Meet Violet Moon | Creator, Dance Artist, & Choreographer

We had the good fortune of connecting with Violet Moon and we’ve shared our conversation below.

Hi Violet, what role has risk played in your life or career?
I think risk is inherent to artistry. When art is made honestly, it mirrors our lived experiences, and that in itself is political. When who you are and what you’ve gone through is better kept silent, subdued, or erased, revealing that you are here, you are alive, and here is my story — that threatens systems of power and violence that have been sustained generationally, financially, and socially.

My work comes from my authentic self, my voice, and who I am — things that I’ve seen isolated, taught to be ridiculous, or selfish, and conditioned out of us for the sake of conformity in the name of alliance. Even sharing with people that “I am a dancer” comes with risk. There’s judgment, sure, but more than that, there’s expectation. Yet, it is the truest thing I know. There’s exceptional risk in pursuing life as a creative, but not being who I am? That’s living dead.

I know because I quit. After the first few years of my professional career, I tried many other professions, pursued my master’s, worked as a therapist. But the greatest risk wasn’t returning to dance — it was the agony of everyday apathy, of feeling vacant and lost in the monotony. Dance brings me meaning and purpose in a way that makes my spirit sing. Choreographing, storytelling, collaborating with other creatives, and emotional expression through movement make… they me feel alive, bring me hope, and connect me to the larger web of life.

Some of my larger creative risks (upon returning to dance as an independent performer and choreographer several years ago) have been challenging not only how I dance but other people’s perception of what they expect from dance. I take risks in the way I tell a story, in the honesty of what I perform, and in confronting what arises during the creative process—whether personally or in collaboration with others. By revealing what I’ve been through and how things have made me feel, I choose risk by vocalizing and identifying violence and harm, as well as exploring joy and love in personally uncharted ways.

Alright, so let’s move onto what keeps you busy professionally?
I’m a professional dancer and multidisciplinary artist, and my work is rooted in devotion—devotion to the body, to memory, to lineage, to the sacred, and to emotional honesty. I don’t make work to impress (I mean, I do, of course, but I try to do so intentionally); I make it to survive, to feel, to speak. I’m interested in healing and remembering. In grace that includes grief. In movement that honors the mess, the memory, the magic of being alive and whole while incomplete.

What sets me apart? Honestly, I’ve never been great at answering this question. I think everyone’s unique in their own quiet way, their own particular rhythm. For me, maybe it’s that I don’t separate my art from my life—I don’t know how to. My work is braided into the way I care, the way I cry, the way I listen. It’s present in the questions I ask, the silences I keep, the way I move through the world.

I think when people encounter my work, they feel that—that they’re being met, not sold something. That they’re entering a space where it’s okay to feel deeply. Where sincerity isn’t a liability, but a language.

I’m most proud of the fact that I’ve continued. Not through perfection or certainty, but through choosing to stay (figuratively) even when I left. Through the injuries, the rejection, the disillusionment, the heartbreak, the self-doubt, the financial instability, the years that felt like nothing. I’ve stayed in relationship with dance by staying in relationship with me, even when I was furious with the entire world. I have and continue to rebuild my voice again and again. That persistence isn’t always digestible or marketable, but it’s sacred to me.

Art hasn’t been an easy practice for me. There have been times I disappeared—into doubt, into exhaustion, into systems that didn’t see me. With time, I’ve learned how to return. How to rest with less guilt. How to listen for the creation spirit that arrives when I stop running. How to stay soft in a world that asks for sharper and sharper edges.

The most enduring lesson is this: my art doesn’t need to be loud to be real. It doesn’t need to be constant to be alive. Creation is a thread of hope that runs through everything—a quiet grounding I’ve learned to trust, whether witness or vessel.

What I want people to know is that my work is made from necessity. Not strategy, not performative comfort, not a bid to make a name in the industry as it is—but something older, aching, and devotional. My movement is a remembering. A way of touching what’s too big for words. A practice of offering, again and again.

This isn’t performance for performance’s sake. It’s survival. It’s prayer. It’s presence.
And it’s not always easy to look at. But it’s honest. And it’s mine.

As much as I am a performer, I don’t make for applause. I make to connect—to offer something that feels true. A soft mirror. A moment of recognition. A reminder that we’re not alone. That’s the truth I move with. That’s the pulse under all of it.

