her spin around the living room, signed her up for lessons. Ballet and contemporary dance came first. “I actually didn’t like the girly stuff,” she recalled with a laugh. “I resisted it a bit.”

Everything changed at eight, when her mother stumbled across a video from a street dance studio in Taiwan and took her to try a class. From that day on, she never looked back.

Her first teacher was famously strict. “If you danced badly, you’d be yelled at, even kicked out of class,” Una said. Harsh as it was, the training drilled discipline into her from the start. “He never treated us like kids, but as dancers. It forced us to meet adult standards, even when we wanted to slack off.”

A Crew That Grew Together

Dance, for Una, has never been a solitary pursuit. The crew she joined at eight has been with her for a decade now. Together, they’ve practiced, argued, reconciled, and celebrated victories. Recently, she flew back to Taiwan to mark the group’s 10-year anniversary. “We’re basically childhood friends,” she said. “We’ve grown up dancing side by side.”

The crew taught her resilience. “Training alone can feel exhausting. But when everyone is pushing each other, it gives you momentum,” she explained. For her, the team has always been more than medals—it’s a reason to keep going.

Balancing Books and the Dance Floor

Like many students in Taiwan, Una grew up under heavy academic pressure. At times, she wondered if she’d have to give one up—dance or school. “Sometimes I felt so tired I thought, maybe I should just pick one. But I couldn’t let either go.” Her compromise was to scale back training during exams, but never to cut it off entirely. Even if she could only make it to the studio once a week, she insisted on keeping the connection alive.

The journey hasn’t been without setbacks. At 11, intensive training left her with a fractured kneecap, forcing her to pause for the first time. It made her ask: what if one day I can’t dance anymore? Now, as a high school senior, she plans to apply to college as a pre-veterinary student. “Dance is my passion, but vet could be another path. I want to give myself both options.”

A New Chapter in New York

Last year, Una moved to New York with her family. At first, the transition was daunting—language barriers, few friends, and the pressure of joining a new crew. But once again, dance opened the door. She joined the renowned Brickhouse dance crew, where the talent around her kept her on her toes. “They’re so strong. I can’t afford to fall behind,” she said. In just a year, her skills and her confidence have sharpened dramatically.

Her hard work is paying off. She has already begun making her mark on the U.S. competition circuit, winning her first championship at Monster Camp in New Jersey. “When my teammates shouted my name from the audience, it meant the world,” she said. “It was a real milestone.”

Only the Beginning

Una knows the path of a dancer is uncertain, that life is always more complicated than the stage. And she’s well aware that true artistry isn’t just clean moves, but the ability to dance with the weight of lived experience.

Her own style is taking shape, but she’s quick to admit she sometimes feels boxed in. “Sometimes I think I’m always moving within the same frame. I need to break it apart and rebuild.” For her, dance is a constant cycle of tearing down and starting anew.

Looking ahead, she dreams of testing herself on a world stage—whether at Red Bull or Summer Dance. “I feel like it’s something I have to do at least once in my life.”

This is the story of a 17-year-old dancer: balancing books and dance, forged in discipline yet lifted by community, finding her footing in a new country while keeping her passion steady. For Una, the journey has only just begun.🔗 Follow

* ins @okok_uuuna

"If I could dance like this for a lifetime, I'd be perfectly happy."

🟠 01 | From Beijing to New York: A Dancer’s Awakening

Mini still remembers her first dance performance during elementary school. But what truly ignited her passion was a hip-hop experience in high school.

"I didn’t want to learn Jazz back then—everyone was doing ‘girly’ dances, and I wanted to be different."

So she chose Hip-hop. Because it was "cool," and because it represented freedom of expression beyond gender labels.

In 2015, driven by the dream of "pilgrimaging to the birthplace of Hip-hop," she arrived in New York alone.

🟠 02 | First Club Experience: Dance as a Way of Life

In her early days in New York, stepping into a club for the first time, Mini witnessed dance as lived experience—not performance, not competition, not spectacle. Amidst a crowd of OGs, locals, Black and Asian dancers, she saw:

"Everyone was dancing for themselves, not for an audience."

