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By Kimberly
Choosing a company name feels a bit like naming a kid. It’s more than just words—it sets the tone, sparks curiosity, and hints at what’s behind it. So, why “Based on Kimberly”? For almost a year, we searched for the right name. We made endless lists, threw around all kinds of ideas, but nothing ever felt quite right. Everything either felt too obvious—or like it was trying too hard. Then, one July afternoon, we sat down with a blank page and started writing down anything that made us laugh—random thoughts, inside jokes, things that just felt like us. Vejde joined us that day, and we played our classic timed writing game—writing freely, then passing the paper to the person on our right. They bounced off that paper until we had plenty of new and random thought trains that chugged organically into the void! Somewhere in that mix, "Based on Kimberly" appeared. We also laughed a lot that day about Kimberly Circus and The Sun Damaged… Side note! There might’ve been a subconscious influence: earlier that year, Inka named her son’s teddy “Kimberly.” Imo thought this was particularly hilarious. "What a random choice; it’s such an English name, and one that for some reason is kinda funny—tacky yet grand all in one!" Perfect combo, she thought! So ‘Based on Kimberly’ jumped from the page and made sense in a way we couldn’t quite explain. The whole idea of the company being based on someone we don’t even know, like finding that thing to believe in or person to look up to. Kinda strangely cult-y, and as Kimberly is imaginary, they can be everything we hope them to be! Perfectly wild and messy! Maybe a person, maybe not. Perhaps just an idea, a presence, the invisible hand pushing us toward the unexpected. Maybe a role model reminding us not to take ourselves too seriously. She can be anyone, or no one, and that’s the beauty of it. The name made us laugh and felt so right because it had just the right mix of randomness and meaning. In circus, "basing" is the term for the person holding another in hand-to-hand acrobatics. To be a base is to be a porter. But to be based on someone? That’s something else entirely. The name happened in the way circus often does—somewhere between chaos and instinct. It started as a joke, a placeholder, a twist on the idea that all art is "based on something." And then, it became something real. Side note: After realising this needed to be the name, and truly we don’t care what anyone else thinks about it as we just feel so gut-sure, we looked up "Kimberly." Magic appeared: It’s a unisex given name of Old English origin. What a pleasant surprise, as we’d only known of female-identifying Kimberlies before. So much better that it includes us all! The name of Lord Kimberley’s title is derived from Kimberley, in Norfolk, England. Imogen’s fricking home county…! How oddly serendipitous. This place name is derived from two Old English elements: the first is the feminine personal name Cyneburg, which means "royal fortress," and the second element is lēah, which means "woodland" or "clearing." The place name roughly means: the "woodland clearing of the royal fortress." We hope that Kimberly keeps us open, flexible—in mind and body—and ready for anything. Reminding us we don’t have to follow a straight line. We can create stage shows, books, and exhibitions without being boxed into one thing. So, is our work actually "based on Kimberly"? Definitely. And not at all. And maybe. And that’s exactly the way we like it.
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By Kimberly
The plan was simple: Create a secret show. No teasers, no spoilers, no whispered hints—just a fully formed performance appearing out of nowhere, ready to leave audiences wondering, Where did that come from? We would build it in the shadows and then drop it into the world like a perfectly executed magic trick. It was going to be unexpected, mysterious, and thrilling. We hoped... But then, life did what life does best—it threw us a curveball. And not just any curveball. A massive, can’t-say-no, are-you-kidding-me kind of opportunity landed in our laps. The type of opportunity that makes you pause, laugh at the absurd timing, and immediately change everything. Suddenly, the slow-burn secrecy of our show collided headfirst with a fully supported production, and just like that, everything changed. We will find other secrets to hold onto. Now, instead of dropping a quiet surprise, we found ourselves sprinting into something much bigger than we had originally imagined. The secret show still exists—it’s just had a growth spurt, a plot twist, and a whole new direction. And honestly? We’re not mad about it. Sometimes, the best performances aren’t just the ones we meticulously plan but the ones that take on a life of their own. So, what does this mean? It means we’re creating something even more ambitious, even more unexpected, and yes—still thrilling. We hope... And now, it’s time to take it beyond borders. We’re officially launching this program tomorrow in Sweden at CirkusExpo! The secrecy may have taken a hit, but the magic—and the fuck the system attitude—still exist. Thank you for the trust. Stay tuned for Yes Person. By Inka Pehkonen