Let’s say your best friend was visiting the area and you wanted to show them the best time ever. Where would you take them? Give us a little itinerary – say it was a week long trip, where would you eat, drink, visit, hang out, etc.
Of course, it depends on the friend that visits—but if someone I love was in town for a week, we’d probably keep it slow and soft. I’m not really a big crowd person, so most of the week would be spent doing something chill and intentional—nature, art, coffee, quality time.

We’d start the day with coffee or tea—places like Agora, Antidote, or New Heights Coffee Roasters. Cozy spots where you can talk or just exist quietly next to each other. Sometimes it’s deep conversation, sometimes just people-watching. I like mornings that don’t rush.

If the weather’s nice (or Houston nice), we’d go to the Arboretum or throw a blanket down at the Menil lawn to read, paint, or make up handshakes. I love playing card games or pulling out those “get to know you” decks—anything that invites connection without pressure.

Thrifting is always on the list—Leopard Lounge is a favorite—maybe stopping by a few plant shops in the Heights. If the vibe called for it, we’d share a bottle of wine at Light Years. This is the point in the afternoon where we’d probably land on a patio somewhere, light a cigarette, and let the conversation stretch. If a local dance performance or improv jam was happening, I’d take them to that. MFAH has evening hours now too. We could also check out some live music at Axelrad, checkout an outdoor movie night, or if there’s live jazz at Miller Outdoor Theatre, we’d pack snacks, bug spray, and lay out on the lawn while watching the sky change.

But really, a lot of the time we’d probably just be at home—making tea, cooking, playing music, talk about something tender or ridiculous. I don’t need a packed schedule—I just love time that feels easy and I feel lucky that I get to have and share that.

The Shoutout series is all about recognizing that our success and where we are in life is at least somewhat thanks to the efforts, support, mentorship, love and encouragement of others. So is there someone that you want to dedicate your shoutout to?
Absolutely. Everything I do—every movement, every creation—is because I’ve been held, shaped, and inspired by an enormous constellation of people, places, and moments.

This is a nonexhaustive list (in no particular order) of everyone and everything that has, at one point or another, empowered me to keep creating. I owe so much to the kindnesses, generosities, and cosmic forehead kisses I’ve received along the way.

To myself—in all forms, past, present, and becoming.
To Vega Moon, Griffin Perkins, Stephanie Bobak, Rachel Green, Stacy Jones, Lauren Wood, Graham & Katherine, Natifah White, Italia Alvarez.
To Tati Vice, Hilary Schuhmacher, Jane Greenberg, Jadd Tank, Tessa Salomone.
To the tree in front of my house, the sun as it warms my skin, the rain—when I needed it, and when I didn’t.
To MET Dance and Ginger Herrera at Houston Academy of Dance.
To Dance Source Houston.
To Lana Del Rey’s Norman F*****g Rockwell, Meggan Watterson’s Mary Magdalene Revealed, and the ocean that teaches me how to return to myself.
To the strangers who’ve offered compliments, alternative forms of support, or simply witnessed me honestly and shared authentically with me.
To the adult ballet women, the people who fight for what they believe in, and the people who fight for kindness.
To my graduate cohort, every therapist (good and bad), and Le Sacre Coeur.
To my day job, for its quiet stability, its patience, its part in holding up the rest.
To the Swan soloist at Dance Salad 2014 when I was scared, Yuri On Ice when I was empty, Ani DiFranco when I was angry, and Fiona Apple when I was lost.
To the stars in the city.
To the ones I’ve loved, the ones I’ve lost, and the ones who’ve listened.
To the people who have hurt me, but who retain goodness. Even in the necessity of boundaries and distance, their impact—in all its fullness—changed me too.
To my training, to my liberation, to my courage.
And always, always—water.

This shoutout is for all of them, and for the infinite more who’ve left fingerprints on my story.
For the people and things I know I’m forgetting—you’re also here, just currently as this persistent pulse I can’t name.

I’m not here, nor is my art, on our own. These forces remind me—even when all was lost, I never have been.

Website: https://www.violetdanse.com

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/violetdanse/

Image Credits
Lynn Lane (photos where I’m wearing white or black coat)
Hilary Schuhmacher (photo in black and white)
Hisae Aihara (photos where I’m wearing a brown and black dress with a red chair)