She describes it as a state of freedom and authenticity: "Not about being seen, but about existing."

🟠 03 | Mentor Ryan: Style and Creativity Over Technique

Mini’s deepest inspiration came from her teacher Ryan Davis (aka RK Davis). He told her:

"Style and creativity matter more than technique."

Ryan later left the dance world due to industry disillusionment and health reasons, but Mini never forgot: A dancer’s power comes from within, not external applause.

🟠 04 | Student to Teacher: Not All Teaching Is "Teaching Dance"

Mini’s teaching journey began unconventionally. Her first class was a favor—covering for a friend. Back then, she was still taking classes at BDC and wasn’t the strongest dancer in the room.

But she accepted the challenge:

"If someone trusted me, why couldn’t I trust myself?"

That trust became her driving force. During the pandemic, as she taught online, she redefined dance education:"Teaching dance isn’t about teaching moves. Whether I’m sharing original choreography or steps from a video, my goal is to deepen students’ understanding of their bodies."

🟠 05 | Pandemic Breakthrough: The Birth of PJM

When COVID-19 hit New York in 2020, the dance scene froze. Studios closed, classes vanished. But Mini and co-founder Peter saw an opening:

"Dancers desperately needed space—physically and spiritually."

They started small, renting a local venue intending to serve Chinese students. Unexpectedly, it grew into a multicultural hub. Unlike tourist-driven studios (e.g., BDC or Brickhouse), PJM thrived on authenticity:"I hire teachers based on trust, not hype. I know why they’re great."

🟠 06 | When Clubs Fade, Battle Emerges

Mini admits today’s NYC club scene is unrecognizable from her early days. Yet she believes true dance lives in improvisation.

At PJM, she launched freestyle battles—giving choreography-focused students a space for self-expression. Judges like OG Future evaluate not technique, but:

"Are you listening to the music?"

🟠 07 | Fast-Food Dance Culture: Same Moves, Lost Souls

Mini observes a troubling trend:

"10 dancers used to perform one move in 10 unique ways. Now, 10 dancers look like clones."

Body control can be trained—but style demands lived experience. She reminds students:"Street dance isn’t just steps; it’s attitude, it’s lifestyle."

Recalling her Litefeet days in Harlem’s community centers, dancing alongside Black teens who asked if she’d "become a disciple":"To learn their culture, you had to live it. I’ll never be them—but I honor their energy by weaving it into my own dance language."

🟠 08 | "I’m Just a Person Who Dances"

Mini still takes weekly classes—Heels, Contemporary, House, Litefeet—exploring her multitudes.

"Different life stages crave different styles. Dance evolves with you."

Her secret?Surrender to what your body needs now.

🟠 09 | Industry Exhaustion, Dance as Sanctuary

The dance industry offers two paths: fit in (chase commercial gigs) or be yourself (build authentic community). Mini chose the latter.

This road has no template. As creator/operator/community-builder, burnout comes from logistics—not dancing:"The hardest part? Handling people, operations, drama."

Yet after every class, the fog lifts:"Dance isn’t about performing on a stage. It’s about courage—to express, to practice, to own your choices."

🟠 10 | For Beginners: Three Truths

To new dancers, Mini offers grounded wisdom:✨ Seek the source (learn from OGs)✨ Honor your pace (don’t rush "mastery")✨ Know your why (dance doesn’t require professionalism)

"Dancing is a privilege: health, safety, resources—not everyone has this."

🟣 Epilogue｜Keep on Dancing

Mini Zhang’s story isn’t a "dreamer-turns-star" fairy tale. It’s real—full of crossroads, grit, luck, and unwavering loyalty to her craft.

She dances not to become someone else, but to become fully herself.

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* Mini Zhang:

* Instagram: @minizhang._

* RedNote: @Mini Zhang

* PJM Studio:

* Instagram: @pjmdancenyc

* RedNote: @PJM Dance NYC

* Class schedule: Pinned on the RedNote — daily classes available!

"I didn't plan to become a dancer. I just followed my interests and danced my way into my current life."

