Grief Time

by Day Magee

Time is its own language. It is communicated in events, sentences; it’s structure fluctuating, punctuating in a dynamic rhythm.

Two and a half years ago, I watched my Father shrivel up from lung cancer, just as his Father before him. I vape as I write this, pushing a little cumulus across the room with the force of breath onto air.

‘Keening’ was a Paganic Gaelic funereal practice, a performance of ecstatic grief in the form of wailing. Often unacquainted with the bereaved, the assigned Keener acted as a proxy for mourners to express their grief vicariously. Historically, the role of the keener was assigned to female, matriarchal figures, lacking perhaps in its cultural mysticism a direct representation of complex male grief.

I’ve never understood myself to be male. I remember the first time my Father caught me sneaking out in girls’ clothes. His face haunts me. I do not however, despite identifying as genderqueer, believe myself to be exempt from male privilege, nor can I have escaped unscathed or unshaped by being raised and socialised as male. One such price was the gift of tears.

What I strangely miss about acute grief is, for a time, how easily I could cry, about anything. Before, I cried maybe every three years. It started mundanely with my Father frustrated and, at the time, on his own looking after two children whilst working grueling shifts as a bus driver. He let rip at some infraction on my part. I was scared, began to cry in earnest, to which he continued to shout “those aren’t real tears – those are crocodile tears!”

(I imagine a crocodile crying the river it waits in.)

And just like that, I couldn’t cry. I became convinced that my own, naturally occurring emotion was my body conspiring so as to manipulate other people. So I trained myself not to. I didn’t cry when I was sexually assaulted multiple times across many years. I didn’t cry when I went through conversion therapy at fourteen to make myself straight. I didn’t cry at the countless older men, for whom I was often The Other Woman, treating me as such. Even when I developed fibromyalgia, I didn’t cry for years.

It was over the course of the first year of grief that I sought to inhabit what non-toxic masculinities I had inherited from my Father.

I recorded, with his permission and enthusiasm, his last breaths. He knew me by then, he even introduced me by my chosen name to his nurses – he knew what I had to do. At that point, we had mutually healed, had come to understand each other beyond our ideologies. In my practice I had become convinced of the magic of performance. A couple of weeks after he died, I fitted a makeshift butterfly net with shards of rose quartz, said to contain feminine energies, playing the recordings from a speaker, and span the net through the sheer air, catching the otherwise masculine sound waves. It was a ritual, as my performances often are, to absorb what remained of him so that grief could begin. And so it did.

I began to keen in the presence of clear quartz crystals, vocally regurgitating what I had absorbed into these objects – death with a life of its own passed back and forth through vectors. The deviant in me thinks of “snowballing” in gay porn. Death and sex are bedfellows in my work. All I knew about sex growing up was that mine was a form of spiritual death, of separation from God. It’s strange, how both “I love you son – does it bother you when I call you son?” and “You can go live with those faggots!” Can be said by the same person and how both can be true.

I performed these five “male” keenings in direct violation of patriarchal suppression. I charged the crystals in a transubstantiating manner over time with the sonic energies of loss. The crystals, carried through successive iterations of the work – each reflecting the first four stages of grief. In 2019, a little over a year since his death, I performed Keening Garden Door in Tulca Festival, whereupon the charged quartz were set like teeth into a door frame. The portal was rooted in a mix of different soils, including some from my father’s grave. I keened a fifth time, before passing through the Door into Acceptance.

Until then, I had tried to orchestrate my own acceptance, in the only way I knew how – to grieve on my own time, alone, and intellectualise it into something to be consumed by other other people whether as art or trying to make other people feel better about my grief. It wasn’t enough just to share it or feel it – it had to be both, simultaneously. And in Keening Garden Door, it was. Multiple people rushed to me after each performance, some sobbing, sharing their own stories of loss, both recent and long ago. The keening was successful, reflected in function now as it had been long ago. Both were true having become real, and both became linked: people coming together in space and time so that they may feel through one another.

It’s strange how, not only in order to process our experience, but in order to realise it, we have to tell a story about it. Words are themselves inert, arbitrary, as perhaps all technologies are, but become charged with intention over time. Something happens, we recognise and speak it – to ourselves or to others – ergo something has happened. These increments link perpetually and acceleratingly until a whole history has proliferated.

I think of myself cuddled into his arms at twenty five years of age in that hospital bed, hating myself for not recording the prayer he spoke over me, because our memory isn’t always enough. And yet, it can also wait for us in hiding, anticipating its own rediscovery.

In The Male Keening (vi), I revisit this theme post-COVID, a more collective grief having eclipsed the world as I have wandered in a stupor from my own. The same crystals appear one more time, collected in a glass decanter filled with water, a brew of old grief. I drink from it, and keen again. The image reflects Ganymede the Aquarian, the water bearer, after my own Zodiac sign as I approach my Saturn’s Return, the time in one’s life where everything that has come before must be upheaved. Grief began as this great fog dispersed across everything. Over time, it condensed into various cumulus, more discernible shapes. Now it’s starting to rain. I’m not the same person I was. I mourn who I was as before all this happened as much as I mourn him. I thought I’d have moved towards healing at this point. I have and I haven’t. Grief reveals each moment in time before and since to be its own timeline. Perhaps people are parallel universes, life the intersecting point where they meet, death giving way to new permutations as the facets turn, time the language ting point where they meet, death giving way to new permutations as the facets turn, time the language incrementally communicating these iterations.

I miss you and I love you Dad. I miss the back of your head as you played the guitar at the kitchen table. I miss you gently explaining scripture to me, leaning on the wheelie bin out back with a smoke. I miss you moving your hand through my hair with painstaking delicacy as you prayed for me during my lowest points – we shared the same hospital bed in St Vincent’s A&E, where three years before I had lain, when I had tried to do myself great harm. You had stood over me and could only smile, with no judgement left. I then stood over you, promising to take care of Mom and my brother. Life’s strange poetry continues to riff.

