“Has anyone ever written a song about depressive masturbation before?” asks FKA twigs with glee. “We’ve all had those days!”

This mischievous outburst comes about as we discuss her new ballad “daybed,” which starkly describes being immobilized by depression—as well as the fleeting relief of self-pleasure. Intimate echoes build to a climax of coos and sighs, but her breathy references to “active fingers” and “faux cunnilingus” have a kind of resigned inevitability. It evokes, as we say in the UK, the feeling of a sad wank. She seizes on this notion with delight. “And then after you’re like, ‘Nope, still feel the same!’” She claps her hands in satisfaction, vibrating with laughter.

We’re chatting in the back of a taxi with tinted windows on the way to a London dance studio on a drizzly October afternoon, a ride that takes us through a smog-filled tunnel under the Thames. The rehearsal space is dotted with Goop-y aphorisms on the wall, such as “Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations”—a cheesy but not-inaccurate way to describe the labor-intensive discipline that twigs brings to her live performances. She is here today to practice wushu, an intricate style of Chinese martial arts with roots dating back to the Bronze Age. Usually, it’s done with a paper-thin jian sword—twigs named hers Lilith—but it can also involve umbrellas, spiked shoes, or heavy steel fans. It’s dangerous work; after a recent run of shows in which she performed a complex solo wushu routine, twigs’ lower arms are scattered with small scars from her blade.

In the airy practice room, she is joined by European junior wushu champion Sam Mak, who is there to make sure her technique is both authentic and undiluted. After a quick warm-up, Mak leads the session with a quiet, steady demeanor. “Let’s start and build up to some slashy things,” he says. Wushu is the kind of sport where a hair’s breadth can be the difference between losing an ear or not, and Mak gives pointers on twigs’ form, guiding her to bring the sword closer to her body for greater control. She takes the direction without question.

After propellering through a few sword twirls, twigs takes a breath. Something’s bothering her: the drippy acoustic guitar music being pumped into the studio. “I feel like I’m about to order an avocado toast!” she shouts. Someone scurries off to change the playlist, and soon enough twigs snaps back into focus. She’s training for an ambitious visual collaboration with Emmy-nominated Atlanta director Hiro Murai to accompany “sad day,” a blown-out highlight from her upcoming second album, MAGDALENE. It is Murai’s first music project since Childish Gambino’s epochal “This Is America” video, and the shoot, which twigs’ team has invited me to watch, is set to commence in less than 72 hours.

A reverent hush falls over the rehearsal room as twigs and her opponent, a ripped, preternaturally zen libertine named Teake, lock eyes and prepare for battle. In this moment, she is no longer the bawdy jokester of the cab ride; she is an exacting combatant. Twigs and Teake’s dark ballet crackles with energy. She ducks with arms splayed to avoid his swipe, spins to block his weapon with clenched teeth, and pivots 360 degrees on the balls of her feet before stabbing at him. As her blade quivers just inches from his cheek, she breaks away and lets out a quick, proud laugh.

Sword-fighting warrior is the latest guise for the 31-year-old born Tahliah Barnett. Since debuting with a string of enigmatic tracks in 2012, the singer, songwriter, producer, actor, and dancer has taken center stage in myriad forms including, but by no means limited to: a tap-dancing jester; a teleporting sleep angel; a super-sized goddess; and a human metronome with the eyes of a Kit-Kat Klock. Thanks to her work’s dauntless physicality, there’s a constant sense that twigs is shape-shifting before our eyes.