You’ll see him at almost every dance performance in Amsterdam. With a stack of paper under his arm, inkwells and watercolour palettes within easy reach, he finds his spot in the front row. Or, if it’s too crowded, he simply sits on the floor. As close to the stage as possible, close to the dancers, so he can capture their movements. His brush moves quickly, as if trying to keep up with the dance. His hair falls across his face, fingers smeared with paint, loose sheets of sketches scattered haphazardly around him. As if only he and the dancers are there, and the audience behind him doesn’t exist.
Afterwards, he is noticeably uncomfortable as curious visitors lean over his drawings. He often gives his sketches away to the dancers, who recognise themselves in his swift, precise lines. And before you know it, he has vanished again. But at the next performance, he is there once more, as always in the front row. Everyone knows who he is, and yet no one really knows him. His name is Edgar, and he draws dance.