SHOT@KLATCH: 'Not Her Last Dance'

Klatch Studio
5 days ago
5 min read

Updated: 5 days ago

MUSIC VIDEO CASE STUDY: DANCE STUDIO 1 INFINITY COVE AND STUDIO 2 BLACK BOX

This concept video was created and directed by Yoanna Budzinski on behalf of the non-profit Not Her Last Dance. It was filmed in the black box and infinity studios at Klatch.

Watch the music video here:

About NOT HER LAST DANCE:

Not Her Last Dance is a non-profit organisation dedicated to ending violence against women and girls (VAWG) and facilitating healing from its harmful effects through the transformative power of dance. We aim to achieve this by running regular dance sessions for those affected by VAWG to heal and express themselves in a safe, supportive environment. Additionally, we aim to tackle the root causes of VAWG, utilising dance as a tool to raise awareness and educate all members of society to creating change together. We envision a world in which no one faces the threat of violence because of their gender. A world where women of all backgrounds can reach their full potential, feel safe to express themselves and enjoy the freedom to dance how they choose. A world in which no one else can decide when is her last dance.

Our Values - HER:

Heal - where those affected directly and indirectly by the negative impact of VAWG can find healing, expression and release through dance.

Educate - creating dance and content that sparks questions and promotes conversations

around VAWG and its root causes to bring about change.

Reach out - fostering a safe, supportive community where we can share experiences and views. Building strong relationships with other organisations with the same values and similar missions. Ensuring inclusion of those from all backgrounds. Together we can make impactful change.

About the Music Video:

Director Yoanna Budzinski gave this description of the project:

"Not many people know this, but this video is rooted in a very personal experience.

When I was 18, I found myself in a deeply toxic relationship. I was made to feel ashamed of my past—judged for the number of people I had been with before, criticised for the way I dressed, and accused of seeking attention from the male gaze. Over time, I began to erase parts of myself: I changed how I dressed, deleted photos and other reminders from past relationships, distanced myself from friends—especially male friends—and avoided situations where I might have to speak to men, because the consequences at home were unbearable.

The relationship became violent. He was violent. I was violent. While it was often verbal, it was sometimes physical. I became someone I didn’t recognise. His silent treatment and emotional manipulation would push me to emotional extremes, and I didn’t always know how to manage my reactions. One of the worst moments was when he came home after a night out, woke me up to scold me, and when I tried to push him away, he swung his arm and hit me in the jaw. That moment—depicted in the bed scene in the video—sent me to hospital and left me unable to open my mouth for a week.

After the relationship ended, the violence continued for a bit. He approached me at a university party to insult me, and when I tipped his drink on him in frustration, he slapped me across the face in front of all of my classmates. The shame I felt in that moment, and the pity I saw in people’s eyes, made me retreat even further into silence. I didn’t want to be seen through that lens.

Even now, I find it incredibly difficult to talk about this. Part of me resists calling myself a victim. I worry how it will be perceived—whether people who knew us then will say I’m exaggerating. And honestly, I don’t even know if my ex would recognise himself in this description. I still carry a strange kind of protectiveness toward him. I know he had a difficult childhood, and in some ways, I understand where his behaviour came from. I’m not angry at him. If anything, I’ve often blamed myself. I’ve told myself that maybe I brought that side out of him—that the way I reacted emotionally, the ways I lashed out verbally, somehow pushed him to become a person he wouldn’t have been with someone else. That maybe we were just a bad combination. That we were violent, not that he was violent. That we were toxic, not that he was toxic. And in telling myself that, I’ve sometimes found a way to justify what happened. Because I stayed. Because I consented. Because I knew he loved me. And for a long time, I convinced myself that love made it all okay.

Part of me still struggles with whether it really “counts” as abuse. The situation was complicated, and I wasn’t blameless either. But I now know that abuse is rarely clear-cut. It’s complicated, and it’s not always visible.

I’ve since learned that feeling guilt is incredibly common among people who’ve experienced abuse—especially when the relationship felt complicated or mutual in its dysfunction. I’ve asked myself impossible questions, like: If I had been the man in the relationship, the one with more social or physical power, would I have ended up being the violent one? There’s no way of knowing, but the fact that I even wonder speaks to how tangled abuse can feel when you’re inside it. One of the things I tried to convey in the video is that, regardless of whose “fault” it seems to be, or how mutual the harm might feel at times, it’s never a good situation to be in—and no one should feel trapped in it. There should always be a way out.

I’ve always considered myself a strong, fiercely independent woman. Admitting that I lost myself so completely in a relationship was something I deeply struggled with. But I’ve come to understand that strength and vulnerability are not mutually exclusive. Experiencing abuse doesn’t make you weak. Because abuse can take many forms, and it can happen to anyone.

That’s why I chose to shoot this video with Klatch, using both the infinity studio and the blackout space—to reflect that ambiguity. To show that these experiences are never black and white. I wanted to visually explore how abuse can exist in light and darkness, in memory and dissociation, in clarity and confusion. The choreography represents inner turmoil—starting and ending in the white space, a place of reflection, and transitioning into the black space, symbolising a dream state or the psychological aftermath of trauma.

Though the video is inspired by my story, I wanted to leave space for interpretation. I hope others can see parts of themselves in it. Because abuse can take many forms, and it can happen to anyone.

Behind the Scenes Photos: