Alright – so today we’ve got the honor of introducing you to Cho Rong Yang. We think you’ll enjoy our conversation, we’ve shared it below.

Cho Rong, thanks for joining us, excited to have you contributing your stories and insights. Can you take us back in time to the first dollar you earned as a creative – how did it happen? What’s the story?

After graduating from college, I produced my very first show entirely on my own. It was held in a small photo rental studio in Seoul, and I took on everything—from choreography to planning, marketing, and casting. It was my first time producing something like this, and aside from choreography, everything else felt unfamiliar and overwhelming. The weight of leading a team was heavier than I expected, and at times, it felt isolating.

The only time our full cast could rehearse together was after midnight, so we often rehearsed straight through the night. Watching the sun rise on my way home became part of my routine. It was physically and mentally exhausting, but looking back, it was one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had. I think I was able to push through simply because I was young and didn’t know any better—I wasn’t afraid to take on something that big.

What I’m still deeply grateful for are the dancers and staff who stood by me through all of it. To be honest, I wasn’t able to pay them nearly what they deserved—what I offered was barely a fraction of the work they put in. But after the show, one of the dancers told me it was the first time he had ever been paid to perform, and he thanked me for it. That moment meant everything to me. It made all the stress and exhaustion feel worth it. I felt proud—and encouraged.

That show was more than just a starting point. It was the first time I put something of my own out into the world and earned even a small amount from it—but more importantly, it was a moment built on trust, effort, and shared passion with the people who helped bring it to life. That’s what stayed with me the most.

Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

In Korea, there’s a saying: “You end up in Gangnam just by following a friend.” It means sometimes you stumble into something big or life-changing without really planning to.

That’s pretty much describes how my journey in dance began. When I was in 5th grade, a friend asked me to join an after-school ballet class with her. I said yes.
I didn’t think much of it—I just really wanted to wear tutu skirt (one of those princess-like ballet skirts.) Ironically, my friend never showed up—but I went anyway. I still remember the smell of the new leather shoes. I felt alive using every muscle in my body, leaping across the studio. I was a physically energetic kid, and the freedom of movement just made sense to me. It felt instinctive, like my body already knew it belonged there.

From that point on, dance naturally became part of my life—effortlessly, like something that was just meant to happen. As I transitioned into more serious training, dance slowly shifted from play to discipline. The older I got, the tougher it became. It stopped being just fun and started demanding real resilience. There were moments of emotional and physical exhaustion, and times I had to hear things no teenage girl should have to. But I stayed with it. I’m proud that I didn’t walk away, even when I wanted to.

Now, as a choreographer, I create works that reflect that journey—moments of joy, frustration, irony, and survival. My pieces often live in that weird space between laughter and sadness. They’re not grand or dramatic; they’re personal. Honest. A bit awkward, a bit funny, a bit heavy. Just like life.

What I hope is that the audience sees a part of themselves in what I make. I don’t need a standing ovation—I just want to leave something that lingers. Something people carry home with them.

Can you tell us about a time you’ve had to pivot?

One of the biggest pivots in my life happened when I moved from Korea to the U.S. for college, right after graduating high school. It was my first time truly stepping away from the comfort and familiarity of home, family, friends and everything I had known growing up.

Living abroad as a young adult came with its own set of challenges. I had to learn how to navigate a completely different culture, communicate in a second language, and take care of myself in a new environment. But it also opened me up to a whole new world. I met people from all kinds of backgrounds, experienced new perspectives, and began to see things—both in dance and in life—with a wider lens.

Ironically, it was in this faraway country—so different from the one I was raised in—where I first felt truly accepted for who I was. In a place that values diversity, I was able to rediscover and reclaim parts of myself that I had long pushed aside. Being seen and respected just as I am helped me regain a confidence I didn’t even realize I had lost.

Studying in the U.S. gave me access to a level of education and creative freedom I hadn’t experienced before. It allowed me to question, explore, and take risks—not just artistically, but personally. I learned that growth doesn’t always come from getting things right, but from staying open to the unfamiliar and showing up for yourself even when it’s hard.

Any resources you can share with us that might be helpful to other creatives?

I’m not sure if this qualifies as a “resource” in the traditional sense, but one thing I’ve come to deeply value—and wish I had understood earlier in my creative journey—is the importance of quality documentation and building a personal archive.

As I’ve worked on various project applications and proposals, I’ve realized how essential it is to have strong visual and written records of past work. Especially for live performance, which by nature is ephemeral, documenting what was created becomes crucial. A fully staged performance—complete with lighting, props, costume, and collaborators—is the result of countless hours of labor and coordination. And because re-staging a work requires just as much time, effort, and cost, it’s rarely easy to recreate especially as an emerging artist.

That’s why investing in high-quality documentation is not just helpful—it’s necessary. No matter how powerful or successful a performance may have been in the moment, without proper documentation, its impact becomes almost impossible to communicate later on. Poor documentation can even diminish how a piece is perceived, especially when being evaluated by people who weren’t there to experience it live.

To me, if creation marks beginning, then documentation provides the closure. It completes the cycle. Thoughtful archiving not only honors the process and the people involved—it allows the work to live on, beyond the stage.

Contact Info:

• Instagram: @andtheoriginalform

Image Credits

Portrait Credit: Zoe Liu
Performance Photo Credit: LUCK