The 15th edition of TULCA Festival of Visual Art – titled They Call Us The Screamers – takes its reference from a book written by Jenny James, published by Caliban Books in 1980. The book is an account of Atlantis, the commune she established a few years earlier in the Gaeltacht village of Burtonport, County Donegal – promoting an approach of de-programming from the modern world through therapeutic self-development and environmental self-sufficiency. The book is also a response to the controversies and scandals that embroiled the commune during their first years in Ireland, following accusations of cultish behaviour, kidnapping, and physical abuse. The members of the commune were collectively nicknamed ‘The Screamers’ in a 1976 Sunday World article, referring to their practice of primal scream therapy – an adapted form of psychotherapy developed by Dr Arthur Janov that sought to re-enact the traumas of modern upbringing and thereby reverse the neurosis that follows in later life. A publication designed by Alex Synge / The First 47 wll be available at all venues. In addition to curatorial texts by Matt Packer, the publication includes three newly commissioned texts by Sue Rainsford that sound the primal scream through the narrative forms of lyric essay, transcription, and testimony. On Monday 6th November I talked through my commissioned texts for TULCA -- Scream i, Scream ii & Scream iii -- at the Centre for Creative Arts & Media, GMIT, and have included an excerpt below: ...making the second text came about very differently to the first, and my relation to words was very different throughout... I selected passages from the transcripts in Atlantis Magic to make a kind of erasure or found text. Next I recorded myself on my laptop saying segments from that selection that I felt were the most charged and affecting, then took a screen shot of the wave forms resulting from the recording, and inserted ... Read more ».
Sue Rainsford, winner of VAI/DCC Critical Writing Award 2017, will talk to Joanne Laws, Features Editor of the Visual Artists’ News Sheet, about her research and writing practice. Click here for more information..
My review of Han Kang's The Vegetarian is online at Aster(ix) Journal. We all have inside of us a wound that’s bound, at some stage, to open. That much we can take for granted. In The Vegetarian, Kang doesn’t ask what causes the wound, not even what undoes the suture – we have, after all, only a glimpse of cause and climax, a hint of aftermath. Rather, the novel dwells in the slow, tiered process of unravelling. Yeong-hye wants to transform, and it seems becoming a vegetarian is something her psyche throws up – an offering, a means of removing her body from the system that oppresses it. And, in a way, it works..
I actually think I am drawn to people who just don’t have the stuff to function in the world, and I don’t know why. Mary Gaitskill Mary very kindly took the time to talk with me on Thanksgiving, and over the phone we spoke about writing generating new perspectives, universality in literature, the issue of teaching style, and insidious censorship. Read our conversation on Sampsonia Way, an online magazine sponsored by City of Asylum/Pittsburgh, celebrating literary free expression and supporting persecuted writers worldwide..
My review of Dorothy Cross's Connemara (RHA, March-April 2014) is in issue 8 of Artefact, the Journal of the Irish Association of Art Historians. To order a copy, email email@example.com Deterioration is an aesthetic mechanism and a biological fact. Things simply wear away, a refrain heard as Sea Cave plays on with its simultaneous approach and retreat of the sea, the gradual corrosion the water enacts on the shore. Even as the skeleton seems headed toward the bucket and part of the work’s pleasure is the agency granted the bones, the very purposefully cast shadow adds an extra degree of immateriality that posits the skeleton as solid, living..
In this workshop we'll be exploring the potential of the artist statement across a spectrum of functional to radical, considering how writing can be employed toward explicative and subversive means within an art practice. Working through an array or practitioners and exercises, the aim of this workshop is to foster a generative relationship with writing in its many forms that can be applied topically as needed. Book your place here..