There is a hole in my life, a hole in my understanding of myself and the world. You left me with the tools to love myself. I’ve been sitting for a year staring at them, their applications Greek to me, caught in a slow, barely controlled implosion. What I do remember you saying, in my ear, in those fifteen lucid minutes we had alone together in the chaos of those five awful weeks, was “I bless you son”. And you did. You always had. I hope, one day, when I cross that sea, that I will see you again.

the start of the end / a year (2021)

By Léann Herlihy

With a desperate sense of urgency, Léann Herlihy writes a letter which contains no urgent matter. In a bid to touch an art community during a time where we have been starved of physicality, these words are available to read both online and in hand as physical letters can be posted to anyone living anywhere for free.

If you would like to receive or send a letter to an individual please email in:Action ( We advise you to get in touch soon as there are limited amounts of letters are available.


  1. A scan of a brown C5 envelope with a white rectangular label in the centre. The label has
    been printed with black typewriter font and is addressed to ‘anyone (who needs it)’ and to
    send to ‘anywhere’.
  2. A scan of a cream textured A4 page. The page has black typewriter font printed on it.

Halberstam, J., 2005. In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives. New York: New York University Press.
Halberstam, J., 2020. Soundtrack for World’s End. [online] Bully Bloggers. Available at:
Tuan, Y., 1977. Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press.

The Absent and the Museal

by Philip Kavanagh

For those who value the communal, live art has, temporarily, ceased to exist.

Its traces continue to make the rounds, but documentation’s ability to communicate anything of a performance beyond taxonomic secondary use is doubtful. It is the virtue of immediacy for live art, of its flesh and blood engagement, that ensures its current hiatus is unavoidable.

I find myself thinking more and more about those altogether strange things housed in our more naval-gazing museums. That lot that is gilded, mounted, stuffed, preserved. While these stewarding institutions resort to virtual tours and similar projects in this time of closure, when we consider the objects within and the relationship we as a public have with them, it feels somehow like business as usual. These things indifferently persist. Seeing them isn’t necessary. We know they’re there, and somehow, that suffices. They enjoy continuity in their objecthood within those walls. Uneffected. Unaffecting. If live art is fragile then we might consider these artefacts and their cultures antithetical to such fragility. My problem though is this one: why is there so little in their sense of authoritative permanence to draw on, given that a sense of stability might be useful in these times of such uncertainty?

Douglas Crimp’s On the Museum’s Ruin (1983) opens ominously with Adorno discussing the German term museal, meaning museumlike’. “[It] has unpleasant overtones”, he notes. “It describes objects to which the observer no longer has a vital relationship and which are in the process of dying. They owe their preservation more to historical respect than to the needs of the present”. If our relationship to these museal objects was ‘dying’ then, I am tempted to suggest that it is has now expired. There seems something absurd in positing, given our current situation, the sort of disinterested engagement these embalmed things demand.

It is not a matter of priority, that people have more important things to be doing and don’t yet realise how much they miss these artefacts. In fact, at the time of writing, other than a concern for the more vulnerable in our society and an anxiety about global stability (if such a thing existed to begin with), one of the most organic global solidarities we see manifesting is that against boredom. If ever people had time, they have it now. My gut feeling is that we understand, whether consciously or otherwise, that dwelling on such sepulchral aesthetic relationships offers us little in a time when the unique fragility of life becomes heightened. If there is a practice to sustain the aesthetic relationships we deem vital to us, it should be a practice of life. Should you find there is a sense of restlessness, of anxiety, even of loss in its absence, is that not telling that live art might approximate such a practice?

Live art needs people, it needs life. As long as it requires this of us, we will irreplaceably require it.

Philip Kavanagh is a writer on art based in Dublin

Packet Switching Grief

126 Gallery invited me to contribute an essay to the catalogue Unset in Stone in October 2019. My father passed away suddenly at that time and the following is what emerged.

By EL Putnam

I said good bye to my father over a WhatsApp video call not too long ago. He was connected to a ventilator and they were about to pronounce him deceased in a US hospital, as I sat in my home in Ireland over 3000 miles away. It all happened so suddenly; I was unable to get a flight in time to be there in person. The shock of the trauma is still raw as I write this—I haven’t yet fully accepted that it has happened. We had chatted regularly over WhatsApp before that day. Weekly, we would communicate through glitched video and broken sound (the poor internet connection and mobile reception where I live in the country made the formal parameters of technology apparent through their breakdown), sharing the ins-and-outs of our daily lives. These once magical tools of communication, now commonplace, have enabled us to develop a closeness despite our geographic distance. I never thought I would have to share such an intimate moment—a final goodbye—over a digital platform. I limited the postings of my father’s passing on social media. However, shortly after his death, I was scrolling through Facebook and saw an extended family member had posted about it. She also linked an article from a local newspaper. I was caught off guard reading about these significant moments, so close to my lived experience, from such an objective perspective. The thoughts shared in the piece were warm and kind, alluding to a legacy that exceeds what I knew of him. To me, he was dad; to his patients he was a healer who would take the time to practice care in a manner that is becoming too rare in today’s medical environment; to his hiking buddies an ambitious outdoorsman who knew the importance of training and caution, and as an Eagle Scout, always came prepared; to his fellow firefighters, he was the humble man who loved to cook and talk about his grandkids. I met many of these people at his wake and funeral, but I am becoming increasingly aware of the impact he had on others as more comments and stories are shared online, with websites and social media pages become memorials to his passing.

