In conversation with Septime Webre, Artistic Director of the Hong Kong Ballet.

In the world of ballet, where every gesture is both precision and poetry, Septime Webre finds presence. As Artistic Director of Hong Kong Ballet, his work is a study in rhythm, ritual, and reinvention. In this conversation, he reflects on the ephemeral nature of performance, the discipline behind creativity, and the quiet rituals that bring clarity to chaos. A dialogue on meaning of time, transition, and intention - in dance, and in life.

1. Time (and Timing) is at the core of ballet and at the core of Ray of Hours. How do you personally define or experience time - on stage and beyond?

Time has so many different qualities. In dance, it refers to rhythm and syncopation, to how we approach movement and how our bodies move. A change in rhythm is a change in time. Dance is movement through time and space - and time, for me, is about how we move in a sharp, quick way or in a slow way. So time is part of the delivery of something beautiful through movement.

Another aspect is that performing arts are fleeting. They disappear. When the curtain comes down, what’s just happened no longer exists, except in the memories of those who danced and those who watched. Time is precious because moments vanish—and all that remains is what we learned, what we remember, or how we grew from it.

And the third level is just life, enjoying it. As time goes by, we have less of it. I have a four-and-a-half-year-old son, and I’m acutely aware of time moving both slowly and very quickly. So, for me, time means the pace of life and dance, the fleetingness of moments, and the awareness that time is, it’s quiete a luxury. 

2. As a creative leader, how do you create space in your day for reflection, clarity, and focus? Any rituals, habits, or routines?

That has changed over the course of decades. When I was a dancer, the daily ballet class - those 90 minutes - felt like a kind of liturgy. Six or seven days a week, I would take a ballet class. It began with pliés at the barre, then tendus, and gradually the movements got bigger and more expansive. The structure was the same every day, accompanied by beautiful classical music. In many ways, it was liturgical. I grew up in a very Catholic family, and I understood the importance of ritual and liturgy, how important they are to human existence.

When I retired from dancing and became a director, I found new forms. I became a serious, committed Ashtanga yoga practitioner. At my most dedicated, I was practicing five or six days a week, another 90-minute moving meditation in a very rigorous form. Like ballet, it brought my mind to its most peaceful, clear, and lucid state through a physically demanding task. I found in Ashtanga yoga a path that felt natural, familiar from my ballet training.

Previously, meditation never worked for me. My mind was too active, always full of ideas. I used to joke: “I love meditating, as long as I can bring a good book to read.” I simply couldn’t clear my mind. But yoga changed that. I came to it for the physical challenge, and it ended up training my mind to focus and be still.

As life changed: having a child, the pace of Hong Kong, and some shoulder injuries - I was no longer able to keep up with Ashtanga. Recently, I’ve embraced Tai Chi. It’s a much gentler form of movement, but it, too, has helped clear my mind in profound ways.

There’s also something else I treasure: when everyone in the house has gone to bed, I sit on the terrace with a cold Mexican beer, looking out over the skyline and Victoria Harbour. That, too, is a form of meditation. I’m alone with my thoughts. No laptop, no distractions. Just being, breathing, and enjoying that beer.

3. The stage demands precision, yet expression. Where do you find the balance between discipline and freedom - both in your work and life?

The famed post-modern choreographer Twyla Tharp wrote a book years ago called The Creative Habit, and I really ascribe to its thesis that creativity thrives within a sense of dailiness. George Balanchine also had a funny quote: “The muse doesn’t work on union time.” Meaning, if rehearsal was scheduled for 1 o’clock, you had to be creative at 1 o’clock, whether you liked it or not.

As a busy artistic director with responsibilities beyond the choreography itself - marketing, fundraising, hiring dancers, curating repertoire, building the company’s imagery - there’s always a lot on my plate. So sometimes I have to dash into the studio and rely on craft. And in order to do that, life has to be super organised. I’ve learned that if my workspace is clean and clear, free of clutter, then my mind is free to roam. I actually thrive on a bit of mental chaos, but that chaos feels more creative when there’s structure around how and when I work.