She's not a dance academy graduate, nor did she start with childhood dance training. She began with Breaking, started in Taiwan, and journeyed through New York's subway streets, studio mirrors, and spotlights to become a choreographer, videographer, performer, and "Teacher Rose" to countless students.

This time, we dive into Rose's dance life.

🎬 A Breaking Journey That Started with "So Cool"

"In high school, I first saw a dancer jump up and then sit cross-legged on the ground. It was so cool that I said: I want to learn this."

That was the moment Rose began her Breaking journey. From Taiwan to New York, dance became her anchor for finding belonging in a foreign city. While studying film at SVA, she stumbled upon a Breaking club one day, and her life quietly changed forever.

But her dance journey wasn't smooth sailing. New to New York, she faced language barriers, cultural differences, and lack of practice spaces that almost made her give up. Yet it was this "active choice within passivity" that opened another door for her.

💃 From Breaking to Choreography: A Transformation Born from "Saving Face"

"I took my friend to a choreography class, and I said I wouldn't take class with you—too embarrassing... But as soon as he left, I went by myself."

She originally had prejudices against choreography (Choreo), viewing it as imitative movement, until she actually entered the classroom and discovered—"How is this so hard? Why can't I keep up?"

This "I refuse to believe I can't learn this" competitive spirit became her driving force to persist. Through this determination, she continued to grow in classes with top New York choreographers like Carlos Neto and Bo Park, eventually becoming a teacher and creator herself.

🧑‍🏫 From Student to Teacher: K-pop as Catalyst, Teaching as Expression

A Facebook message invitation led her to start teaching K-pop. "Back then, you didn't need to advertise. Just say you're teaching K-pop, and the studio would be packed."

Rose's first class made her so nervous her palms were sweating. But her natural love for sharing and expression found an outlet in teaching. From then on, she danced while teaching, gradually building her own student community and style.

She emphasizes: "Teaching isn't about showing off skills, but helping others better understand dance itself."

🧘‍♀️ Hustle Beyond the Hustle: A Space to Slow Down

New York's dance scene moves fast with high intensity, but Rose goes against the grain. She created the class program Hustle, focusing on foundational training and emphasizing movement quality and control.

"I want people to come here without anxiety about memorizing choreography, but to truly practice 'into their bodies.'"

Though the project is called Hustle (meaning "grind"), it aims to let dancers briefly step away from the city's grinding pace and rediscover their body's authentic voice.

🎥 Beyond Dancing: Photography, Filming, and "The Art of Survival"

Rose is also a dance photographer, creating class recordings, music videos, and social media content for many New York dancers.

"I film for whoever pays me," she says honestly but without dismissiveness. She jokes about being the type who "uses dance to feed dance": making her own posters, creating her own forms, editing her own videos, balancing her own books, while managing her social image.

"You even have to be careful about posting photos of yourself holding alcohol. With students of all ages, you have to think, 'How can I be a better role model?'"

She laughs that she's "not a celebrity," but she's indeed becoming an artist who speaks through her work.

🎭 On Stage and Behind: Choreographic Thinking and Creative Philosophy

For Rose, creating a routine versus creating a stage work are completely different things.

She's choreographed for PGM showcases and performed with Kenichi's dance company. She began shifting from "self-expression" to "effect presentation":

"Looking neat and good on stage is more important than everyone dancing difficult moves."

She also discovered that choreographing helped her understand others' choreography. "Before, when teachers talked about 'choreographic logic,' I couldn't understand at all. Now I analyze: why did they use this movement to connect, how does this musical accent cut in... these are all things you have to practice."

🧠 Dancing with Your Brain: The Fastest Way to Improve

When asked about the fastest way to improve in dance, Rose thought for a moment and said:

"Realize earlier that dancing requires using your brain, not just taking classes and learning moves."

She doesn't deny the value of taking many classes, but values post-class reflection and body memory more. "I don't practice at home much, but I constantly watch recordings, reviewing every part of what I did wrong."

She also advises everyone: "Don't be afraid to watch yourself looking ugly. Only by watching will you know what needs to be changed."

🎤 Epilogue: On Authenticity and Persistence

Throughout the interview, Rose mentioned "somehow" more than once. She had no clear goals, no deliberate path-building, no grand plans, but she always walked step by step on "the track she chose."

