ole dancing is often reduced to performance. Flattened into spectacle. But before anything is performed, it is practised. Before anything appears effortless, it is endured.
For the artist, this is not a search for perfection. It is a record of that existence. A photographic practice shaped by repetition, intimacy, and observation.
The pole becomes a structure you come back to. Some days it listens. Other days it pushes back. It does not reward effort; it reflects it. Through repetition, something shifts. Not control, but clarity. You are not performing. You are locating something inside yourself.
Tremoring Steel’s photographs do not search for the most impressive shape or the cleanest pose. They hold space for what happens in between: the quiet, the struggle, the exhale after the hold breaks. These are not images made for an audience. They are records of care. Of bodies in training, together, individually, sometimes painfully, through a discipline that rarely receives tenderness.
