In the Origin and Contect of this project, I addressed questions around cultural appropriation—particularly in relation to capoeira, which serves as both structural and spiritual inspiration for the ritual performance. At that time, I concluded that although capoeira originates in Afro-Brazilian culture and I myself am Chinese, capoeira has become part of my lived cultural reality. It has accepted me, and I practice within a community that acknowledges my place within it.
However, further conversations and reflections have prompted a deeper inquiry. A friend once asked me why no one accuses NewJeans—a Korean pop group—of cultural appropriation when they adopt UK garage aesthetics. This question led me to reconsider the foundations of the appropriation discourse itself. The answer, I believe, lies not in the specific artistic exchange, but in the underlying framework that defines certain cultures as “dominant” and others as “marginal.”
During the later phase, my understanding shifted further, toward the politics of belonging. I noticed a troubling inconsistency: when I work with Afro-Brazilian culture, I am often asked to consider whether I might be engaging in cultural appropriation. Yet when my Chinese classmates create projects rooted in Chinese culture, no one raises this concern. Ironically, I myself feel less qualified to represent Chinese traditions, given my limited familiarity with them. Instead, the cultures that shaped me came through the internet—fragments of music, art, and community that crossed borders in non-traditional ways. Belonging emerged not through bloodlines, but through resonance, practice, and shared values.
Cultural Appropriation as a Western Concept
The idea of cultural appropriation emerges from within Western critical discourse. It assumes an unequal power dynamic between cultures and is grounded in a binary logic of dominant versus dominated, oppressor versus oppressed. This framing presupposes a universal agreement on what constitutes strength and weakness, central and peripheral—a worldview shaped by histories of colonialism, capitalism, and identity politics.
Yet not all cultures operate through such comparative mechanisms. Some—such as the one I come from—do not prioritize the preservation of “purity,” nor do they define their integrity through boundaries. In many non-Western frameworks, cultural exchange is understood not as theft but as flow. Influence is not inherently a problem unless it stems from the desire to dominate or erase.
Cultural Confidence, Comparison, and the Double Standard
The impulse to accuse others of appropriation often arises from cultural insecurity rather than strength. Comparison itself can be a symptom of this insecurity: it suggests the need to prove value by measuring against others. Truly confident cultures do not fear transformation. They evolve through contact, and remain intact not by resisting change, but by absorbing it without losing themselves.
From this perspective, the framework of cultural appropriation reflects a culturally specific form of anxiety—a paranoia about loss not shared across all worldviews. It also connects to the double standard I observed: while my Chinese classmates’ use of Chinese traditions is never questioned, my engagement with Afro-Brazilian culture often is.
This leads me to believe that cultural engagement cannot be assessed through appearance, passport, or ancestry. It must be evaluated through process: how one learns, with what level of care, and in what kind of relationship. The problem is not that we cross cultural lines—but that we often fail to notice who is already on the other side, waiting to be met, rather than used.
Why Capoeira? Distance as Access
In this project, capoeira is not used for its surface aesthetics or “cultural content,” but for its underlying logic. It informs the relational structure of the ritual: its rhythms, its attention to presence, its participatory ethics. This is not extraction—it is inspiration.
A friend once attended the Berlin Culture Parade and saw a capoeira group performing. He remarked that there were almost no Brazilians in the group—let alone Afro-Brazilians—and yet the performance was strong and cohesive. “Now I understand why you work with capoeira,” he said. “It’s not just a Brazilian cultural product anymore. It’s become something global.”
His comment confirmed something I had long sensed: that capoeira, while rooted in Afro-Brazilian history, has evolved into a global practice shaped by decades of transnational circulation. Its structure—open, relational, rhythmic, and embodied—has allowed it to travel without losing its spirit. And crucially, it has welcomed those who arrive with commitment, respect, and presence.
From that angle, not being a “native” of a culture might even be a kind of gift. We do not arrive with assumptions or inherited habits. We must learn everything—gesture by gesture, word by word. This can create a different kind of relationship: one grounded not in ownership, but in attentiveness. To engage from afar is not to appropriate, but to affirm that culture—like music, like ritual—is a living practice, sustained by the care with which we choose to enter it.
