In 2026, Zerogrammi turns 25. A quarter century of creations, of bodies crossing the stage in search of lightness, of stories that combine irony and fragility, discipline and wonder. To celebrate this anniversary, as part of the Past Forward project—the company's journey to revitalize and transmit its choreographic heritage—we return to the starting point: "Zerogrammi," the first creation created in 2005, the seed from which everything took shape.

Bringing this work back to life means re-entering a room of memory still filled with light. It means rediscovering the playful urgency of two young artists who sought a dance capable of flight without leaving the ground, a poetry made of simple objects, delicate gags, and a human lightness that over time has become the company's poetic signature. Today, twenty years after its inception, Zerogrammi returns to the stage like a photo album that has lost none of its color: a show that continues to speak to us, to move us, to remind us why we began dancing.

THE ORIGINAL SYNOPSIS

Two teddy bears and a Barbie doll with her head taped together to play in a surreal Déjeuner sur l'Herbe that looks like it was painted by Jacques Tati. Playing seriously when play becomes the only serious thing that can save us from the seriousness of life. Games of two Candides between Coco and Renato and Laurel and Hardy at the theater of Marcel Marceau and Merce Cunningham dressed as cute village lunatics wearing berets, the ones with earflaps like those worn by World War I pilots in peacetime.

Hats for flying without leaving the ground. At most, gliding with the engine off, carried by the air, as easy as a Sunday morning. "Zerograms" : that is, a weightless dance. Light. A dance for flying, the flight without takeoff we mentioned, and then gliding and gliding once more through everyday life, the little things we mustn't forget. Remember to breathe.

Gliding along, carried by the wind of our lightheartedness—or, yes, let's also call it frivolity—so you can breathe easier and see everything clearly, since you're just inches from the grass of ordinary days that come once a week and are unique in these minimal games and innocent squabbles when you can be two clowns. Two mimes and contemporary dancers, or even tango dancers, if "Besame mucho" is playing on the radio, and actors, and in any case, two ordinary people with ridiculous hats and funny sweaters. (...)

Two clowns in a show as light as love at its beginning, as gentle as the sweetest breeze on a spring evening when the seasons were still in between: beautiful and delicate like that someone each of us has, or waits for, for those beautiful, carefree moments. Those moments whose memory we couldn't live without. (Sergio Gilles Lacavalla)