I’m a list-maker. I get through the practicals that way. For me, creativity often comes spontaneously, but I’ve learned to build time for it. I’ve been choreographing since I was a teenager, so I now have a certain craft. And when I walk into the studio without a spark of inspiration, I just start working and the work itself tends to lead me somewhere. So the key, really, is to keep the habit.

Also, I think artists tend to thrive under constraints. Take the Sistine Chapel: Michelangelo didn’t wake up one morning inspired to paint that ceiling. It was a commission. The constraints - whether imposed externally, like a deadline, or internally, through your own discipline - often lead to the most compelling work.

4. What does authenticity mean to you, whether in choreograpy, leadership, or your personal life?

I think it’s just a way of being in the world, living by a value system and letting it all hang out. Letting the world see your vulnerabilities as well as your strengths. I think that makes for the best art-making, the best leadership, and the best interactions in personal relationships.

You’ve got to allow yourself to be vulnerable, and you have to live by some code of ethics, some value system. I find it most challenging when I have to make management decisions that affect people. Decisions I know will have real-life consequences. Sometimes it’s casting. Sometimes it’s employment. And I know someone will be disappointed. The only way I can make those decisions with integrity is by returning to the value system, asking myself what I’m trying to achieve, and what I truly believe in.

So I think authenticity comes from understanding yourself enough to have a set of values, and then letting those values be visible to the world. Letting them guide your interactions with others, your day-to-day decisions, and how you present yourself publicly.

I do a lot of public speaking. I advocate for the company’s work. It’s part of my professional role. But I’ve always aimed to remove the wall between my private persona and my public persona. That’s been a long-term goal: to be casual, because ballet is formal. To break down that wall. To be welcoming, because I know ballet can feel intimidating. Some people worry they won’t understand it. I want to make it accessible.

That value system, that ballet can be understood by everyone, guides everything, even how I curate repertoire. I want to surprise people with what can be expressed through the ballet language. So yes, in the end, having a strong value system that informs how you interface with the world - that’s the key to being authentic.

5. Ballet has a long heritage, yet you’re known for innovation and beautifully tying in cultural elements. How do you honor classics and tradition while pushing forward?

Ballet is a language. Just like English, Chinese, or German. And it can be used in many ways. It can express stories about swans, princes, and girls in Bavaria who die of a broken heart. But it can also tell stories of today.

What I’ve tried to do is maintain a very high international calibre in presenting the classics, so that audiences who love ballet feel there’s integrity in what we’re doing. And then, from that foundation of excellence, use the ballet language to tell stories that captivate modern audiences.

For example, I’m currently working on a libretto for a new ballet about the life of Bruce Lee. He’s an international icon. Not someone typically associated with the elegance and refinement of ballet, in fact quite the opposite. But his life stood for a kind of philosophy, and that can absolutely be expressed through ballet in a beautiful way. At first, it might seem like a surprising fit, but when you dig deeper, the logic becomes clear.

It’s been important to me that our productions feel accessible to the public - but without dumbing them down. Some companies might resort to more commercial work to sell tickets. We’ve certainly developed recognisable titles, and the Bruce Lee ballet will sell - possibly even more than Swan Lake. But it’s not commercial work. It’s a serious exploration of an iconic historical figure, filled with complex themes.

In Hong Kong, I’ve also made it a priority to develop repertoire that reflects the lives and culture of Hong Kong people. When I arrived, the Hong Kong Ballet was a beautiful company, but it had a colonial point of view, and I wanted to dismantle that. We’ve created a series of works that reflect Hong Kong culture in meaningful ways. Bruce Lee will be the third in a trilogy: the first was Romeo and Juliet set in 1960s Hong Kong; the second, The Nutcracker, reimagined in 1915 Hong Kong; and now Bruce Lee, who lived through the ’60s and ’70s.