She wouldn't define herself as an "artist" or "success story." She's more like an ordinary person supporting a dance life with passion and thoughtfulness.

But perhaps that's exactly why her story feels so real.

"Keep on dancing, that's all."

She said this with a smile, ending our interview.

🔗 Follow Rose 👉

* ins & RedNote: @erose_mulan_lu

* ins Film portfolio: @mulanfilm

* Monthly Program: Hustle (choreo foundations) & Breaking

* Weekly Class: int Choreo @PJM Sat 3:30 pm

"I am a human being." He says this with a bit of a joke, but this inexplicable introduction ends up sounding like a metaphor - a creator with two feet on the ground, a "human being" who jumps between on and off camera, between reality and expression.

He’s the guy filming dancers, and someone who never really stopped dancing — just switched sides with the lens. Behind the camera, another life unfolds.

🪩 From the Chubby Kid Who Didn't Dare to Dance, to the One Holding the Camera

“I loved moving to music as a kid. But I was chubby, got bullied, and was afraid to dance.”

Kevin’s beginning wasn’t glamorous. But one day in high school, he saw a group of bigger guys popping and had a moment of clarity:

“They looked so cool. I thought — if they can do it, so can I.”

And so began four years of "chaotic learning," as he calls it. No formal training. Just dancing.

Then came the camera — and everything changed.

🎬 A Gap Year That Captured a Generation of Dancers

During the pandemic, Kevin returned to Shanghai for a gap year. By chance, his high school had some students passionate about dance — and they knew he could film.

“We filmed 20 freestyles a week. Over 400 videos now live on our YouTube channel.”

Only later did he realize just how talented those dancers were.

"They were just high school students at the time, but looking back now, I met five ‘Sean Lew’ at once: some were famous dance teachers from Australia, some were competition winners, and some became directors."

His camera didn’t just record them — it helped shape them.

📸 “When I film freestyle, I'm dancing too.”

Kevin prefers filming freestyles over choreographed pieces. And he always shoots handheld — no tripod. “I’m doing isolation with my hands.”

“Because I used to dance, I can predict their movements — when they'll go up, when they’ll drop. I just follow with the lens.”

He doesn’t record movement. He dances with it. Instead of pointing the camera at a subject, he turns the camera into a dance partner, into springs, rhythms, and breathing.

“My best synergy is with Andrew. We’re like two springs — he moves forward, I move back.”

This sense of "synergy" runs through all his work. A good freestyle video is not about editing skills, but about "whether you can predict what the other person is going to do, whether you can follow him in advance when he squats, and whether you can back off moderately when he is exerting force".

🎭 Be a "photographer who dances" or a "dancer who photographs"

When it comes to "how a dancer can perform better in front of the camera", the answer given by Kevin is not "expression management" or "find the right angle", but: "Know how you look on camera."

Many dancers, even good dancers, are uncomfortable on camera. It's not that they don't feel confident, but they want to "look good" so badly that they start "acting."

He encourages every dancer to get used to being filmed.

“Mirrors lie. Videos don’t. Mirrors are too subjective, but video is objective. Film yourself. It doesn’t matter if it’s your phone. What matters is learning how you look.”

One of the most inspiring stories? A girl who had only danced for six months. She filmed with him every week. Each time, she tried to outdo her previous self.

Today, she’s at Stanford. Her dance videos helped her get there.

📷 Dance Photography vs Dance Film

Kevin also does dance photography — a craft with very different rules than film.

“Photography captures a single moment. You have to hit the beat.”

From timing shutter clicks like a drummer, to anticipating a dancer’s arc in mid-air — everything must be precise.

At the Jam’s showcase, he took 1,200 photos and ended up with less than 50. "That's the difference between photography and video. Video is rhythm and process, photography is moments and tension."

🎥 What Makes a Good Dance Film?

Kevin believes a solid dance film has three essentials:

* Moves that hit with the beat

* A lens that amplifies a dancer’s intention

* Editing that respects the dance’s rhythm — not overcutting

He points to K-pop as a gold standard — balanced between choreography, storytelling, and visual craft. Some directors, he says, get too artistic and forget the dance.

