Crossing Borders Through Art: How Creativity Connects Us

In a world where borders—both visible and invisible—continue to harden, artists remain among the most fearless travelers. In this issue of Insider, we explore how creativity transcends boundaries of place, politics, and perspective. Three ISPA members share how they navigate the shifting landscape of international collaboration: what it means to “cross borders” today, what keeps the wheel of cultural exchange turning despite obstacles, and where they find hope for the future of global artistic dialogue. Their reflections remind us that connection doesn’t happen by chance—it happens because we show up. Through art, presence becomes its own act of courage, redrawing borders and creating new spaces for understanding.

Quicklinks:

• Emily Ansenk, Holland Festival
• Charlie Cush, Brisbane Festival
• Ross Manson, Volcano

Emily Ansenk, director of Holland Festival discusses how one of Europe's most prestigious performing arts festivals maintains its post-war founding mission of international cultural exchange—despite visa challenges, political tensions, and shifting global landscapes. From amplifying underrepresented voices to challenging assumptions about artistic value across cultures, the festival proves that artistic dialogue matters more than ever.

The Holland Festival was founded because of the after-war period when we were rebuilding the country and the cultural infrastructure didn't exist anymore. One of the main reasons was to bridge different countries through art—an exchange of international artists and audiences. That's still going on 79 years later. Our programming is always international, like 99%. We invite artists globally—especially from outside Europe—to hear their stories and perspectives, or we connect them with Dutch artists and stimulate them to work together. Crossing borders is about getting to learn, to listen, and to acknowledge that everybody has different backgrounds but also shared values.

We call ourselves arts and artists driven, which means we go through a lot to make sure artists can not only visit but show their work on the best stage, in the best context. We make sure they can do workshops, masterclasses, stay in Amsterdam for more days—it's not just in and out. And almost everything, we make sure it comes through, despite visa challenges or this strange world we're in.

Our audience is actually quite spoiled because they've seen so much. But they're also very open, which is nice. They kind of trust you. Even if they don't like something, they say, "OK, it's typical Holland Festival. I give you the benefit of the doubt. It wasn't for me, but tomorrow I'll see something I really like." They don't mind if you fail.

As a festival, you never have a neutral position because you invite artists and make sure their voices are heard. We speak up as festivals and put statements out there. It's very complicated because people don't like you to be very political as a cultural institution. But whatever we do is political, whoever we invite. It's a balancing act. What we don't do is invite artists because of who they are—we invite them because of the work. Our curation is the most important. We don't invite because it's the good thing to do. The art is profoundly the main reason. And because we've always been very topical, very on top of time, it's natural—artists reflect on the world around them.

I think nowadays it's very important for festivals to collaborate. No one can really do a one-off anymore—you can't present large-scale works and say, "This is exclusively for me." That just isn't sustainable. It's too costly, and it limits the reach of the work. So, working together is essential.

By collaborating, festivals can invite artists jointly and co-produce new works. It's necessary to provide artists with the space, resources, and financial support they need to develop new ideas. That kind of support structure is crucial.

Festivals are also unique spaces where experimentation is possible. The audience comes with an open mind—they’re ready to go on an adventure with you. That creates a very different atmosphere compared to traditional venues like theater houses or concert halls.

As festivals, we need to be conscious of this position and the kind of freedom it gives us. And with that awareness, we should support one another and use our collective strength to elevate the art and the artists.

In a world of shifting borders, Brisbane Festival finds connection through shared creativity. Charlie Cush, CEO of the Brisbane Festival, reflects on reflects on how trust, imagination, and resilience keep cultural exchange alive—proving that common ground can be the most powerful place we meet.

For me, “crossing borders” is less about geography and more about creating platforms where ideas, cultures, and people can meet on common ground.

In today’s world, borders are both porous and complex, sometimes we cross them by stepping onto a plane, other times through a laptop screen or a shared vision.

At Brisbane Festival, we’re always finding ways to connect artists and audiences across time zones, languages, and lived experiences. Whether it’s bringing international work to our city or fostering long-term relationships at home, these acts of exchange expand our collective imagination and help build a shared cultural vocabulary.

The engine that keeps it turning is the belief that cultural exchange isn’t a luxury, it’s essential. When barriers arise, whether through funding pressures, border closures, or political tensions, we return to the power of relationships.

Trust and mutual respect built over time allow us to find creative pathways around the obstacles. Sometimes it means adapting how a project is delivered; sometimes it means slowing down and investing in deeper, more sustainable partnerships. Artists are inherently resourceful, and their determination to connect is a constant reminder of why this work matters. It’s that shared resilience that keeps the wheel moving.

While the way we connect may continue to evolve, what gives me hope is that the heart of our work remains unchanged: it’s still about building relationships between people.