“Eight hours west sat a man alone on a beach mourning an inexplicable loss. He could only think of his loss in little packets of grief at a time, because the whole thing was too great to be borne.” Douglas Adams, So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish

Packet switching is a process of network transmission where data is broken down into chunks or packets for more efficient transfer. Originally, it was developed as part of ARPANET, the precursor for the World Wide Web, during the Cold War in order to decentralise transmission of data and avoid dedicated lines that could function as vulnerable targets to enemy attacks. In addition to being the structural and material form of the present-day Internet, enabling the social media memorials described above, packet switching also functions as an appropriate metaphor for externalisation and sharing of memories, extreme emotions like grief, and trauma.French Philosopher Bernard Stiegler studies the externalisation of memory through technology, with technology being defined in a broad scope as an instrument or tool that acts as a prosthesis for humans. That is, technology includes the computers, digital gadgets, and telecommunications networks that have become vital to twenty first century interactions, but also applies to the non-digital objects that are used to enhance human ability, such as writing, photography, tools and instruments, including those used in artistic production. In other words, art produced through, with, and as technology functions as the externalisation of memories, including thoughts and gestures that can be communicated to others without the originator present. All art, to some extent, is the externalisation of someone’s memories; sent adrift for the perception and reception of others. Aesthetic experience, therefore, becomes an opportunity for shared being through processes of transmission and uptake. Meaning is not guaranteed and may change over time, as interpretation varies depending on perception and reception. However, the externalisation of memories through art as technology defies the limits of corporeal mortality, as memories are no longer restricted to the finite parameters of biological function. Monuments and memorials enable life, in all its complexities, to continue after death, and not just in our minds, but as memories that are made concrete through technological fabrication.

Monuments and memorials have certain connotations when it comes to the carrying of memory, with monuments typically being used to celebrate or recall a certain achievement or major historic event, while memorials are used to publically share a loss. Both craft a narrative history through their construction, which is then shared with others and continues to develop and alter over time. For instance, the erection of Civil War monuments, marking the victories and heroes of the failed Confederacy in the southern United States, during the Jim Crow era of segregation, sparked protests in the Twenty-First century. People called for their removal, pointing out the (white-washed) Romanticisation of racism in American history at the heart of such commemorations. These monuments not only frame history but shape public space through the presentation of skewed and selective memories, promoting racist ideologies that highlight particular histories over others—in a mediation of the past through the present, and towards the future. The point I am attempting to address here is not whether it is right or wrong to remove these monuments, but to highlight the poignancy certain works of public art have in forming understandings of history as externalised memories, and like all narratives, are in process, unfinished, and always capable of refinement to incorporate those who have been silenced through their telling.Other forms of commemoration are meant to function as reminders of events in order to avoid their recurrence. Throughout Germany, little golden bricks can be found in the sidewalks. Each Stolperstein, or “Stumbling stone,” contains the name of a victim of the Nazi regime’s Holocaust. Situated discreetly on the ground, in isolation, these small brass markers identify a particular individual. Collectively these bricks form an incomplete network. The degree of trauma faced by these victims exceeds comprehension, with the decentralised memorial offering a strong formal diffraction of their experiences. The network form of the Stolpersteine is analogous to the packet switching network of the Internet; where grief is not consolidated, but dispersed in a ubiquitous fashion through our surroundings.

My father introduced me to photography when I was just a teenager. He gave me his Nikon 35 mm camera, instructing me on how to adjust the shutter speed, aperture, and interpret the light meter readings. He lent me a tripod that I used to take pictures of flowers in our garden. After these negatives were developed, he selected a few photographs that he then enlarged and framed, hanging them in our house. Before this, I never thought of myself as an artist or capable of creative activity. However, that is where I began what became a life-long journey into the arts and ultimately, my career. After his death, I found myself in our basement, digging through photographs. He was not in many of them, as he tended to be the one behind the camera. One is an outtake from some photographs my dad took of mom when she was pregnant with me. The mix of light rays from the sun flare with the flowers obscure her features, but I find the slippage of her pregnant body into abstraction to be breath-taking. This photograph was mixed in with various albums photographs he had taken over the years; glances into nature that attempt to stabilise the beautiful happenings that surround us. I found his laptop and scrolled through his more recent images. I noticed that his technique has matured over the years. He has gone from more representative compositions to taking more creative risks through abstract intersections of light. I realised that the beginnings of this style were already present almost forty years ago in that photograph of my mother.

As I spent time in upstate New York with family, I found myself turning to the camera. I continue to take solace behind the lens as I photograph the minor details around me. These photographs are images I would have liked to show my dad as I try to replicate his style of shooting. I aim to capture the world through his lens using an imperfect gesture of mimesis. I have been posting these images on Instagram, though I do not reveal their significance, leaving them open to interpretation. Those close to me and my father recognise, however, that I am creating my own memorial on social media for him.

“The magic of an image is in how it arrests the rules of time, interrupting decay, refuting death’s obliteration. In each of these images is a testament to what death cannot consume, a gesture against annihilation.” Nathan Jurgenson, The Social Photo: On Photography and Social Media.

José van Dijck describes how photographs shot on a phone can be compared to postcards, where images with few words attached serve as a means of connecting ourselves to others. The experience of scrolling through these images on social media platforms like Instagram is ephemeral. However, social media images do not just disappear. They remain stored on massive databases that become distributed photographic networks. The boxes of photographs in the basement are now dispersed through binary code, into our shared web of communications. Media theorist and curator Laura U. Marks points out how in digital art “a point can unfold to reveal an entire universe.” Within each digital image on social media that we perceive, there is information in the form of code that serves as an interface to the infinite. As such, we are all entangled through our images—our externalised memories and their associated emotions.Massive emotions such as grief, especially grief emerging from trauma, can be challenging to narrate, with trauma, as art theorist Jill Bennett indicates, being “classically defined as beyond the scope of language and representation.” Thus, artworks that emerge from such loss cannot be merely communicated, but are shared through affective transactions, engaging others with these experiences without necessarily disclosing them. Grief is shared through systems of packet switching as memories (and at times data) move from node to node, intertwining us in a web of shared affect and emotion, whether through stone monuments, brass Stolpersteine, or digital photographs.

Thank you for sharing this weight with me.

Experiencing Material Traces of Frances Mezzetti’s Between and Beyond (2008)

by Kate Antosik Parsons

Frances Mezzetti, Between and Beyond, Out of Site, Clontarf Promenade, November 2008.

A description of the performance from Open Spaces brochure published by Dublin City Council reads:

Frances Mezzetti – Between and Beyond. 2.30-3.30pm
Nestled in the trees along the beginning of the walkway the artist will create a portrait based on her interactions with the local nursing home.[1]

I was there that cold, rainy day on the 8th November 2008, where I witnessed several performances from Out of Site, the public outdoor exhibition of performance art curated by Michelle Browne. Out of Site included works by Amanda Coogan, Pauline Cummins, Gareth Kennedy, Alastair MacLennan and Dominic Thorpe, and others sited at different locations along the Clontarf Promenade and the walkway end of Bull Island. Intending to spend the day with the performances, I went first to the Bull Island performances before heading down the promenade, thus inadvertently missing some of the performances sited in the opposite direction. I was surprised when I later learned that one those performances, Frances Mezzetti’s Between and Beyond, was concerned with Rose Parsons (1930-2010), my partner’s elderly great-aunt who at that time was resident in the Clontarf Private Nursing Home.


When I recently met with Mezzetti to discuss her art practice she gave me a bundle of materials relating to Between and Beyond. Included were preliminary sketches of Rose in her 30s and as an ageing woman in her twilight years, a family tree that aimed at understanding Rose’s place within a large family, and detailed notes relating the different journeys Rose made around Ireland and abroad. As part of the research process Mezzetti also recorded an oral history with Rose. From the material traces I learned that Rose had a sense of adventure, and as a member of the Legion of Mary in the 1960s, she travelled to Venezuela where she lived for three years. Mezzetti told me that the local people Rose met were puzzled that she did not have a child. When she explained she was unmarried, they told her that was not important in their culture and that even the local priest had children. I tried to imagine Rose’s shock upon hearing this.


Mezzetti unfolded a large white translucent piece of fabric hemmed at both ends for me to view. I was reminded of a voile curtain panel, the kind often used to let light into a sitting room while still maintaining privacy. It bore a larger than life bust portrait drawn with a felt-tipped black marker of young Rose wearing a cross necklace, indicating the special place that spirituality held in her life. Grasping it in both hands, I held it high, gazing into the eyes of someone unknown to me but so incredibly familiar.

Mezzetti explained this fabric was suspended top and bottom by wire strung between two trees. She described the difficulty of constructing this hanging portrait, and the necessity of pressing the fabric up against a hard surface to provide the resistance enabling her to draw on it. I ran my hands over its surface, visualising the challenges this fabric posed for mark marking and imagined how Mezzetti’s hands touched where I touched. Evading my grasp, its silky texture slipped from between my fingers. Perhaps this material alluded to the elusiveness of memories, so real and yet distant. Mezzetti pointed to Rose’s hair where a faint trace of a word was still visible. In the course of the performance, she inscribed parts of Rose’s biography onto the fabric, and in turn, these composed the cohesive image.


At home I performed gestures of my own as I held Mezzetti’s two sketches of Rose in my hands. I swivelled my head between them, old/young, old/young, repeating the action several times looking at each feature: eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, chin. I did so in the hopes that these encounters with the documentation might enable me to identify shared resemblances between Mezzetti’s portraits of Rose and my children, one of whom nearly shares her birthday and exact name. Though I wasn’t in attendance at the live performance, I attempt to construct an understanding of it based on Mezzetti’s descriptions and the material traces of the performance I encountered, coupled with my recollection of the cold air on the seafront that day. Remarkably, Rose, at 79 years of age, was present that day to observe the performance. What was she thinking as she stood there on that windswept promenade watching an image of her youthful face unfold in front of her? Did it harken back to that exciting time when her travels took her overseas to faraway places? Did people watching the performance recognise the past and present faces of Rose?

When I showed some family members Mezzetti’s sketches and explain that Rose was present at the performance, they were fascinated. One recalled Rose returning from Venezuela and speaking only Spanish. Another remarked that Rose was a reserved person and marveled at the artist’s skill in establishing a trust with Rose. Recalling Mezzetti’s previous work as a nurse and midwife, I consider how her deep listening techniques and quiet confidence enable her to make meaningful connections with people. Examining the documentation and contemplating the performance eleven years after it took place, Between and Beyond raises several points of interest. I think of knowing about someone but not knowing them. I consider ideas about the meaning of individual memories in the context of wider familial histories and how performance art facilitates engagement with these histories. Though Rose’s life history does not belong to me or Mezzetti, the history attached to this specific performance finds new life in the present through our mutual engagement with it. When entrusting me with the performance documentation, Mezzetti extended her performance, enabling it to move between and beyond different layers of histories and their absences. In turn, this remembering and retelling of the performance suggested ways in which it is possible to enact new relationships to past performances.


FIX19 Review: Sharing Responsibility

by Emma Brennan

This year saw the thirteenth edition of the prolific FIX festival. Established by Catalyst Arts in 1994, for twenty-five years, FIX has consistently delivered an innovative programme of local and international live, sonic and performance artists to the city of Belfast. It is internationally renowned as one of Europe’s longest running live art festivals. Book-ended between Culture Night and October’s late Night Art, this year saw more than 20 artists participate over the two weeks in multiple venues across the city. Much like it’s parent, Catalyst Arts, FIX boasts an undeniable reputation for showing iconic, thought provoking work and is a vital outlet for contemporary art practices in Northern Ireland.

