The first time Eskillz realized that the body could be used did not happen in a dance studio, but in a dojo.

At twelve, his father sent him to study karate. It wasn’t a decision about dance, but one about self-defense. Yet through the repeated cycles of punches, turns, and closures, he felt something awaken for the first time: the body could be activated, sculpted, and understood. In that moment, something opened.

Before that, he was closer to a quiet art student. He drew, illustrated, immersed himself in comics, imagining one day creating his own graphic novels. Dance was never part of the plan— despite the fact that almost everyone in his family danced.

Years later, after traveling the world to dance, teach, and create moving images — as a Jersey Club dancer, movement artist, director — he still looks back at that experience as the beginning.

“You can draw with your body,” he says.

The kid who danced in secret

Born in New Jersey, Eskillz grew up in a family where everyone danced. On his father’s Caribbean side: club culture, house, disco, breaking. On his mother’s side: jazz, swing, roller-skating culture. Dance didn’t need to be introduced—it existed like air.

And yet, he was the child who danced in secret.

In his room, he watched popping and animation videos on YouTube, practicing Jersey Club rhythms, stops, and accents. It was a private joy—one that didn’t need validation or definition.

Until one day, during a school lunch break, someone noticed. “Skills can dance.”

From that moment on, he slowly became the kid who dances.

“I realized I didn’t just like dancing,” he says. “What I loved was body language itself.”

Jersey Club: Not a Style, but a Way of Being

In Eskillz’s narrative, Jersey Club is rarely framed as a “dance style.”

First, it is a setting—parties, underground spaces, clubs.

Second, it is music—rooted in Baltimore Club, brought back to New Jersey by local DJs, evolving into what became known as Brick City music.

Only then did it gradually become a physical language.

“In the beginning, it wasn’t freestyle,” he explains. “It was collective — call-and-response.”

The DJ would shout commands over the music, like an advanced version of Cha Cha Slide: two steps left, two steps right, a named move, everyone doing it together. Dance didn’t ask who you were — it only asked that you be present.

“Jersey Club was always for everyone.”

Later, personal expression began to slip into the spaces between those shared movements, and freestyle slowly emerged. But even today, in Eskillz’s eyes, Jersey Club remains less a system to be ranked and more a way of existing in the club.

He Doesn’t Really Believe in the Borders Between Styles

On paper, Eskillz’s journey doesn’t look like a typical street-dance trajectory. He has trained in contemporary dance, explored ballet, tap dance, and worked in theater and stage projects. When he speaks about the body, he references anatomy, foot placement, center of gravity, weight distribution.

“These aren’t exclusive to any one style,” he says.

“We’re talking about the same thing—just using different vocabulary.”

To him, all dancers operate within a shared physical logic: balance, rhythm, awareness, gravity. They are all asking the same question — how does the body exist in space?

This perspective owes much to his background in visual art.

“I watch dance the way I look at a painting.”

He Films Dance, but not “Dance Video”

It’s hard to label Eskillz’s work simply as dance videos. In his films, dance is rarely the protagonist. Composition, space, narrative, and silence often matter more than the movement itself. The body feels placed inside a painting that happens to move.

“That’s because I started as a visual artist,” he says.

He first sees the image in his mind — then sketches it, storyboards it, and only later searches for the right space and body. The camera is not a recording device; it is a canvas.

He is drawn to surrealism — not for spectacle, but for moments that feel as though they could only exist if you had witnessed them yourself.

“I want that feeling where you’ve clearly seen it,” he says, “but it still feels impossible.”

He isn’t eager for the audience to analyze the steps. He wants them to be trapped inside the moment.

Here, dance is no longer a display of technique, but an event that is unfolding.

How to define a “Dancer”?

When asked how he defines a dancer, Eskillz pauses for a long time.

“Some of the best dancers are non-dancers.”

For him, being a dancer has little to do with making a living from it. It has everything to do with whether you remain in conversation with the art.

“If one day you can no longer dance,” he says, “but you are still moved by dance — then you are a dancer.”

Because real dance is not movement, but perception: how you feel, how you respond, how you exist in the world. Some professionals at the top of the industry felt profoundly empty, and untrained individuals might possess a deep, intuitive understanding of dance.

Dancer’s identity, to him, is not decided by income, labels, or credentials — but by relationship.

“If you truly love dance,” he says, “you would want to see it on more people. You love it enough that it’s no longer just about yourself.”

Space, Responsibility, and Kindness

He has little interest in ranking dancers. Instead, he prefers to speak of maturity. Dance, to him, is not a hierarchy, but an expanding territory — each person has a different range of comfort zone. No one is above another.

What concerns him are environments where fear is created through technique, reputation, or power.

“If you’re more experienced in dance,” he says, “you’re responsible for making the space safe for exploration.”

Not by lowering standards — but through understanding.

“Everyone’s bag can be deeper.”

He has seen dancers at the peak of technique who were deeply miserable, and others with nothing who were utterly free in the music. Once, at a house festival, he was stunned by the groove of a homeless drug-addict — and for the first time, he felt envy for that kind of freedom.

“That’s when I realized,” he says, “that I might have been looking at dance wrong.”

The Best Artist Is the Most Human

In the latter part of the conversation, the focus drifts away from technique and into something more personal, deeper.

Eskillz keeps returning to one word: human.

In a world saturated with algorithms, metrics, and perfected images, dance matters not because it is impressive — but because it is real.

“AI will never be depressed, never lost, never doubt whether it can keep creating.”

“The best dancers,” he says, “are the most human.”

It took him a long time to finally say he was a good dancer — because he had to stop beating himself up for imperfection. Those imperfections, he realized, were the very essence of art.

“Learning to be kind to yourself, is an art form in itself.” he says.

Returning Dance to Life

Eskillz offers no grand manifesto, but repeats only one thing: dance was always meant to be free.

Not for résumés.

Not for rankings.

Not for algorithms.

“Did you like the song? Did you nod your head? Did your foot move? Congratulations, you danced today.”

In a world increasingly obsessed with outcomes, efficiency, and perfection, his stance feels almost defiant. And precisely because of that, it feels clear.

He is not teaching people how to dance. He is reminding them of something simpler:

You already know how to move. Everyone can dance.

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