🧱 No One Teaches You How to Film Street Dance — So He Taught Himself

“B-boys are easiest to shoot — they take time to prep and their movements are big. Tutting is brutal — fast micro-movements that demand geometric precision.”

He even tailors frame rate to dance style:

* 24fps for popping

* 30fps for choreo

* 60fps for house

“More isn’t always better — it has to feel right.”

🌱 A Dance Archivist Who Doesn’t Need the Spotlight

Today, Kevin lives in New York, still filming and dancing.

Kevin recalls many dancers who surprised him:

* One only danced well to songs he’d never heard

* One needed a huge crowd to dance his best

* One thrived dancing in the rain

* One could only freestyle when dancing with someone else

All illogical. All perfectly human.

Maybe Kevin is the same — not the main character on the stage, nor the center of attention in the spotlight. But the dancers in his camera, little by little, became themselves.

Original podcast in Chinese: ep

Contact him:

ins@fatplanediaries; his Youtube Channel

Zhang Jingxian's dance story begins with an emotional moment in kindergarten and evolves into leadership in one of China's most prestigious university dance crews: FL Crew at Peking University. His journey reflects persistence, passion, and personal growth through the expressive world of street dance.

Early Beginnings and Rediscovery

Xian’s introduction to dance came after a tearful rejection from a kindergarten performance. When his mother discovered him crying, she and his grandfather approached his teacher and helped him practice. "After that, I became the best male dancer—though there were only three boys in class," he recalls with a smile. This experience taught him that dance requires not just talent but also dedication and a desire to be seen.

His dance journey paused in fourth grade due to a leg injury but resumed in high school when he began dancing for weight loss. "At that time, dancing once a week felt exhausting. Looking back, that intensity was nothing compared to now," he reflects.

FengLei Dance Crew at Peking University

In 2019, Xian entered Peking University's Law School and joined the Fenglei Street Dance Society. During his freshman year, he was persuaded by a senior student to participate in a group dance competition. Despite practicing until midnight and temporarily abandoning his weight loss plans, he unexpectedly achieved his highest GPA of his first three university years. "People always forget the pain after healing, but that experience turned my teammates into comrades," he says, scrolling through old social media posts. "I felt emotional then, but now I only remember the passion."

From Team Member to Choreography Leader

The real turning point came in his sophomore year when Xian became captain of the choreography team. He established a new rule: all team members must train in different old-school dance styles. "Choreography doesn't exist in a vacuum. Its elements come from hip-hop, popping, house... If you've practiced these styles, a cross step becomes one cohesive movement rather than three separate moves." Under his leadership, the team moved beyond simply replicating popular choreography, creating innovative performances that impressed audiences at university events.

Creative Process: Dancing Through Emotions

In his junior year, Xian created his first original piece, "Heartbreak Anniversary." Using emotions as creative fuel, he worked late into the night in stairwells, incorporating balloon props and complex formations. "After completing that dance, I no longer had any lingering thoughts about that person," he shares. The performance received over 400 likes on his personal WeChat video channel and was even shared by professional choreographers in Beijing. Through this experience, he realized that dance is about expressing emotions rather than telling stories—like a ceremonial bonfire where repetitive movements can deeply touch the heart.

Competition and Leadership

During his senior year, Xian led the Fenglei Dance Club in the Nike National University Street Dance League. Over 33 days, he balanced slow and fast movements, formations, and freestyle segments, sometimes practicing until midnight to perfect an 8-count sequence. "Eventually I realized that excessive pursuit of 'balance' can rob a piece of its spirit," he reflects. The team ultimately won second place in the Beijing division, while their freestyle team surprisingly defeated a strong Taiwanese team in the Crew Battle, becoming the highlight of the competition.

Balancing Passion with Management

As president of the dance club, Xian navigated more complex challenges. For the society's reputation, he learned patience and cooperation; for promotional videos, he had to ask members to sacrifice their time. "After becoming president, I grew distant from some friends. You can't please everyone, but you must take responsibility for a club of 400+ people," he admits frankly. Though the experience was "harder than expected," it also brought unprecedented support from those who truly understood him.