The legacy of this festival is tightly sewn into the cultural fabric of the city of Belfast, and hence was one of the biggest draws for me to pursue a Directorship at Catalyst Arts. Needless to say, the opportunity to then project manage such a beast was both an exciting and intimidating prospect. The very definition of being a festival posed an endless index of possibilities for what FIX19 could become and an equally long list of anxieties for me as an emerging curator.

In our initial conversation about performing at this year’s FIX19, BBeyond member and no stranger to the festival itself, Brian Patterson, offered me a formula for approaching live art events which helped ease this anxiety. An equation of sorts that I frequently meditated on in the overwhelming moments of the festival, helping to keep my head above water.

The gospel according to Brian:

First there is the individual: The you, I, singular, artist, curator, maker…etc

Then there is the group: The collaboration or collective, an organisation…etc

Finally there is the broader: The abstract, a concept or a movement, the social, political, or ideological…etc

These three elements arose throughout the festival in all the individuals involved, organisations like Catalyst and BBeyond, featured themes of Transnationalism and works that varied in content and concept. The performances at this years FIX19 were equally sensitive to their individual avenues of thought and challenged everything from horticulture to institutional abuse. From French artist’s Ouazzani & Carrier exploration of Belfast through the foraging, producing and hosting of their tea infusions to Dominic Thorpe’s harrowing durational performance, during which he self-suffocated with the application of layers upon layers of petroleum jelly, FIX19 proved Patterson’s theorem throughout.


Brian’s live art hack also reminded me throughout the festival that the overall outcome was not solely my responsibility or achievement. FIX was bigger than me or Catalyst and any other singular element. In actuality, the undeniable success of FIX came from all of these factors working together towards a common goal.

Artists, levelling from emerging to established, travelled from all over the world to not only perform at FIX but also to help one another install work, support each other, act as viewers and bestow their great knowledge as facilitators. The beautiful and rewarding moments of the whole experience came from watching these strangers join together to share spaces, conversations, food, pints, laughter, infusions and much more.

My very own introduction to performance art, Dominic Thorpe, not only did me the great honour of accepting an invitation to perform at FIX19 but also spent the evening before his own performance standing in the lashings of rain to support Bbeyond’s work; carrying things, encouraging others and at one point even holding an umbrella above me so I could document their work. The kind acts of this gentle man are just one example of the considerate and generous work that was happening outside of the contracted work that define FIX19 for me.


‘’Consider stillness as empty time, into which a performance can be poured’’ – Anthony Howell

The beginnings of the festival felt a lot like this, a stillness. An eerie calm before the chaos reigned. A run of blank days over a two week period into which an array of things had to be poured. In the months leading up to and during  FIX19 an abundance of hard work, consideration, patience and what can only be identified as love were committedly donated by each participating artist, fellow project manager Anne Mager, myself, the Catalyst Board, volunteers, viewers and everyone in between.

To sum it up in its entirety would be a futile attempt and not one I will make for your sake and for mine. Not alone because of the sheer volume of the festival but also because of the very essence of performance art and the liveness of it. However I can say that standing now, on the other side of it, I feel I have received a great gift in my experience with it all. For this I have to give my sincerest gratitude to the entire FIX family, for your kind generosity and unwavering compassion throughout the festival. Upon reflection I am met with beautiful, emotional memories that will help define my time at Catalyst Arts and I hope you have all been equally rewarded in your experience with us.


FIX19 took place between September 20th and October 3rd 2019.

Participating artists were (in order of appearance): Brennagh Meehan, Lee Hamill, Aoife O’Connor, Evamaria Schaller, BBeyond, Ouazzani & Carrier, Dominic Thorpe, Bettina Wenzel, Amanda Coogan, Rory Mullen.

Member’s Screening Artists: Andrea Piras Pinna, Áine Phillips, C J Woods, Eleni Kolliopoulou, John D’Arcy, Kate McElroy, Katharine May, Marianne Dupain, Nenad Bogdanovic, Nollaig Molloy, Rachel Macmanus, Sally O’Dowd, Sarah Lundy, Tadhg Ó Cuirrín, Uri Kloss, Valerie Driscoll, Vasiliki Stasinaki.

Curators: Emma Brennan, Anne Mager

Catalyst Board at the time: Emma Brennan, Leah Corbett, Edy Fung, Peter Glasgow, Anne Mager, Liam McCartan, Thomas Wells.

Photographer: Jordan Hutchings

For information on the festival:





















































































Reflections on Sarah Risebourough’s work at Somatic Distortion, Leitrim Sculpture Centre.

by Fergus Byrne

“Somatic Distortion” took place on Oct 4th and 5th at the Leitrim sculpture centre. The event was curated by Sandra Corrigan Breathnach and featured live performance, videos and photography of past performance art.

Sarah Riseborough’s drawing/sculptural performance took place in the front space of the gallery and was visible from the street. A  roll of white paper hung from the wall and extended toward the floor where it was taped down. With considerable slack hanging free Riseborough was able to manipulate the paper as she drew upon it. Using pastels she inscribed the sheet both front and back in tandem with her movement with the paper.

Sarah Riseborough Photography Sandra Corrigan Breathnach (5).JPG
Image by Sandra Corrigan Breathnach

As this proceeded she elevated certain sections by attaching them with fishing line to the window frame. An evolving architecture commenced in which she operated, sometimes concealed and at others revealed by the paper. Certain moments saw her marking the back of the paper  by  leaning into it: her arm and later her face became surfaces for this frottage. This reduction of the space between the page and herself raised a haptic space; a meeting of skin and paper surfaces. The density of marks contrasted with  previous lines inscribed by broad sweeps and extensions of her body. Extended movements  would return in the form of a knife with which she cut the paper to open apertures in the form. One viewer commented on the circling cut of the stanley blade that emerged like a shark’s fin above the surface.

