In 2026, Zerogrammi turns 25.

A quarter century of creations, of bodies crossing the stage in search of lightness; of stories where irony and fragility, discipline and wonder coexist.

To mark this anniversary, within Past Forward—the company’s long-term project dedicated to reactivating and transmitting its choreographic heritage—we return to the point of origin: Zerogrammi, the first work created in 2005, the seed from which everything began.

Bringing this piece back to life means stepping once again into a room of memory still filled with light. It means rediscovering the playful urgency of two young artists in search of a dance capable of flight without take-off: a poetry made of simple objects, delicate gags, and a human lightness that, over time, has become the company’s distinctive signature.

Twenty years after its creation, Zerogrammi returns to the stage like a photo album that has lost none of its colour—a work that continues to speak to us, to move us, and to remind us why we began dancing.

THE ORIGINAL SYNOPSIS

Two teddy bears and a Barbie doll, her head taped back together, appear in a surreal Déjeuner sur l’Herbe, as if painted by Jacques Tati. Playing seriously, because play is sometimes the only serious thing that can save us from the seriousness of life.

Games played by two modern Candides, somewhere between Coco and Renato, Laurel and Hardy, and the silent theatres of Marcel Marceau and Merce Cunningham—inhabited by gentle village eccentrics wearing berets, the kind with earflaps like World War I pilots at rest.

Hats designed for flying without leaving the ground. At most, gliding—engine off—carried by the air, as effortlessly as a Sunday morning.

“Zerograms”: a weightless dance. Light. A dance that knows how to fly without taking off, to glide again and again through everyday life, through the small things we must not forget. Remember to breathe.

Gliding along, carried by the wind of lightheartedness—yes, even frivolity—so that breathing becomes easier and vision clearer, just inches above the grass of ordinary days. Days that return once a week, yet remain unique, filled with minimal games and innocent quarrels, moments in which it is possible to be two clowns.

Two mimes and contemporary dancers, or tango dancers if Besame Mucho happens to play on the radio. Actors, too. Or simply two ordinary people wearing ridiculous hats and funny sweaters.

Two clowns in a performance as light as love at its beginning, as gentle as the softest breeze on a spring evening, when seasons were still suspended in between—beautiful and delicate, like the person each of us has, or waits for, to share those fleeting, carefree moments.

Moments whose memory we could not live without.

Sergio Gilles Lacavalla