This article was originally published in The Visual Artists’ News Sheet, Issue Jan/Feb 2017. PDF: van17_justkeepsweeping_jfoley_2016
At night the whole of Wexford seems to settle like an ocean in the dark beneath the mountain, dancing with the lights of fishers and anchored seafarers. The cattle breathe and stomp into the warm dark air of the corrugated sheds. In the grey-green light of a sleepless moonful night the rooster woke you twice. You came here to wake up after all. Here belongs to the side of the Blackstairs Mountains in County Wexford, home to the O’Gorman family farm for over 200 years and the Cow House Studios since 2007. Today is your final day on the residency called The Centre for Dying on Stage #3 and you are looking back through your notebooks where you have been making observations, like:
It is sunny. The leaves are autumnal. The wind wintery. Terracotta cows move over the green grasses in a complimentary trance.
It is challenging to work together. It can be beautiful to agree not to do so. I am here in my studio, listening at a distance to these other voices finding the notes of an idea they can play together. It is all storytelling. And before storytelling it is experience and sleep and dreams.
You came here to wake yourself from a tyranny of analysis and critique. You came here to remember your intuition, to regain a creative process. Your notes say that the purpose of staging contemporary art must be to energise each other to think creatively and critically, to become more lively and to seek inter-inspiration with others, to tell stories and share experiences through words, objects, movements and stillness.
The late afternoon sun is shining and all the surfaces of the farmyard are awash with golden light. The inner spaces of the Cow House Studio playfully counterpoint those of the farmyard with a bursty kind of order. You have become fond of one of many boxes tucked high into the shelves of the main art room labeled “sentimental clothing”. This is the tidiest farm you have ever seen. Strangely, the place reminds you of the context of your own growing-up, though you were never a farming daughter. It’s a place where the agency of matter is perceived for what it is. An instance of this is the sloping field by the forest near the hay-shed, the one that kept flooding and was gradually acknowledged as a pond, duly excavated and kitted out with a small jetty, life-buoy, a kayak and some carp. Since your arrival on the farm you’ve watched their shadowed bodies rippling the surface tension many times, thinking how the tranquility here betrays a human preoccupation with prediction and control. One of the conversational slogans that emerged during the residency was ‘just keep sweeping’.
You recall the challenges of the previous five weeks, working to create rhythm within this community of strangers in order to bring something to the stage at Wexford Arts Centre. Sudden rituals were established in the group, playfully yet with conviction. Three of five artists began to train together, going running every morning around the 4k loop, down and back along the hillside from the farm. At first, you didn’t quite relate. You were amused, yet somewhat anxious, at the fanaticism. You followed from a safe distance considering what was going on. Slowly, you began to get the levity of it. All this training was something wildly serious: a commitment to the process of art making as intuitive, spontaneous and systematic. Something quite trustable yet unpredictable. Training for the stage was training for life.
Ordinarily, you work in a context where engineering researchers devise telecommunications “networks for the future” between the worlds of industry, business and academia. The research center where you work is called CONNECT. When a colleague emailed to ask how you were getting on at The Centre for Dying on Stage #3, you replied that it was ‘distracting’. This blunt assessment was not a complaint. It was the most relevant word you could think of, in that moment of correspondence, to describe the diffractive effect of different creative processes coming into relation and tension with each other, an effect troubled and intensified by flashes of cruelty and fear.
In CONNECT your creative and collaborative process has been described, sincerely and without malice, as a distraction. Quite directly, you have been named an ‘interruptor’, so called after an algorithm that interrupts electrical circuits when a fault occurs in the system. In that context the negative connotations of these words had become affirmatory, constituting a local vocabulary to describe healthy relations of difference. Now, on the final day of your residency, you see that all along you have been wondering what it means for you to describe the experience of The Centre for Dying on Stage #3 as distracting?
From the edge of your empty square white table, set at a diagonal to the white walls of your studio in the Cow House, you intuit this question. In every aspect of your experience on the residency, you intuit this question. You walk the loop walk daily and intuit this question. You go shopping, make and eat meals with the others, converse and share gestures and ideas with the others, and intuit this question. You pet Dolly, the farm cat, and intuit this question. You observe George, the farm peacock, and intuit this question. You sleep and dream and intuit this question.
You think, then, as the final day of your residency draws to a close under the orange light of a navy night, that The Centre for Dying on Stage #3 intends to distract. It institutes forms of distraction that seek to draw the minds of artists and audiences alike away into the tingly bodily presence of a mysteriously shared agency, with the will to fail and death acting as a decoy for a keener will to love and live. For that is what it means to distract: to draw the mind away… away from the obsessions, envy and fears mirrored endlessly in the narcissistic infrastructures of our time. So, after more than five weeks, wouldn’t you say that the interruptions there were rarely too intimate, that the jokes were cast in earnest, and that any distractions performed or provoked became, in the end, a rather ‘beautiful mess’?
Jessica Foley is an artist, post-doctoral researcher and writer-in-residence at CONNECT, Trinity College Dublin.
