DARION

Motion is the leitmotif of Darion Adam’s life. It might refer to dance – his lifelong fascination, obsession, career and fuel for his ambition – but motion also represents his desire to evolve, to pivot and keep moving forward.
Today, at 32, Darion has showcased his dancing and choreography worldwide and founded an organisation that uplifts disadvantaged artists like him in his community – and he’s just getting warmed up.
Success and stability were and remain a rarity for young men like Darion. He was born and raised in Manenberg, a suburb of Cape Town’s sprawling, low-lying Cape Flats region. It was here that thousands of people from Cape Town’s coloured population – a classification that sat between white and black in the apartheid regime’s racial ranking – were forcibly moved to, after the areas in which they were living were deemed too nice or too central, becoming legally reserved for whites only. Darion’s mother and her six siblings were evicted from District 6, a neighbourhood that later became synonymous with the cruelty of the Group Areas Act. It had been a hub of culture, diversity, community spirit and tolerance – social mores the regime wanted to destroy among its subjugated populations. Like other neighbourhoods of the Cape Flats, Manenberg is a place of struggle: opportunities are scarce, and crime, violence, gangsterism and substance abuse are rife. For Darion, his mother was a model of resilience, “I was raised by a single mother, who is very independent and very self-sustaining.” She left Darion’s father when she was five months pregnant, “She did it because she knew she couldn’t trust him,” Darion explains. When he was older, his mother shared more stories, and he came to a deeper understanding about why she’d left, “I told my mother, ‘No girl, you made the right decisions!’” 
Aged five, he watched a man dancing and informed his mom that he wanted to do the same, “I started dancing in church – I think that was the only place my mom knew where to send me with her budget, raising two kids as a single mother... It was a beautiful experience, I was dancing my heart out, but it wasn’t formal training. A part of my life is rooted in church, rooted in that experience of being raised a Christian child who happens to be queer.” While his family are all Christians, Darion describes them as having liberal, open-minded attitudes, “I think everyone in my family has a personality, we are very lively as a family, so there’s freedom just to be yourself.”
Darion’s mother was an early source of inspiration. Her siblings all entered the workforce in blue-collar roles as petrol attendants, but she had higher ambitions. She joined a local community organisation as an assistant and worked her way up. It was an eye-opening experience that exposed her to different communities and possibilities, taking her all over, “She was put in positions where she was forced to sink or swim. And I get that from her, in the way I organise, being from a strategically undervalued community, dealing with the kind of pressures and things that come with coming from a community with no privilege. I’ve placed myself in positions that are, ‘Girl, are you going to stay, or are you gonna quit?’ I’m not a quitter – I will see something through to the end.”
                                                                                 