The Future: Dance as Life, Not a Promise

Now in his first year of graduate studies, Xian has stepped back from leadership roles but still occasionally choreographs and trains teams. He continues to participate in freestyle competitions, exploring different dance styles to express music. "People with a choreography background have more 'fragmented' bodies, which actually makes it easier to adapt to new styles," he explains.

Regarding his future, he hasn't set a goal to become a professional choreographer: "If you don't live well, you can't dance well. Dance can be a lifelong pursuit, but I don't need to promise 'forever' to anyone."

At the end of the interview, he mentions recently choreographing a piece to Beyoncé's "Two Hands to Heaven," noting that "the movements appeared in my mind fully formed, almost requiring no adjustments." This effortless creativity perhaps represents the answer that time has given him.

The link to the original podcast in Chinese: Ep1, Ep2

Contact:

ins @fl_crew_ ; douyin 衔宝Xian ; bilibili 北京大学风雷街舞社 ；his personal bilibili 衔儿是笨笨熊

“I’ve been dancing for 16 years. But for the first 14, I didn’t really know what I was doing.”

This is not a story about viral choreography or street dance battles. This is a story about slowness, search, and subtle transformation.

From a nightclub dancer to a dance company founder, from a freestyler in the session to a "storyteller" in the theater, Guangmin uses dance to tell not only movements, but also growth, struggles, epiphanies, and freedom.

🧑‍🎓 The Accidental Beginning

The summer after he graduated from high school, Guangmin was dragged to a street dance class by a friend. That friend quit after two sessions. Guangmin never stopped.

In his hometown of Yanji, a Korean-Chinese region near the border, he studied under a local teacher who had trained in Korea. “He taught everything,” Guangmin recalls. “Hip hop, popping, locking, house, street jazz—no explanations, just movement.”

At the time, he didn’t know these were distinct styles. “I thought it was all just ‘street dance.’”

When he went to university in Tianjin, he joined the dance club and wanted to continue learning Street Jazz, but was told that the club only taught Popping, so he had no choice but to "dance and learn". "When I learned Popping at that time, I really thought it was ugly. It was very mechanical and boring."

It wasn't until a competition judge's show that Xiao Hai's Popping blew him away. "Popping can be so cool."

🔄 Chasing the Feeling of Floating

He saw House for the first time and was mesmerized, "The dancer looked like he was floating, it was totally hard to see how." He loved the smooth, free feeling of House, but didn't have a teacher to teach it.

It was after he came to New York that he really started to understand house.

He worked as a Data Scientist during the day and went to classes, sessions, and clubs at night, but it was the two years of training with his mentor, Cricket, who would keep repeating a word: Up. "He said, 'You need to find the up.' I didn’t understand what that meant."

One night around 1 am, he was practicing dance in the pavilion downstairs. He repeated the same step again and again — and suddenly, it aligned.

"I saw the trees swaying in the breeze. Their timing matched the music. Matched me. And in that moment, I felt it: this sense of flow, of rising and falling, as if the ground wasn't quite solid. At that moment I realized what 'Up' was. That floating feeling, not by technique, but by all the body parts being 'on frequency'."

House is no longer a "movement" for him, but a tuning between body, music, and emotion.

🎧 Club Culture as a Spiritual Practice

When he first came to New York, he was not used to the club culture.

It wasn't until an Afterparty where the DJ Spinna was amazing and the emotions of a Korean House dancer infected him and made him realize, "Club is not a performance, it's a release, it's a way to find your body in music."

"When you're in that state, you're not dancing what you were taught, you're dancing what you are."

🎭 The Birth of Umami

In late 2021, during the pandemic’s lull, Guangmin founded a dance company called Umami.

It wasn’t just another dance team. It was a dance theater project. Inspired by mentors like Cricket and Bo Park, Guangmin wanted to tell stories, not just perform combos.

Unlike ordinary commercial dance companies, he prefers to do "dance theater with expression and narrative". He said he didn't want to be a company that did "routines for competitions".