The audience could come and go over the course of perhaps three hours. At one point  I returned  to see a Gestalt leap in the layers and planes of the form. No longer was  there a surface of front and back but a three dimensional sculpture occupied the floor. This shift into three dimensions reminded me of André Lepecki’s writing  on Trisha Brown’s It’s a draw/Live Feed. 1

At this point I must tangent briefly to outline Lepecki’s writing. It’s a Draw/ Live Feed was  a series of drawings on charcoal by dancer Trisha Brown which were performed on the floor.  Lepecki writes of the distinctive territories of horizontal and vertical space in the context of Benjamin’s horizontal as the site of ‘graphic marking, of writing’ as opposed to the vertical as the plane ‘of painting, of representation’.  Lepecki’s basic argument is that Brown’s relation to the horizontal subverts this dichotomy and particularly the horizontal as a site of ‘signing, or with writing’2.  Through the abstract mark making of her dance, (not all of which leaves its trace on the page) Brown confounds Benjamin’s  horizontal plane of logos.  However ultimately  the work is hung on the wall to allow a second  drawing to be made. It is also hung on the wall when displayed in museums3. This culmination does in some ways unravel  Lepecki’s arguement as the artist’s motivation diverges from his theory.  It is in the three dimensional form of Riseborough’s drawing in Leitrim  that I see a sequel to  Lepecki’s discussion in material form.

Riseborough’s activity was process based and more functional than  dance movement: ‘My body made an environment where it felt it could leave a trace of itself. That’s the understanding I have, that there was a preparation or making of a space’.4

 Image by Sarah Riseborough

She is extending the drawing surface into three dimensions through the act of folding and cutting which proceeded from initial mark making. Volume thus superseded surface.   The final  spiraling shape gave a sense of lines of motion  in space. The light weight of the paper retained the ephemeral quality of movement in space.  Riseborough’s kinesphere in which she had operated was made manifest.  By taking the material into three dimensions the drawing escaped the limitations of both the horizontal and the vertical be they practical or philosophical as proposed by Lepecki.  As mentioned above Brown’s dance was not entirely driven by mark making. Movements of the arms and upper body  often left no mark on the ground surface so much of the dance’s trace was elusive.  Riseborough on the other hand  left an object as clear evidence of movement in space without in fact having danced its creation.



1          Lepecki ‘Toppling Dance: the making of space in Trisha Brown and La Ribot’. Exhausting Dance, performance and the politics of movement, 2006. p68.

2          Ibid. p 70.

3          I saw one of these works in Madrid some years ago where it was displayed upon  a wall. The performance of which Lepecki writes was relayed by live feed to a remote audience via a vertical screen when performed at  the Whitney museum.

4          Correspondence with artist.


Celina Muldoon SIRENS part III

by Kate Antosik-Parsons

A giant black mountain of cardboard and tape jutted from the floor of the Kevin Kavanagh Gallery. Its angular edges and height like the basalt columns of the Giant’s Causeway. Two silver figures with flat pointed heads, their legs covered with painted ‘evil’ eyes brandished spears and stood guard at the mountain’s base. A bulbous, black cyclops rose from atop the mountain, swaying from side to side. A line of figures moved through the gallery out onto the street while a speaker pumped loud music that echoed off the surrounding buildings. Viewers poured onto the street to observe the performance.


In the middle of Chancery Lane, a tall figure with a crescent moon on its head, its body wrapped in black tape, fluorescent yellow and reflective strips, like those from high visibility vests, held two checkered flags aloft. Two rally car creatures took their position at the starting line and the tall figure blew a horn loudly. Racing off down the street, the creatures turned, crossed paths and returned to the start line at speed. They slowed at the top of the street and rejoined the group of rally cars circling excitedly. Their merriment and the buzz they created as they undulated side to side mirrored rhythms of the lively electronic music. Referencing the ancient Fomorians, a monstrous, mythological sea-faring race said to have inhabited remote parts of the island, these rally cars conveyed a sense of light-hearted play. Later when their movements slowed mimicking the change in the tempo of the music, their demeanor became rather morose. Further up the street, pedestrians stopped and stared, and patrons emerged from a nearby restaurant to observe the rumpus. Their collective curiosity an evident mixture of confusion and wonderment.


The striking figure of Morrigan, the phantom queen, dressed in an elaborate costume of black bin bags and silver duct tape seemingly materialised from inside the gallery. Her bird-like headdress indicated a connection to Badb, the crow who foretells victory or defeat in battle. The upper and lower part of her face split in half, with black and white paint, signified dark and light; death and life. Her presence was a force to be reckoned with. She moved her enormous wings, pinning a viewer against the gallery window. Moving ever so slowly, drawing closer until they were cheek to cheek, communication appeared to pass between them, though it was unclear what, if anything, was verbalised. Morrigan moved from one person to the next, her body leaving a series of small traces of black paint from where she has pressed herself against them. Those not prepared for such intense bodily engagement actively sought to remove themselves from her path.


Though Chancery Lane was blocked off to car traffic, a car managed to drive around the corner making its way to the end of the performance space before coming to a halt. Moving to the centre of the road, Morrigan maintained her regal bearing and drew herself to full height to stare them down. The driver was perplexed but didn’t move. The performance became an impromptu game of chicken, which echoed the sometimes bravado antics of street racing. We watched with interest; our anticipation palpable. Morrigan outstretched her wings in all their glory, black plastic feathers rippling in a sudden blast of the wind that swirled down the street. With this action, the driver reversed in the opposite direction, though not before snapping a quick picture on their phone.