I am a mother now. I am also an artist And somewhere in the middle, there is a version of me I am still getting to know. The transformation began with pregnancy, a kind of disorientation that left me both thrilled and confused. My body, once a tool for my artistic expression, became something entirely different — a vessel nurturing new life. It felt like I had become a character in someone else’s story, with my old self slowly fading away. Yet, paradoxically, I found an unexpected joy in this surrender. Every physical change, every tiny kick, felt like a miraculous shift, filling me with a love so profound it seemed almost unreal.. I stepped away from the stage for over two years. In the arts, that’s an eternity. My sister once asked, "How long will you be on maternity leave?" The truth is, my leave began the moment I saw those two lines on the pregnancy test. It wasn’t a decision made in a hospital; it started right then, in that instant of realization. I had to cancel gigs and put projects on hold — the demands on my body were immediate and overwhelming. The idea of “leave” wasn’t just a period of time; it was a complete change in my existence. When the baby arrived, my life was turned upside down. Sleepless nights blended into long, blurred days as a new reality set in. I clung to the idea that I was still an artist, that my work still mattered. But every time I tried to focus on my art, my mind was consumed with thoughts of my child. Was he happy? Was he safe? What was he doing at home? Being apart from him wasn’t just hard; it felt like I was missing a part of my own body. Those early separations were agonizing, a phantom limb sensation that softened with time but never fully went away. Returning to the physicality of performance was its own struggle. I could still go through the motions — muscle memory carried me — but it felt like a shadow of my former self. The strength, fluidity, and confidence I once had felt distant and out of reach. I won’t lie: I miss my pre-motherhood body, the agility, and the sharpness of my mind before fatigue became my constant companion.. One of the biggest realizations I had was how self-centered my life as an artist had been. It was all about me: my needs, my vision, my art. Motherhood flipped that script completely. Suddenly, it wasn’t about me anymore. My desires and ambitions took a back seat to my child’s needs, which became the center of my universe. Surprisingly, I found a kind of freedom in this. It was humbling to no longer be the main character in my own story. Now, as I think about the future, the urge to return to the stage is strong. I miss the creative process, the adrenaline of live performance, the connection with an audience. But this longing comes with a deep anxiety about what I might have to give up. The thought of missing my child’s morning wake-ups, those precious moments of play and laughter — it tugs at me. Balancing these two worlds feels overwhelming, a constant tug-of-war between who I was and who I am becoming. For freelance artists like me, this transition is especially risky. Taking time off can mean losing visibility, momentum, and income. In an industry that prizes constant creativity and presence, the choice to have a child feels fraught with fear — fear of being forgotten, of becoming irrelevant. The stakes are high; the consequences, both personal and professional, are daunting. But this isn’t just my story. It’s a shared experience among countless mothers navigating a world that isn’t designed to support them. Society expects us to bounce back effortlessly, to "do it all" without missing a step. Yet, structural support for working mothers, especially in the arts, is almost non-existent. There’s often no paid maternity leave for freelance artists, no job security, no safety net. Balancing motherhood and a career has become a quiet act of resistance — a statement against a system that forces us to choose. Despite the challenges, I find myself the happiest I’ve ever been. There’s a new sense of purpose, a grounding I never quite felt before. I realized the fulfillment I sought on stage was actually waiting for me in the quiet, intimate moments with my child. The feeling of being needed, of belonging to something larger than myself, has brought a lasting joy I didn’t know I was missing. I also discovered something unexpected: there’s no time anymore to dwell on my own worries or feelings of sadness. My days are filled with the needs of my child, leaving little room for introspection. And strangely, I find comfort in this. It reminds me of something my grandmother once said: that people today are unhappy because they have too much time to think. It might sound harsh, but for me, this constant focus on someone else has been a kind of salvation. When I’m working, I’m fully present, and when I’m with my child, I’m fully there too. Balancing my roles as mother and artist feels impossible at times. But maybe that’s where the real growth happens — in the messy, beautiful intersection of these identities, in the constant tension between love and ambition. It’s a delicate dance, imperfect yet profoundly human. Perhaps this new chapter is where the true art lies — in embracing the chaos, in the vulnerability of starting over, and in the raw, unfiltered love that drives everything I do. By Imogen Huzel
I’m a circus human, multidisciplinary artist and creator, focusing on independent creation within the arts. When I jumped into this NHLP-EU program (A EU supported leadership program for circus creators), the more I thought about leadership the more diluted it became; is it creating space, opportunity, guidance, driving change, leading by example…? Trying to understand what type of leader is authentic to me has been the first step in being able to dive into this program with intention. I’m inspired by the brains and hungry art makers and facilitators in this program and all their different areas of expertise and push. I want to begin by sharing my reflections on independent creation. Circus, hard to define ‘a combustion of art forms oxidised by a circus practice, in which all artistic or theoretical inputs tangle, occupy and enhance one another. Trends emerge, evolve, get trod on, destroyed and re-invented. Some circus shines and glitters whilst other circus is naked and exposed but it’s malleable because the point is that it should change and surprise us’. I use the word circus as it’s usually where my work falls, and as humans, we tend to have this innate desire to categorise everything we do. I do however believe that if we can open