Breaking down outdated notions of what ballet can express has been an exciting challenge. I’m also inspired by fashion and contemporary art, and I enjoy infusing our productions with those influences. For example, we’re premiering a program called Glam Rock—a triple bill of ballets: one set to the music of Freddie Mercury and Queen, one to Depeche Mode, and a third to the iconic Hong Kong indie rock band Beyond. It’s a counterpoint to the idea of ballet as a purely conservative art form. It’s been fun to shake things up.

And now, with technology advancing so quickly and being used in such artistic, creative ways, we’re committed to exploring that intersection as well. We’ve been developing a major project for about two years: an immersive, interactive art installation that premieres at the Venice Biennale this July. After Venice, it’ll go to Somerset House in London for several months, and then to Tai Kwun in Hong Kong next summer.

6. You posses a unique, rare aesthetic and talent, what advice would you give someone trying to live with more intention in a world full of noise and distraction?

I’d offer three bits of advice.

First, figure out the overlap between what you’re passionate about and what you’re good at. That sweet spot—where your interests meet your ability to contribute meaningfully - is where you’ll find your path.

Second, work really hard. Approach your pursuit with discipline and consistency. The famed father of postmodern dance, Merce Cunningham, once said: “You shouldn’t be a dancer if you don’t love the dailiness of it.” You can apply that to anything in life. When I graduated from university in Austin, Texas, the commencement speaker was the great Congresswoman Barbara Jordan. She ended her speech with a story that concluded, in her words: “Ain’t nothing worth nothing that ain’t no trouble.” It’s a very colloquial way of saying: nothing is worth anything unless it’s worth working for.

And third: joy. Joy has to be part of the equation. You need to hold on to that sense of fun and freedom, that spark of the kid in you who just loves doing what you do. Without that, it’s hard to be truly successful or fulfilled.

So that’s it: find what you love and what you’re good at, work really hard, and don’t forget to play - with joy.

7. Can you describe a moment in your life that felt like time stood still?

I’ve had a number of such moments, but three come to mind.

The first was the moment our son was born. My husband and I were in the hospital room with our surrogate and her wife. We were literally holding her ankles, witnessing the birth. That moment of our son, who’s now almost five, coming into the world… time felt so precious. It permanently changed me.

The second was the burial of my mother. I was 30, and had just become an artistic director for the first time. I’d retired as a dancer and stepped into this new role. It was a time of immense personal transition. I come from a big family, nine kids, and all of us were there. That moment of burial was profound. Because of my spiritual beliefs. I grew up Catholic, but also have some Buddhist leanings, a kind of universal humanist spirituality. The experience was devastatingly sad, but also deeply beautiful. A moment in the cycle of life.

The third moment is less singular, more a collective one. It’s the feeling of standing at the back of a theatre after one of my ballets, and watching the audience respond. There are certain works that have become real classics, and in those moments I can feel the exchange of energy - the communion - between the dancers and the audience. It’s thrilling. That sense of shared humanity. I could name three or four different ballets, but those reactions all melt into one unforgettable sensation.

And if I dig even deeper - it’s not even always the audience’s applause, but particular moments on stage. Like when a swan, in one of my productions, played by a woman, falls off a platform into the arms of several men. That act of surrender - the lighting, the music, the timing -  was more beautiful than I could have imagined in rehearsal. It took my breath away.

Moments like that live in many of my works. Sometimes just a few seconds of such heightened beauty, they’re etched in my memory. But what’s important is this: whether the final piece is inspired or not, the process of creating it is the same. The energy, the preparation, the discipline - it doesn’t change. Some works rise to the level of a masterwork. Others don’t. That’s true for any artist — Picasso, Balanchine, Stravinsky — the body of work is vast, but only some pieces catch that fleeting spark.

That’s why we keep showing up. We trust the process. Every day.