I will begin with one of my recent works, which I created in the industrial zone of the city of Duisburg in Germany. It takes the form of an opera, but it is not a real opera—rather, a kind of anti-opera. Its title is Matter. In the final act of this opera, there are no people; no one performs an aria. I didn’t know how to approach this work at first, and then I decided that instead of inventing something, I would simply bring 100 sheep into this industrial building.

The very first rehearsal immediately became one of the most beautiful moments of my life. The sheep were brought in by a shepherd, who left them and said he was going to have lunch. I replied, “Wait—how am I supposed to manage them?” He told me not to worry, but I did begin to worry, because I didn’t know how they would react to contemporary classical music. He repeated that I shouldn’t worry—and disappeared. It was a smart decision, because once he left, the sheep no longer had a point of orientation on which to focus their attention.

Before that, I had been repeatedly asked how I planned to teach the sheep choreography. But we had no such intention. In the end, they wandered aimlessly through the space to the music of Louis Andriessen, and we also had a blimp that we controlled remotely. With this work, I wanted to show that there are forces beyond our control. For the audience, it was a very valuable experience, because they could not fully grasp how this idea would manifest in reality.

I begin with a question—or several questions. I feel that they must be asked together, yet I cannot explain why. Or I encounter an image or a text that inspires me, but I cannot understand the reason for it. This is how I begin my research, inviting other artists into it as well. And in the end, what emerges before me is a work that surprises me just as much as it surprises you.