I remained still when Morrigan approached me. When we stood toe to toe with our faces were mere inches apart, I was surprised to see a salty, tear running its way down her face. The vulnerability and intimacy of it made me feel uncertain. Meeting her eyes, I found myself blinking several times to briefly interrupt our connection because the intensity was overwhelming but I found myself unable to turn away. I gave a slight smile, hoping the empathy I felt translated to my eyes. As she moved slowly past me, our connection dissolved back into the rhythms of the performance. Live performance can produce these intense moments of interconnection and the uncertainty that accompanies one’s response to them serves to produce meaningful encounters. SIRENS part III coupled these bodily encounters with a DIY aesthetic carried throughout the performance- found in the construction of the mountain, the elaborate costumes and even the wheeled speaker that propped open the gallery door. In doing so, the performance aimed to open up a space for exploring the current conditions of young people in rural Donegal by drawing connections between the fringe culture of rally car racing and Celtic mythology as a way of thinking through past and present Ireland.

SIRENS part III was presented at the Kevin Kavanagh Gallery 22 to 31 August 2019, with a live performance on 22 August.

Dr Kate Antosik-Parsons is an art historian who writes about Irish time-based art, gender and sexuality. She is a researcher at NCAD for the project ‘Performance art in Ireland in the 1990s’ as part of L’Internationale’s ‘Our Many Europes’.

The cross-section of contemporary dance and performance art

In conversation with Oran Leong concerning POST-DANCE Dublin.

Coming off the heels of Post-Dance, a performance and lecture researched and commissioned by Sara Muthi at the Project Arts Centre on August 15th – curator Sara Muthi sits down with dance artist Oran Leong to reflect on the cross-section of contemporary dance and performance art in Dublin following his Post-Dance performance commission.

Oran Leong Post-Dance at Project Arts Centre, Dublin. Aug 2019. Photography by Kristian Mantalvanos.


SM: What is your take on contemporary dance in terms of the wider visual arts context? Where are those lines drawn for you?

OL: Contemporary dance is really broad. It’s everything from stage production, to outdoor performances, to performances in a gallery – but such creations are not obviously called performance art by their dance-makers. I think with anything that is contemporary the lines are always blurred – but there are still going to be specific parameters which you create and demonstrate for a cohesive work. If there wasn’t, there would be a mish-mash of anything and everything goes. That’s where I appreciate people’s frustration at contemporary art. People like to know what they see as it helps in their understanding. But where can one begin to understand when perhaps his or her first conscious engagement with art is the accumulation of many styles and philosophies?

SM: Do you think there’s enough of cross-pollination happening between dance artists and visual artists?

OL: I think even from Post-Dance being in Dublin that’s an example of it happening in a very strong sense, there’s always a merging, always a blend. Even in contemporary dance there are collaborations happening all the time with visual artists or what happened between Aoife Kavanagh (composer) and myself. There can always be more cross-pollination. If there wasn’t we wouldn’t still be growing and developing, and finding new things to make interesting, innovative art.

SM: Do you think there’s a purpose of cross-pollinating contemporary dance and visual art? It is also true that not everything needs to overlap. As far as I know there’s no one talking about the cross-pollination between ceramics and performance art, for example. Is there a more productive element in considering dance and visual arts?

OL: People can have the same idea about something but a painter would absolutely approach it from a different place to what I would as a mover. We’re still answering the same question – or attempting to discover the root to a question or concept and produce two very different things.

SM: So you’re saying cross-pollinating media gives us new tools to explore concepts?

OL: Yes, but really, it’s also nice to be able to communicate with someone that isn’t always talking about dance! If I’m saying something dancy to a visual artist and they’re seeing it fresh for the first time – that interaction can stimulate a different pathway in the brain and enable it to create something that’s new.

SM: So that’s where the value is injected for you – in different vocabularies of production.

OL: Exactly. There’s also a monetary purpose.  I’ve found funding bodies often encourage and look for collaboration in working productively with people from other disciplines.

SM: To bring this into Post-Dance. You as a dancer, since you’ve been more aware of this new terminology, what tools does that give you in developing your practice?

OL: I thought you were going to ask that and in a regular interview I’d be very prepared with bullet points. However, in the essence of Post-Dance I’m just going to speak off the cuff. I think Post-Dance is accepting the now of whatever that is – without the influence or stereotype or bias of other dance styles or other voices coming in and inhibiting what you bring to the floor. When I was asked to make work previously – I thought: what is the aesthetic of the choreographer who is asking this of me? And how do I comply to that aesthetic? You, being a curator – I felt there was less of an expectation. Also, Post-Dance was quite freeing to be able to accept whatever it was and say that this is true once I feel it’s authentic and real. So initially I was thinking Post-Dance… Post-Modernism? And I was trying to turn away from post-modern ideas in my mind’s eye and being cautious not to be too post-modern-ish. Almost immediately I back-peddled on that because this is something else. Post-modernism is infusing with what I am doing right now to not be post-modern, but if it happens that it comes off as such those are my own gremlins that I have to deal with – not what Post-Dance is: because Post-Dance is a vessel that you can fill. And there might be a combination of things that are very performance art, very post-modern, very balletic, whatever – throw in a bag of chips if you want. That became quite liberating and enabled me to move without inhibition. That has actually been a problem of mine as an artist. To then say, this is a canvas, and whatever you draw on this is going to be right. There is no right or wrong. Even as a creative task, it allowed me to find things I don’t think I could have found any other way had I been doing it in a dance setting. Since that time that we created the Post-Dance commission I’m looking at movement differently.

SM: Really?

OL: Absolutely. I’m challenging my own doubts of “why can’t I do this? Cause in Post-Dance I’d be allowed to do this”. It’s helped me to grow as a dance artist but also as a mover – someone who does things with time and space.