As a teen, Darion attended the arts-focused Alexander Sinton High School. Here, his dance education took a formal direction. It was a baptism of fire – his first exposure to contemporary dance, along with dance theory, and many of his peers had already had structured training. Although a performing arts school offered a measure of protection against the homophobia of the wider community, Darion still faced challenges, like bullies and rivalry, especially after grade 10, when he realised he might have a real talent for dance, and his teachers were paying attention. He speaks of schoolyard dramas, jealousy, queer battles and having a street fight with the biggest guy in school on his very first day, to prove he wasn’t someone to be messed with. But in spite of social conflicts and the unfamiliarly of formal training, Darion found a shared identity, “We were the glee club, even though there were battles, in essence, it was glee. We called ourselves divas, we loved the subject because it kept us safe, kept us together. It was this one space of absolute joy, and no matter what, the dance teacher held us together – she held that space for us to live out every fantasy. I had the best time in high school, [even though I was] bullied for being gay, I couldn't care less – I had this dance studio, and I had this space.”  . 
It was through his high school that Darion was given the opportunity to work on a project for the Jazzart Theatre Company, a leading name in the SA dance industry. The students spent Saturdays at Artscape – Cape Town’s most famous theatre – while working with choreographer Sbonakaliso Ndaba. It was an eye-opening time – Darion recalls, “I think all of us in that room, being young, from underprivileged communities, having this opportunity to work at Artscape on a Saturday…And it was high-level home girls (top choreographers) working us to the bone. We weren’t perfect, [but] we were really hungry for what that moment was for us.” He felt that his schoolteachers took his talent more seriously after that experience. 
After high school, Darion wanted to join Jazzart, but there were no auditions until the following year. Instead, he began a Dance degree at UCT, following a successful audition and approval for financial aid. It was during this time that he decided to officially come out to his mother, saying “Home girl, I’m gay.” Her surprise took him by surprise, “I was like, ‘How did you not see it? Like, girl you need to open your eyes, I mean you can see from space, this is a unicorn’…I didn't have a difficult coming-out experience, it was just my mom having to reconfigure the image of me that she had in her head.” He reflects on his mother’s acceptance and subsequent protectiveness, “We were in Pick ‘n Pay, and the cashiers were ridiculing me…She said, ‘Don’t you f*ck with my child!’ She went off, ‘Don't you ever treat my child like that, I will f*cking moer you with this jam!’…I don’t know if we paid for that jam.” 
However, coming out is still a concept he struggles with, “I think the coming out experience is really just about other people. It has nothing to do with us because we know. Like, to confirm it for you, it's just so cliche, we shouldn't have to. Why must I make this grand speech for you? It's ridiculous.”
Darion admits he struggled to take his university studies seriously, taking four years, instead of three, to complete his degree and only just scraping through. Coming close to failure was a wakeup call, to “get it together and stop smoking weed”. He was serious about wanting a career in dance, but dismissed the idea of a stable position in teaching, as it didn’t align with his “radical” worldview and activist lens. The next few years saw him undergo further training, this time at Jazzart, and he was eventually promoted into the company. After five years of working and performing for the company at Artscape Theatre, his contract ended, and he went freelance. By then, he’d built a name for himself in the industry, and his year ahead was booked solid. There was just one problem: that year was 2020. “I’m a working girl – I booked that entire 2020, and I couldn't do it, and that was a tough time because I thought it was the end.” Noticing art and performance going online in the pandemic, and having always recorded himself dancing, making dance film was a natural reset. “I made my first film, Reclamation Home, in what you call ‘The Courts’ in Manenberg…It was beautiful, because there was a lot of washing hanging, and I asked all the aunties ‘please don't remove your laundry until I am done,’ they didn't know what they were agreeing too, and I was dancing my tits off…I edited it on my Android and I entered it into a festival, My Body, My Space…The festival was on WhatsApp, and you could watch the films on your phone – that's when I started working for me.” More films followed, and his work was screened in Berlin, “How the f*ck did I get that, you know? It was the POOL Movement Art Film Festival, I called the film Perspective – it was a triptych of me in a tunnel upside down.”
   
Darion reflects on the challenges artists from disadvantaged backgrounds face just to be seen, or taken seriously, “I think what a lot of people don't realise, is that there are self-worth issues people who come from our communities experience when we go to spaces of privilege where a lot of white people occupy space.” He wanted to start giving back, extending the ladder behind him to up-and-coming artists. In January 2023, he launched the AIM (Art in Manenberg) Society. AIM provides a platform for culture in the community, producing art spaces and hosting screenings. However, not everyone is on board with this sort of visibility – when we spoke, he’d had a screening interrupted the previous night, “I got dope films to be screened in Manenberg. Someone decided, ‘We've had enough of this change the world sh*t’, and they switched off everything midway…They were just like, ‘’We don't want this’, but I’m like, ‘There’re 50 kids sitting there – it's not about you!’” He’s determined to proceed with screenings, even if he has to hire private security. He understands the complexity and pressures of community activism, “There's so much responsibility that I have now, that I'm taking on for myself, but it has to be done, there has to be more, and if I'm fighting a dichotomy, if I'm fighting a mindset that was cultivated by Apartheid and colonialism, I'm going to fight.” 
For aspiring dancers, Darion recommends to “Be unmissable…I was placing myself in the rooms… I never sat with my friends, I sat with the directors. I did all of the stuff to not be seen as regular, because I know where I come from. I'll have lunch and chill with my brahs and have cigarettes with them, but [in the room] I'm just going to sit with the directors. They were like, ‘What is this child doing? Why is this child always talking to us?’ I’m always asking them questions. Even if I have no questions, I’m sitting, I’m watching, I’m observing.” As for right now, Darion is still choreographing his next moves, “I want to continue establishing AIM…Then I still want to create I as Darion, want to make actual feature length dance films and documentaries, I want to produce a lot of things. I want to have installations in and out of Manenberg… I’d like to do international collaborations and performances at festivals – I essentially want to be a producer and curator who travels the world and curates, in all parts of the world, amazing artistic experiences.” For anyone out there still doubting his abilities, Darion borrows a pet phrase from Nicki Minaj, “You can’t get rid of me, bitch!”