Post-Performance Transparency
The connection to capoeira is never revealed at the start. Instead, it is disclosed afterward, during the reflective discussion that closes the ritual. This delay is intentional. It allows participants to experience the structure directly, without preconceptions. The post-performance sharing is not an act of justification, but of transparency—a way of treating participants as co-thinkers, rather than spectators or consumers.
Reframing the Question: Open Confusions
This project does not aim to answer the question, “Who is allowed to borrow from whom?” That framing is itself flawed—built on a logic of ownership. The more generative question is: how do cultural forms move, adapt, and regenerate through encounter?
And yet, I cannot ignore the fact that cultural asymmetries do exist. Dominant cultures often co-opt and silence marginalized voices for their own gain. At the same time, I also sense that this framework does not fully capture the dynamics I observe today. In a digital landscape shaped by algorithmic feeds and fragmented publics, the idea of a single dominant discourse feels less stable. The harm is not only theft of culture, but sometimes the failure of culture to circulate at all.
So where does that leave the concept of cultural appropriation? It still names something real and unjust. But perhaps it no longer names the whole problem. Or perhaps the problem has moved.
At this point, I have no definitive answer. These questions sit uneasily beside my earlier reflections, and I do not want to force them into coherence.
Beyond Appropriation: A Project Outside Capitalist Circulation
The critique of cultural appropriation often hinges not only on who borrows from whom, but who profits—materially, symbolically, or culturally. In this way, appropriation discourse is deeply embedded in a capitalist logic: it presumes that cultural forms are assets, that visibility is currency, and that circulation without compensation is extraction.
But what happens when a project removes itself from this economy altogether?
This ritual performance, grounded in the spirit of vadiar, deliberately resists the capitalist imperative of productivity and accumulation. Vadiar—the playful drifting core to capoeira practice—is not a strategy of output, but a state of presence. Within the ritual, creation is not evaluated, marketed, or retained. It is offered, witnessed, and let go.
In that sense, the project cannot be evaluated through a logic of appropriation, because it exists outside the economic circuit that gives that concept its force. When creation is de-linked from value, borrowing is no longer a transaction—it becomes a movement of resonance. This attention to resonance rather than ownership also shaped how I designed the structure of the performance. If cultural responsibility resists authority at the symbolic level, the same principle guided the redistribution of authority within the collective process itself.
Throughout the planning and execution of this project, I remained highly sensitive to the term “authority.” I was cautious not to become a “leader” in the traditional sense, nor to position anyone else as an expert. The space I aimed to build was one where anyone could intervene, and everyone had to respond. This discomfort was also linguistic and cultural. In Chinese, the word for “authority” is composed of two characters: 权 (power) and 威 (awe or fear), which together suggest hierarchical force and suppression. From the beginning, I knew I needed to design against this logic.
As a methodological response to such authority mechanisms, I adopted a fractal structure based on polyrhythmic patterns and layered simplicity. This was both a technical and political choice. Technically, it lowered the entry barrier: participants didn’t need formal training to join. Structurally, it dissolved the center-periphery binary by allowing each part to be self-contained yet interconnected. This meant that leadership was not assigned, but constantly shifting and situational. The structure itself became a method of decentralization.
This approach to decentralization, however, did not mean the absence of responsibility. On the contrary, each participant had to manage their own pattern, timing, and listening. But because the tasks were simple and repetitive, responsibility became distributed and bearable. This design helped bypass the anxiety of “who is in charge,” and avoided oppressive dynamics where failure demands a scapegoat. The system didn’t eliminate structure—it redistributed it.
These ideas came into focus through observation during the actual performance. Some participants immediately found their rhythm; others took time to adjust. A few tried to lead sudden changes, but the structure gently absorbed or neutralized these attempts. The “only one person variation” rule was surprisingly effective—most participants intuited it through listening, not instruction. Across the group, I observed micro-adjustments in timing, spacing, and expression, indicating an active awareness of one’s position within the collective field.
This leads to a broader reflection: could such structures be useful beyond art? Could they inform how we think about working together—whether in collectives, communities, or even political action? Of course, limitations exist. If too few people hold the basic structure, the form may collapse. If a few dominate variation, a new center might emerge. Still, the principle holds: this structure enables agency within a space without authority. It does not reject professionalism or leadership, but repositions them. Each participant is given a responsibility that is both light and real—light enough to invite, real enough to matter.