In 'The Other Witch,' a Chicago dancer weaves a spell for women everywhere

The chanting starts slowly, then builds as an eerie swirl of English, German and Turkish words fills the dark room. A shadowy figure rises beneath a heavy black cloak.

That shadow is Chicago dancer and choreographer Nejla Yatkin, whose slender frame seems to stretch beyond human scale as she begins her dance “The Other Witch.” The work, which she will bring to Epiphany Center for the Arts this weekend, feels part sacred ritual, part scary movie.

In the hour-long solo show, Yatkin seems to crack open a portal to the past and offer a hearty ode to the enduring strength of womankind. Attacks on women’s autonomy and freedom — from witch hunts hundreds of years ago to the victims of Jeffrey Epstein — are all on Yatkin’s mind.

As she prepares to revive the piece on International Women’s Day, in a former church, she said she feels a deep empowerment.

“I almost feel like I'm not dancing, I'm stepping aside, and something else is dancing through me,” said Yatkin, who performs the entire piece in a series of masks that block out almost all light. “That's an interesting but welcoming experience.”

Yatkin began the project in earnest in 2018. With support from a Chicago Dancemakers Forum fellowship, she debuted a film version during the COVID-19 pandemic. But in some ways, the idea had been brewing since she was a teenager growing up in Berlin. That’s when Yatkin was first exposed to the German Expressionist Mary Wigman and the dance pioneer’s 1914 work “Hexentanz,” or witch dance.

The force of the dance shook a young Yatkin. “It always kind of scared me a bit,” Yatkin said. “Because it was so confrontational and forceful and I'm someone who is indirect.” Now, Yatkin is taking a cue from Wigman and embodying that spirit of witchy forcefulness. She never quotes from Wigman’s choreography directly, but early in her show, Yatkin projects a surviving clip of Wigman performing “Hexentanz.”

“The piece is about reclaiming the power of women and sovereignty,” said Yatkin, 55. “The structures around you, of course, will try to diminish your power, but it is still up to you to express yourself in this world.”

Yatkin is the rare dance soloist staging full-length works in Chicago. After moving to the U.S. in the mid-’90s, Yatkin danced with companies in places like Denver and Dayton, Ohio, before going out on her own and eventually landing in Chicago in 2010. Her original works have earned her a prestigious Princess Grace Award and a Guggenheim Fellowship.

Scott Lundius, the executive director of the Morrison-Shearer Foundation, has known Yatkin for decades. The foundation — which is named, in part, after pioneering Chicago dancer Sybil Shearer — has also supported Yatkin’s work.

“She's one of those artists that when she's on stage with others, you can't look at anyone else,” Lundius said. “It's a rare thing when you're on stage and you have released yourself to the work, and you become a channel for the audience's experience of themselves. Nejla is a dancer who has the capacity to occupy that place for the audience.”

Susan Manning, a scholar of dance history at Northwestern University, served as the dramaturg for “The Other Witch.” She said Yatkin’s captivating stage presence puts her in rare company with other vanguard soloists. “Wigman had that, Martha Graham had that. Nejla really has that quality.”

On a recent afternoon at Constellation on Western Avenue, Yatkin was wearing black sweats and puffy moon boots as she warmed up before a dress rehearsal. After her show at Chicago’s Epiphany, she will take “The Other Witch” on an international tour, with stops in Panama and Mexico.

Despite her dancing from a young age, Yatkin’s parents did not approve. To them, Yatkin said, dance was akin to prostitution. “I ran away with the circus,” she said. “I left home early before finishing high school to pursue my dream of dance.”

In “The Other Witch,” Yatkin said she is dancing for women who were also told “no.” She teared up as she recounted post-show interactions the work has prompted.

“Every time I perform, there's always a woman that comes to me and says, ‘I wanted to be a dancer, but my parents did not allow me to,’ and I was like, you can still dance,” said Yatkin. “Put the music on. Dance in your kitchen.”

She then disappeared backstage, reentering in a corset, floor-length black tutu and an intricately beaded mask that leaves her almost entirely blind to her surroundings.

“It really focuses your senses, because you don't have your eyes,” she said. “Your feet are more awake. Your hands are more awake. It shifts the whole way you are sensing the world. I almost feel like I'm in a cave dancing.”

As she dropped into character, Yatkin’s audio and video collaborator Enki Andrews yelled, “rolling.” Despite being close to the work for years, the performance still leaves Andrews entranced.

“There was a moment where it felt like I was hallucinating, because her presence was huge,” Andrews said. “She looked like she was 12 feet tall. It was a bizarre kind of perceptual presence where I felt like I was in a dream state. And it's not overwhelming, it's just profound.”

As the spellbinding work finished, the room went black. Then, Andrews brought the house lights up, and Yatkin reemerged and removed her mask.

“I am in another world,” she said, as a grin grew across her face. “It's like a mushroom trip or something.”

Courtney Kueppers is an arts and culture reporter at WBEZ.