 One of the stipulations in the open call for The Centre for Dying on Stage #3 was that the selected artists would present some aspect of work developed during the residency through the public forum of Wexford Arts Centre, specifically by using the infrastructure and resources of its theatre. The invitation to engage with the discipline of theatre and to explore modes of performance and performativity was one of the things that made this particular iteration of The Centre for Dying on Stage so compelling. On the 12th of November at 3pm, two performances took place on the stage at Wexford Arts Centre. The first, How Soon Gone is Gone, was by Alex Mirutziu, and the second, First Glue/Stage Business, was by Jessica Foley, Lisa Hoffmann, Marjorie Potiron and Steven Randall.
 This is how Marjorie Potiron and Lisa Hoffmann describe the purpose of their artistic process, to systematically generate a beautiful mess.
On Wednesday 30th November I facilitated a thought experiment on Data Politics and Markets in response to a research workshop organised by Dr. Rachel O’Dwyer (CONNECT) and Dr. Aphra Kerr (Maynooth University).
The research workshop was framed by the topics of Data Politics, Data Markets and the Internet of Things:
This topic raises critical social questions in relation to dataveillance, civic agency and citizenship. These include basic requests for factual information about a relatively new space, exploratory research questions about data ownership, data ethics, and the politics of automated transactions and trades in data and methodological questions about how we map this space and produce transdisciplinary research.
The research workshop was broken into two parts, morning and afternoon. The focus of the morning session was to outline a ‘State of the Art’ in relation to the topics of Data Politics, Data Markets, and IoT. It was about laying out some facts about these interpenetrating matters.
This research workshop aims to foster interdisciplinary dialogue by bringing together researchers from the fields of engineering, computer science and mathematics who are currently working on IoT projects with researchers from the social sciences, including sociology, geography, business and law.
The underlying purpose of the afternoons session was a framed as a thought experiment that might facilitate thoughtful interdisciplinary conversations within the time constraints of an hour and a half. First, I drew upon Donna Haraway’s philosophy of ‘Staying with the Trouble‘ as a way of framing the relationships between multi- inter- and transdisciplinarity.
Secondly, I framed a conversational/writing exercise called Data Drabbles. (This is very much in keeping with my research framework for transdisciplinary dialogue called Engineering Fictions). A Drabble is a short piece of fiction (or descriptive writing), usually 100 words in length, whose purpose is to concisely convey information about some scenario in an interesting and meaningful way for the reader. A Data Drabble is the same, except the topic of ‘data’ infuses what is discussed, dreamed up, described, etc.
In any cross-cultural or cross-disciplinary work, language and vocabulary matters. It’s certainly not the only thing that matters, but it’s the aspect I’m interested in. Words matter just as words work. This thought experiment, to write ‘data drabbles’, focused upon the topic of Data Markets. In order to stay with the trouble of data markets, all of us gathered in the room for the research workshop had to come to terms, to share language and meaning.
The rules for devising a data drabble in this instance were as follows:
The group of 25 or so researchers was divided into groups of five or so. We spent the best part of an hour working on the data drabbles in our groups. Feedback from the drabblers told me that much of the time was spent teasing out some agreement about what constitutes a data market. Only then could any further description/diagramming of stakeholders take place.
Which emphasises the challenge of inter and transdisciplinary work of all kinds very well – the struggle to come to terms with each other in a respectful way that is supportive and generative of communication and creativity.
This thought experiment was less about writing a good piece of fiction and more about enacting a model of transdisicplinarity. However, some compelling pieces of writing emerged, some of which I will post here later, with permission.
There were many differences at play in the room, as well as many commonalities. The challenge remains to “take our differences and make them strengths” as Audre Lorde advises. Some of the interests and desires at work within the group were outlined in their application to the workshop, collected up as data through the online forms and shared with the workshop organisers and facilitators. I made an anonymous slide of some of these and showed them back to the group, before we continued with the thought experiment.
A group of strangers, international artists with diverse backgrounds and practices, came together to exchange ideas underpinned by a shared interest in matters of life and death, performance and disappearance.
Working under the aegis of The Centre For Dying On Stage, and based between Cow House Studios, Rathnure, and the Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin, the five participating artists assembled on residency for five weeks of developing ideas, texts and gestures before performing their findings live on stage.
Participating artists Jessica Foley, Marjorie Potiron & Lisa Hoffmann, Steven Randall, and Alex Mirutziu AKA The Artist and Himself at 29 (TAH29), and curator Kate Strain are delighted to present this experimental performance work at Wexford Arts Centre, on 12 November 2016.
Every human being has paid the earth to grow up, most people don’t grow up. It’s so damn difficult. What happens is most people get older. That’s the truth of it. They honour their credit cards, they find parking spaces, they marry, they have the nerve to have children… But they don’t grow up. Not really. They get older.
But to grow up costs the Earth. It means you take responsibility for the time you take up and the space you occupy. Grow up. Serious business.
And what it costs to love and to lose. To dare and to fail. And maybe even more to succeed. What it costs in truth, not superficial, anybody can do that, I mean in truth. That’s what I write. What it really is like. And I’m just telling a very simple story.
Maya Angelou [quote starts @ 17.50mins]