SM: That’s very satisfying for a curator to hear. Lastly, now that you’ve been integrated into concepts of Post-Dance and performance art, do you think you’ll have those frames of reference continue?

OL: I think so – I definitely draw on all my previous experiences.

SM: Do you think contemporary dancers would benefit to being introduced to performance art practices?

OL: I think it depends on the stage of the dancer – they need to have a thirst for it. There’s no point in putting something on them that they don’t want. They might not have exhausted everything within dance for them to move into performance art. They might become confused in their own artistic voice of what is it that they want to say. If a dancer is curious about an expression outside of dance, I think performance art is a good place to start. It’s not so far removed from the physicality of what it is dancers already do. Any experience can be utilised or rejected. In my case it’s something that I’ve definitely benefited from as an artist and human being.

Post-dance is the second performance event researched and developed by Sara Muthi. As opposed to publishing text as the result of her research Sara prefers to forefront the questions, shortcomings and potential surrounding live-art practices in the Ireland through performance and open dialogue. By way of commissioning live-art in collaboration with visual artists, dancers and musicians in conjunction with institutions and venues across Dublin, Sara aims to re-examine the often preconceived ontology surrounding performance practice. With one eye on the developments of performance practices internationally, particularly in Europe, it is through vigorous research, collaboration and an element of education that Sara develops her research based events.

POST-DANCE was researched and curated by Sara Muthi, performed by Oran Leong, composition by Aoife Kavanagh followed by a lecture by Amanda Øiestad Nilsen at the Project Arts Centre, Dublin on August 15th. Photography and videography by Kristian Mantalvanos.


Sandra Johnston – Wait it Out at Project Arts Centre

by Fergus Byrne

Johnston presents a formally rigorous show with  video works and text, the narratives of which  are in dialogue with each other.

The central piece, ‘That Apart’, is installed in a timber frame corridor. Johnston’s collaborator Richard Ashrowan filmed her performing to camera in the  gallery space.  Both have edited the same footage to produce this two screen work.


Sandra Johnston/Richard Ashrowan, That Apart, two-channel HD video projection, 2019 (installation view ‘Wait it Out’, Project Arts Centre, Dublin )
Camera: Richard Ashrowan; Editing: Sandra Johnston and Richard Ashrowan
Courtesy the artists
Photo: Ros Kavanagh. Photo courtesy: Project Arts Centre

A text written by Johnston on the gallery wall gives  a perspective  from which to view and hear the show.  As I read it  I was hearing the percussive sound track of Ashrowan’s edit, the sounds of which assume greater violence in relation to the accounts of bombings and paramilitary activites.  These interspersed with related sensory perceptions convey the embodied experience of violence.

In the film Johnston engages physically with objects – a brick, a stack of bowls, army boots. Her improvisation exceeds their prescribed use.   Drumsticks are clutched in the hand and rattled on the concrete floor. She wears a pair of Northern Ireland issue  British Army boots. The image of her standing still, her black clothes matching the boots, is heavily grounded in the floor where the thick soled boots… stamp and fall back against the wall, stamp, fall back against the wall. Back bounce off wall. Boots on hands catch her as outstretched  arms fall against the wall. This is the fast editing of  Ashrowan’s video, intercut  with cracking drumsticks, and ceramic bowls circling and scraping upon each other. The martial energy of the objects is conveyed in Ashrowan’s edit while  Johnston’s conveys more the pace of her actions and extended periods of waiting out characteristic of her performance.

A smaller blacked out space contains TV footage of a march by the Peace People in London in 1976 and documentation of a performance by  Johnston in Belfast from 2000.  This latter video is overdubbed with an interview with Mairead Maguire, founder of the Peace People, conducted by Johnston in 2003. Maguire describes her aversion to  ‘putting up monuments’ that are ‘locking people into the tragedy of what we’ve all suffered’. This viewpoint is  countered by the show’s return to the past in the form of objects and text that recall violence.  This oscillation is reflective of the persistent tension in Northern Ireland  despite a publicly lauded Peace Process. The wall text and an open discussion on the opening night both drew attention to smouldering aggressions in Northern Ireland.

Johnston’s collaboration with Ashrowan presents a fruitful dialogue whereby the film mediates performance actions usually made to a live audience. The process has produced a very strong film that does not reduce the intensity of Johnston’s actions. Ashrowan’s 16mm film of  Johnston in haptic dialogue with a tree resonates with a section of Maguire’s interview in which she cites the appreciation of natural beauty as  a counterpoint to living with trauma.   There are constant moments where the works inform each other sometimes through the smallest details.  This dialogue creates a tension wherby moments of balance and of light yield to rupture.   The proximity of these opposing states is well described when Johnston writes of the void left by an explosion – ‘Perhaps it is perverse to say it but I see here in its chaotic heart a piercing beauty, as if the air has become chrystal, its momentous darkness haemorrhaging with light’.


Photo Ros Kavanagh
Sandra Johnston, Overprint, Alternating two-channel video projection, colour, sound, 2019 (installation view)
Editing: Sandra Johnston
Courtesy the artist
News footage courtesy: UTV archive / PRONI (The Public Record Office of Northern Ireland)
Photo: Ros Kavanagh. Photo courtesy: Project Arts Centre.

Sandra Johnston: ‘Wait it Out’, Project Arts Centre, Dublin, 2019 (installation view with That Apart and poster text)
Photo: Ros Kavanagh. Photo courtesy: Project Arts Centre.
Commissioned and produced by Project Arts Centre, Dublin with support from the Irish Museum of Modern Art Production Residency and Arts Department, Northumbria University, Newcastle Upon Tyne, UK.

Sandra Johnston’s exhibition Wait it Out runs from 29 August until 19 October at the Project Arts Centre in Dublin.