Their first showcase was recorded and shared online. A few months later, festival invitations started rolling in—from Boston, Philadelphia, Austin.

They didn’t have slick marketing. Just raw movement. A shared spirit.

"It's really just always rehearsing, always creating. cricket taught me: don't get too attached to one movement, create a lot of them, and then choose and tell a story from there."

Influenced by Bo Park, he creates in a "life-like" way, using dance to express what is already there in life. "The way you look at a person's walking posture could be the starting point of a set of movements."

🌏 Street dance as a culture

It took over a decade of dancing for Guangmin to understand what many OGs had said all along: Street dance is a culture, not a technique.

Under the guidance of his mentor, he began to understand that cypher is not just a battle, but a kind of "emotional communication"; that dancing is not just cool, but a response to oneself, one's community, and even one's ancestors.

"He's not dancing, he's 'talking' to a friend who passed away."

He says this softly, with a choked sob, but it stays in the air for a long time. This "spiritual" feeling began to enter his body and influence his expression. "Street dance is not just a cool move for young people, it is the life of someone who has danced for fifty years, the common memory of a nation, an era, a community."

He also began to reflect on his own identity. Two years ago, he went back to his hometown to learn a Korean dance systematically. "Some of the moves in traditional Korean dance are exactly like house." He laughs. “Same bounce. Same rhythm. Just different music.”

For him, it confirmed a deeper belief: Dance is universal. Cultures differ, but bodies move similarly when they’re expressing joy, loss, or love.

"That's why many folk dances and street dances are, simply, connected. Dancing is a form of human expression."

🧩 "I work during the day and dance at night, I have no other life."

Nowadays, Guangmin works on data science during the day and practices dancing or rehearsals at night. He tries to compress his work efficiency to the limit, just to give the dance a little more space in his limited energy.

"I have no other life."

He says it lightly, but with a certain gentle firmness.

He was occasionally confused, tired, and yanked out of rhythm by reality. But he knew that dancing was a part of his life, as natural as eating and sleeping.

The link to the original podcast in Chinese: Ep1, Ep2

Contact Him:

ins @guangminshen; his dance company Umami: @umamiplayground

In all the parallel universes, this is the choice Shu Yiran feels most proud of – leaving behind her career in architectural design to pursue her passion for street dance in New York City.

New York has always welcomed dreamers, and Yiran is one of many who found her true calling in this vibrant metropolis. Though trained as an architectural designer, a field of precision and structure, she discovered freedom and self-expression through street dance.

She first encountered street dance during her student days in Boston, but it was merely a hobby then. A transformative trip to New York changed everything when she attended a House dance class. "It was like an explosion in my mind," she describes. For the first time, she understood that dance wasn't about mimicking movements but about truly connecting with the music and expressing what's inside.

This revelation led her to commute regularly between Boston and New York before ultimately relocating to fully immerse herself in street dance culture. She joined the MOPTOP program and studied under legendary OG dancers, experiencing not only technical growth but also profound personal discovery. "Dance is therapeutic for me – a way to explore my inner world," she explains.

Her dance philosophy is beautifully simple: "Dancing means forgetting about constraints." Though dance should be liberating, we often limit ourselves. "I used to think I couldn't freestyle because my upbringing taught me everything has a correct answer, but dance is different." Her breakthrough came during a late-night dance party where she felt completely guided by the music, forgetting all external expectations: "It was like an out-of-body experience. I wasn't thinking – the music was moving me, and my movements had never felt so natural."

Beyond her personal journey, Yiran has created opportunities for others by founding the Summer Breeze Showcase, providing a platform for young New York dancers to express themselves. "I know this city is full of people like me who love dance but lack spaces to express themselves," she says modestly, adding that she's deeply moved whenever she sees friends dancing freely.

When asked if dance can provide a living, she responds thoughtfully: "I'm still figuring that out. But isn't that what life is about? Doing what you love without waiting for the 'perfect moment.'"

On the streets of New York, Yiran proves through every dance move that it's never too late to follow your passion.

The link to the original podcast in Chinese: Ep1, Ep2

Contact Her:

the RedNote @19ins @yiranshu @summerbreezeshow