Ingrida
Alonderė

This evening, Kernavė Street in Vilnius ceased to be a geographical location and became a portal into the subconscious of a genius. I went to the premiere of Anželika Cholina’s The Tale of Kings without any particular intention to analyse—just to be. But at some point, I caught myself thinking: I am no longer a spectator. I am Čiurlionis. With my whole being. Every cell.

It is a rare experience when a performance does not unfold in front of you, but within you. Not as a story about something, but as a state that takes hold of you. And that state was not drama, not narrative, not form—but love. Not comfortable, not decorative, but deep, sometimes painful, and completely all-encompassing.

The architecture of genius: A. Cholina

Anželika Cholina’s direction operates here as a precisely calibrated emotional mechanism.
She controls not only the bodies on stage, but also the inner direction of the viewer. This is not dance you observe—it is a psychological X-ray in which you yourself become visible. Music, movement, costume, and light do not complement one another; they merge into a single fabric without seams.

Between ballet and modernity

The choreographic language holds an exact sense of balance. The freedom of contemporary dance meets the discipline of ballet, and it is precisely in this tension that something internal emerges. It feels as though the body itself is negotiating Čiurlionis’ conflict—between earthbound existence and the constant urge to transcend. Movement here is not beautiful for the sake of beauty—it is necessary, as if the only possible language for what is happening inside.

Love as the axis of the universe

There is much drama in the performance, yet it never collapses into surface-level emotional effect. This is not drama for the sake of drama, but deep psychological density—the moment when a human being can no longer contain their inner tension. Love is not a narrative thread here; it is the structural foundation of everything. Love for a woman, for creation, for vision, for Lithuania—but above all, love as a state through which everything unfolds.

The sacredness of sound and letters

(and one biased confession)

Donatas Zakarauskas’ Letters to Sofija, performed by the choir "Jauna Muzika", is not a background element but the gravitational centre of the entire work.
If Cholina visually opens you, this music seals you inside, in a space from which you neither wish nor manage to escape. Every note is not an illustration, but the act of painting itself—happening here and now.

I must admit: my objectivity capitulated. "Jauna Muzika" is too close to my heart, and I deeply love this piece. Attempting to remain a “cold critic” here was as futile as trying to ignore the woman in row 17 of the amphitheatre, rhythmically rustling something inside a plastic bag. Even though that sound almost qualified as an avant-garde accompaniment, the music remained the core of the performance—the only true breath.

Visuality as breathing

The scenography, costumes, and lighting function so organically that it feels unnecessary to separate them into individual elements. There is no excess, no demonstrative beauty—only a consistent intensification of feeling. The visual layer does not compete with movement; it breathes alongside it.

Cultural dribbling

After the performance, I overheard a man sigh:
“How dramatic… and I still want to make it in time to watch Žalgiris play.” There was something profoundly true in that. After such emotional density, one longs for something that returns the body to rhythm, to something simpler—perhaps even to three-point shots. Paradoxically, that may be the highest compliment to Anželika Cholina: to create a state from which the viewer needs an entirely different world in order to return to their own.

My inner conclusion

I left not with thoughts, but with a state. With the feeling that, for a moment, I was not observing, but part of what was happening. Perhaps not even part of the performance—but part of the time in which Čiurlionis himself once lived. There are works you evaluate. There are works you remember.
And then there are works that allow you, briefly, to become someone else—and after that, you are no longer quite the same. Thank you to all the artists and the creative team. Thank you, Anželika Cholina.


Good night.

P.S. When dance, music, and visual art merge into one whole, even from row 17 you feel as if you are at the very centre of Čiurlionis’ thought.