Below is a paper I presented at Writing Between The Lines: creative writing as research methodology at Cardiff Metropolitan University in September 2016. I’m going to start with some quotes from Sadie Plant, Eimear McBride and Hélène Cixous. No parents, no children, just ourselves, strings of inseparable sisters, warm and wet… (Plant, 3) What? When you miss me. What words are when. Get. Jesus. Over. He goes somewhere else inside. Does that hurt? Yes. A lot and relieves me for a while. (McBride, 137) …your womb is not dreaming, your body is not mistaken… yes, flesh has an undeniable memory. (Cixous, 82) If we could peel back layers of compacted ideology to peer at the undiluted, ‘uncultured’ female body, what might we see? Woman is so swamped in discourse that she is speechless, writes Julia Kristeva, even when she’s speaking (Black Sun). For several years my research has oscillated around questions of how the pervasively repressed and explicitly traumatised female body expresses itself, and how this expression might be embodied in writing. Namely, how hybrid prose can operate in the cross-space where radical experience compromises language, but literature is still plays a role. This has entailed considering prose as the product of a necessary, generative act rather than cerebral or aesthetic impulse, and sometimes as a means of restoring or even making female experience. In this vein, I’ll be taking examples from Susan Howe and Bhanu Kapil, each of whom employ a degree of hybridity to unearth experience, before applying some of these concepts to ideas around my own writing. Howe and Kapil each embrace what Renee Gladman has described as ‘the conditions that cause one to stutter in the making of a sentence’ (70). Female experience is stifled, but seeks manifestation nonetheless, with variant degrees of radicalisation resulting to take oblique and subversive form. The final section ... Read more ».
IMMA recently invited me to respond to Niamh O’Malley’s The Memorial Gardens, 2008, which is featured in our current exhibition IMMA Collection: A Decade. My response is in the context of Art | Memory | Place, a year-long programme focusing on artists whose work addresses themes relating to memory and place. Made in 2008, while participating in IMMA’s Artist Residency Programme, The Memorial Gardens by Niamh O’Malley is an installation comprising footage taken at the National War Memorial Gardens in Islandbridge, Dublin, projected onto oil on etched-primed aluminium. Read the full text here..
This paper was delivered at IBAAS 2016, at Queen's University, Belfast What does it mean to ‘break form’, and what makes one feel the need? Breaking form within the realm of literary fiction implies a subversion of words and their relation to the sentence, paragraph and page. Not only this, but it challenges the kinds of knowledge that prose can divulge. Not linear, narrative or rooted in plot, but perhaps partial, corporeal and intuitive. The impetus? To make manifest those aspects of experience that are beyond the scope of traditional language, those subaltern voices that struggle to find representation within hegemonic discourse. The works I’ll be focusing on are Mary Robison’s Why Did I Ever (2001) and Suzanne Scanlon’s Her 37th Year: an index (2015). Each novel draws heavily on autobiographical material, providing us with an oblique, staggered portrait of a female mind in the throes of anxiety or trauma. In each instance the impressions we collect of these narrators are inadvertent and fractal, compiled from details the narrator may or may not have intended to provide, and in each and the portrayal comes about via titled, numbered, fragmented sections of text. My research focuses on women writers who break form because of the particular textures experimentation garners when applied to female experience. We can think about Julia Kristeva’s oft cited clinical text Black Sun, in which Kristeva tells us woman isn’t speaking even when she’s speaking, such is the extent to which patriarchal structures, including language, have hindered her self-expression. Renee Gladman, author of The Ravickians and Newcomer Can’t Swim, has spoken of her otherworldly existence as a black lesbian poet. Namely, she enters ‘language from a place of disorientation, <her> grasp of the subject is slippery’ because it’s fashioned for a subjectivity other than hers, and every time she enters the realm of ... Read more ».
This event was organised by Lorraine Whelan in response to Bridget O'Gorman's In The Flesh at The Lab, Dublin. object - memory - narrative from Dublin City Council Arts Office on Vimeo. On Saturated Objects & Disrupted Narratives So taking the the veil as a starting point, I’ve been reading Elaine Scarry’s The Body in Pain. I have a quote behind me illustrating Scarry’s view of objects, which is that they’re a manifestation of human sentience, and bring into the realm of the visible what was originally an invisible aspect of consciousness. Scarry also writes that a ‘lightbulb transforms the human being from a creature who would spend approximately a third of each day groping in the dark, to one who sees simply by wanting to see.’ What, then, does the veil turn us into? What does its physicality say about human nature and desire? Perhaps a propensity for secrecy, an impulse to shield and also to reveal what would otherwise be in a constant state of exposure. As some of you may know, myself and Bridget O’Gorman collaborated last year, and the result of that collaboration was the text Slow Tear, the script for Bridget’s video work which features the 1916 store rooms at Collins Barracks. The cabinets there which hold these items certainly partake of veil-like properties, and their existence very much fed into myself and Bridget’s perception of these objects -- the kinds of lives we perceived them to have, the kinds of roles they might have for memory and narrative on a historical and material level. I was also thinking about the membrane we’re veiled with when we’re in the womb, and how to be born with this still entact – to be born in the caul – is a sign of good luck. To be born into the world enshrouded, with ... Read more ».