a creative process without labelling what genre of work we are making, we have a lot more room for experimental freedom. Deciding from the beginning puts a certain pressure on the outcome, my piece needs to land in a certain way. It needs to fit into people's current perception of what circus is - following the rules of existing expectations, and not expanding outside of this. Maybe in the end the outcome is circus, and the process has been transdisciplinary, or maybe for some people it’s circus and for others it’s performance art, installation art etc. What does independent creation even mean? I see it as creating work independently from larger institutions and establishments and being independent of influences from other works and processes. If one allows it to be, it can be a way of having licence and agency over what you do. No need to adhere to a system, to large company reputations or to common expectations of saleability, and therefore the work can be rather unfiltered. Unlike media, art is still a place where actions and ideas that go against the grain can exist, but this has become diluted by larger art-making companies needing to adhere to certain codes to meet expectations and demands. I witness and experience smaller companies having the liberty to be less outcome orientated as fewer people are affected and the work’s reputation is not already decorated by projected ideas. As creators I believe it’s important we give space for things to function in new ways, this is one of the ways art evolves and creative risk is a tool for this. In circus, I find it strange how we separate physical and creative risk taking. Training circus and overcoming physical limits will always be a risk, on the body and mind. Creative risk-taking is less of a focus. Maybe the double risk, creating work which isn’t yet reinforced by mainstream expectations is too much of a leap? I am not ignoring the real consequence of risk, it can equal money and survival - how often do these off-the-cusp smaller works make big dollars? Maybe the world isn’t ready for sculpting a fantastic new idea of circus yet! But having said that, what is 'fantastic'? That’s a matter of taste. It’s art, there is no 'truth' to speak of, like in craft - ‘They’re a high-level hand-balancer’. Not everyone needs to like it, art will hit people differently, and maybe it’s that which is more interesting to consider. Who do I want to hit, who do I want to stroke, who needs backing up? That way there is no audience or client in mind, rather our values directing our work. I realised a little too late that the best question to ask myself was, what makes me excited to go on stage? For me, it wasn’t the circus technique which my body performs in almost autopilot, it was moments that were comical, big emotional journeys, using voice.. etc. The stage feels like a different kind of playground when you know the things you love most, and I think it can also counter the nervousness that comes with trying to perfect physical skills, especially in disciplines as mind-orientated as handstands. Outside of the skills, that’s when the audience gets to see the human side of circus/ when we get to be the human in circus, and I love being surprised by the collage of on-stage possibilities. We are multifaceted, and reflecting that through our work holds space for other obsessions, ideas and questions. In an art form where we try to achieve physical perfection on stage, I think we need to be careful that we don’t take the soul out of what we do. There is so much depth behind the process of getting to this perfected state, it's an interesting part of who we are, I believe circus has room for all of these contradicting states. I came from gymnastics, it took years to shake off and discover other ways of moving and I think this is the same with creating work, perhaps we are constricted by our educational training, what we’ve seen, what people think circus should be.. Slowly, if we recognise that, we can shed more layers and find out what’s underneath. I see creation as a process that we get better at, each new project holds the learning from the previous one, and the journey of the mind and body can be united in this. I’ve seen shows that really stay with me, ones that are emotional, informative, empowering, confrontational, surprising, you name it, something about them sneaks into the unconscious and reaches a place of lasting impact! And for the most part, I see this happening in the smaller-scale circus bubble, from small passionate art makers following something they believe in fully, willing to pay the cost of whether it finds its place or not. I am not advocating for diving head first into personal projects and not looking in any other direction, I think jumping around the scene will help us discover other parts of ourselves, even if that discovery is ‘I never want to do this again’ that’s affirming too! We are all trying to get by financially, it makes sense that we follow the tide in the direction most needed in our present lives, be that money, creative agency, stability, community etc. In an ideal situation, all or at least a couple of these needs can be reached simultaneously. There are a lot of challenges with small-scale independent productions. As artists, it’s not always our forte to generate money, write applications, organise a team, self-promote, or work in communications.. The list is ongoing. But here are a few tips I would give myself, and others in the creation of independent work:
Thank you for bearing with my thoughts and reflections. On a personal level, I am not interested nor cut out to make the next biggest thing, I want to be allowed to make art uncompromisingly and question conventionalist beliefs that I believe are narrow, discriminating unkind or limiting. I hope to create space for myself and others to do this and be involved in leading different ideas of what circus can be. |