Elena Vazintaris is a Chilean-Greek choreographer, movement director, and filmmaker who I’ve had the joy of collaborating with over the past decade in New York City. For NOT’s recent Mini Jacket Capsule, Elena brought her intuitive movements to the streets of Manhattan, embodying the freedom and fluidity that these jackets were designed to inspire.
Our collaborations have always been rooted in a shared openness to experiment – to blur the lines between disciplines, to improvise, to play. I envisioned that this project might also feel like a portrait of a person I admire. Between rehearsals and styling tests, I had the chance to learn more about Elena’s creative path: from growing up threading her grandmother’s sewing machine in suburban Toronto to shaping movement on fashion sets using poetic prompts that invite spontaneity. These stories – of care, craft, and identity, are woven into her practice. Alongside the visuals, I wanted to share this conversation as another window into the artist behind the work.
Photo by Zui Gomez for NOT's Mini Jacket Capsule
Jenny: There's something about watching a person dance outdoors that excites me. There’s a certain unpredictability of the elements and at the same time, a communication and harmony with them. You’ve shared videos on social media of yourself dancing in places like South Dakota’s Badlands or Utah’s salt flats. What draws you to set up a camera and move in these kinds of places?
Elena: It’s very spontaneous and usually I just have to be in an unbothered, undistracted state of mind. I find myself attracted to expansive environments that make me feel somewhat small, an entity in reverence to the magnitude of my surroundings. I’m inspired by my road trips out West: Montana, Utah, Idaho, the Dakotas where the natural environment reigns.
For the Mini Jacket Capsule shoot, we spent half a day dancing on the sidewalk on the far West side of Manhattan. How did that outdoor experience feel to you, in contrast to dancing in remote landscapes?
Jenny adjusts Elena on set, photo by Zui Gomez
The experience was quite calming actually. I think the environment, the city as backdrop, the sounds, the stares, the howling of horns provides enough ambient stimulation that, surprisingly, makes it easier for me to tap into a sort of meditation in movement. There’s a bit of a disassociation that happens in the streets versus somewhere like the Badlands in South Dakota. Out there, the opposite is true. The meditation syncs with the environment - the expansiveness that your eye takes in. The natural sounds act like a sort of score to the improvisation. It’s a different emotional experience altogether. Your body finds a reverence to the environment and invites it all in. Whereas in New York City, you’re performing in spite of it all.
We share a strong connection to fashion and movement. I think that connection is evident in how we keep collaborating over the last decade. Clearly, the fact that you grew up surrounded by makers means you have experienced the dedication, the patience, and the value of things made by hand.
I agree! I have always loved coming together in our collaborations. We value similar things: the beauty of process and creating with a sense of integrity, not quickly but deliberately and with care.
I loved our conversations about our grandmothers’ collections of fabrics. My grandmother, who lives in Taiwan, has been keeping folded stacks of Italian wools for probably a half century. When I visit her, she brings them to me to choose from. She is disappointed when I don't take more because these wools were deemed so valuable in her lifetime. Can you tell me more about growing up with a mother and grandmother who sewed?
I grew up in a small suburb outside of Toronto called Pickering. My mother and her family came from Chile, and they grew up in the capital of Santiago. My mom was a refugee during the Pinochet dictatorship, and she received asylum in Canada in 1975. My father immigrated from Greece, which, a few short years before, was ravaged by their own dictatorship.
My grandmother lived with us. Our basement was set up with sewing machines, a serger, a big table and a wooden dresser filled with neatly organized stacks of fabric. If there wasn’t enough light, we would move operations to the kitchen table. My grandmother, mother, and aunt all made things - sometimes out of necessity, but most of the time because they could. They sewed, crocheted, knitted, painted, and did needle point. They made clothing, curtains, tablecloths, prom dresses for my friends, costumes for my ballet school, handbags out of leather. They mended and tailored clothing.
I started helping out as soon as I was able to hold a pair of scissors or a seam ripper, age 6 or 7. I have memories of needing something to wear and heading to our local fabric store to flip through the pages of those giant pattern catalogues - Vogue, McCalls, Burda. Choosing the fabrics, matching the threads. When my sisters and I would go home, our jobs were usually to cut the patterns out or to thread the sewing machine, as my grandmother had a hard time seeing.
Being called to get measured for a pair of pants or trying on a sleeve before it made it onto the dress… not only were these moments quietly teaching me patience, but they are memories that remind me of the women in my life that took care of me. It’s how they showed love; and without realizing it at the time, this instilled in me a sense of respect for things made by hand. I have carried that with me in the work that I do and my deep respect for the work of others.
Can you tell me about your dance background and how you’ve seen your career evolve- from dance, to choreography, to fashion and film?
Ah! I’ll try to condense three decades of journey into a few sentences! My career started in Toronto at 19. I was dancing for an all-female hip-hop group and go-go dancing in nightclubs on the weekends, all while attending the Dance Program at York University. Back then, I think I was an anomaly for an industry that really expected you to stay in your lane. I loved classical dance, but also really loved the energy of the commercial world. So when I arrived in NYC, I found myself back in night life, dancing for artists, and dancing in commercials.
While pursuing my dance career, I also fell into fashion. I began as an assistant stylist and eventually began styling for advertising, commercials and e-commerce. It’s here that I saw a way to bridge my worlds together: fashion, dance, choreography, photography, and video. All of these informed my vision for a commercial career while still investigating and growing in my personal practice.
Elena at 19, go-go dancing in Toronto for Mac Cosmetics Viva Glam after party
In your work as a movement director on fashion sets, how do you consider the role of movement in storytelling?
What I first consider is the overall story the director or photographer is trying to create. I look at the whole vision: from styling, to hair and makeup, to the lighting and set design. I ask questions, for example: Do these elements create freedom in the body, or do they constrain? Do any of these elements need to be the focal point? How can we achieve that? How do we perform within the constraints of the vision? I consider the person we're shooting and ensure they feel solid and comfortable. And then I get to work composing, shaping and offering prompts that in turn, hopefully, inspire a sense of spontaneity and authenticity in movement. I'm always in pursuit of the very magical inflection point that ultimately makes for a great moment when all these considerations converge.
For example, these are some of the prompts/questions that I internalized during my improvisations on our shoot day. They served as spontaneous mini investigations for each take and I would adapt my movements depending on the direction that the filmmaker Toddy gave me, or on the frame rate we were shooting at.
- To reverse forward momentum
- To fill the lungs with oxygen. How slowly? How quickly? How deliberate? How continuous?
- To contain pathways in a 4 by 4 space. What sort of pathways? Linear? Curved?
We’ve also been talking recently about our immigrant family histories and our desire to record the stories of our parents and grandparents. Can you tell me about the project you’re developing that weaves together dance and family history?
The project I’m working on involves various stories that have been passed down to me through my mother, specifically her journey from Chile to Canada during the Pinochet dictatorship. The project is a somatic and political cartography of memory — an embodied investigation into the legacy of forced migration, political repression, and the quiet strength of survival. It is, in a way, an attempt to further examine identity as a child of immigrants and where home is subjective. It is a project that investigates the terrain of intergenerational remembering: how does trauma move through a body that didn’t directly witness the violence, but carries its imprint in muscle, in breath, in fear inherited through story? How does one embody a place never lived in, but deeply mourned?
I’m currently in the exploration phase of my research. I have a trove of recordings, Super 8 film that I’ve digitized, and a script that has taken shape. The next step is to get into the studio and begin movement investigations based on emerging themes that will serve as material for the choreographed vignettes I plan on shooting.
View our Mini Jacket Capsule short films here.
Connect with Elena here: www.elenavazintaris.com