At its core, international cultural exchange is not a trend or a technological shift, it’s a human practice. Artists have always sought each other out, finding shared language through their work long before borders, policies or digital platforms came into play.

Even as the world changes around us, the act of bringing artists together to collaborate, share stories and spark ideas remains fundamental to what we do.

That direct exchange, person to person, artist to artist, is what fuels lasting partnerships and genuine cultural dialogue. Technology can support that, but it doesn’t replace it. What gives me hope is knowing that, at its essence, our sector is built on connection, and that is something that endures.

A defining moment for me was delivering Brisbane Festival in September 2020, at the height of the pandemic. With borders closed and the world feeling isolated, we made the decision to present a live festival, safely, responsibly and with a strong local focus. It became a powerful demonstration of the role art can play in bringing people together, even when physical connections across borders weren’t possible.

The program celebrated the extraordinary artists within our own state, providing vital employment and creative opportunities at a time when the sector was under enormous strain. More importantly, it gave the people of our city a shared moment of joy and connection at a time when we all needed it most.

That experience reaffirmed for me that cultural exchange isn’t just international, it begins at home. Art has an unparalleled ability to create community, to offer hope and a sense of belonging. Even when the world feels closed, art keeps the door open.

Volcano Artistic Director, Ross Mason, doesn’t just talk about crossing borders—he’s built an entire artistic practice around it. From creating theatre in Nunavut, Rwanda, and Canada to navigating funding and touring challenges, this is what it looks like when experimental theatre meets global urgency—and when “workarounds” become the art form itself.

I have a first degree in biology, which is weirdly my initial artistic training. I actually gave a talk at the New York ISPA in 2024 and made the point that, in Nature, diversity is health. Ecosystems depend on it. And that idea of health requiring diversity—which in our human terms means mobility and collaboration across difference—that's central to my entire point of view as an artist. There are many kinds of borders: cultural borders, national borders, disciplinary borders. And I keep all of those different kinds of borders in mind and reach out across them.

I think of the many artists who’ve worked under fascist regimes. Yes, there's a core belief that drives us, but there's also the need for safety. Navigating this is, I think, a very individual act. I feel enormous privilege being a Canadian artist right now—even more than many of my American colleagues, which is something I never thought I’d say. I live in a country that funds artists and isn’t, currently at least, flirting with fascism. That’s not the case everywhere, and I don’t take it for granted.

Coming from indie experimental theatre, I’m used to navigating constant obstacles—there’s never enough money, and you’re always inventing form. That mindset has shaped how I handle projects today. In Nunavut, for instance, there’s no tradition of theatre, at least as i know it—there’s storytelling, there’s film, but theatre isn’t really a thing. My Inuk co-creator, and the project’s lead artist, Tatanniq Idlout, thinks theatre will be welcomed in the communities she knows, so it becomes about training the artists we’re working with, and also doing the work that’s needed in a place shaped by cultural devastation and trauma from Canada’s colonial history. The money is not easy to find, but also not impossible - and we just received a major grant that green lights the whole project (an Inuktitut-language version of Waiting for Godot).

Other projects are tougher. The new Rwandan collaboration (I Have a Drum!) is in demand on four continents. However, commissions aren’t as readily available, or large, as they sometimes have been in the past, so we're doing lots of little workarounds to cobble together the money. And we’re not there yet. Then there’s Scott Joplin’s Treemonisha—Joplin’s extraordinary Black opera—with 42 people on the road. It’s the opposite of a workaround; it costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to tour. But the goal is to change the American opera canon, to insert, where it belongs, an historical Black opera actually created by an all-Black team. Audiences love it, but we need some major institutions to take that leap, to put Joplin in the canon. That’s the challenge. We're exhausted. Because there’s only four of us. But we keep going. And there are a few partners that have been amazing (Chicago’s Harris theatre and Toronto’s Luminato Festival and TO Live, for example - with a few more to come, I hope).

None of it works if there isn't trust. That's the biggest thing. All of these works are built on years-long relationships. With Kiki, my other half in Rwanda, we'd show each other's work in each other's countries and teach in each other's countries. That was the beginning. Only after we did that for about 10 years did we decide to create a show together (The Book of Life, which toured to three continents). Now we're on our second show. And if you're in the position of the dominant culture, listening and understanding that it's your job as an artistic collaborator to open up other parts of you. Because that's exactly what the problem is—white supremacy is the erasure or demotion of other parts of you, positioning them lower on a manufactured hierarchy. Once there is trust and listening, it's really fun. I learn so much. I feel like, holy crap, I get to work in these places with these people.

It's always artists. I remember years ago, when I first started travelling really far from where I grew up, I'd meet an artist and it would be like, "Oh, we're the same species." Even though we grew up continents apart in entirely different circumstances, there's a bond that is instant. It happened in East Africa, it happened in China, it happened in South America. That's just the truth, and that's very reassuring.