Alone, Together

Text commissioned by LIFT Festival, 2014. 

Here we are, alone. We crowd on to buses and trains. We take pigeon steps in the half-light of the morning, the dim glow of dusk, the fluorescent haze of the Underground. Bags and elbows push into our space. We stand nose to neck, inches apart, ears plugged with plastic beads, breathing on each other’s cheeks, pretending not to notice.

Read the full text here

15 Minutes with ....

radio mic

A podcast recorded with Maddy Costa for the Live Art Development Agency’s 15th Anniversary celebrations.  LADA says:

Podcast Series  “15 Minutes With…”
15 Minutes With…” is a series of short dialogues with some of the exceptional artists and thinkers that LADA has had the pleasure of working with over the last 15 years. For the second “15 Minutes With…”, writers Maddy Costa and Mary Paterson discuss the relationship between critical writing and Live Art.

CREATING THE LOCAL SPACE The Saison Poetry Library

What impact does the environment have on the act of creation?

"Contemplate the concept of local with our current exhibition artist Ntiense Eno Amooquaye, Sam Jones from Intoart, writer Mary Paterson, poet Tom Chivers and Poetry Librarian Chris McCabe."

Free, but space is limited. To book, please

Saison Poetry Library at Royal Festival Hall

More info here

Part of Ntiense Eno Amooquaye’s exhibition Hera Master Come Down 4th March – 13th April 2014

NOTA Chapter 1 launch at I’m with you: INDEX

28 February, 7.30 - 11.00

]performance s p a c e [
Swan Wharf, 60 Dace Road E3 2NQ

Please join Open Dialogues for I’m with you: INDEX, an evening of performances, videos and texts that focus overtly on indexing, notation and script. 

Here, Open Dialogues will be launching Chapter 1 of NOTA, a collection of notes made inside live performances. NOTA CHAPTER 1 will be assembled and launched on the night alongside Emergency Index Vol. 2, a bible of performance art activity. 

Artists on the night include:

]performance s p a c e[, Brian Lobel, Season Butler, Warren Garland + Josh Baum, Yoko Ishiguro, Eirini Kartsaki, Open Dialogues, Justin Hunt + Johanna Linsley, Daniel Oliver 



NOTA: NOT, NOTES, NOTER (NOTA), NOT/A, is a research framework produced by Open Dialogues that presses on the time, place and quality of notes in relation to performance. Chapter 1 is the first of ten publications to accompany the work.  It is a collection of time-stamped documents - handwritten notes, absent-minded doodles and choreographic diagrams - that were NOTAted in relation to SHOWTiME performance festival (Presented by Present Attempt at Rich Mix, London 2012), and includes a critical text by Rachel Lois and Mary of Open Dialogues on the subject of notes as the future of performance remains.

Chapter 1 will be assembled live on the evening of the launch by Rachel Lois and Mary, bound by hand and finished with a unique time-stamp. No two publications are the same.

Available for the special launch price of £4.


This is a bible of performance art activity. And if you are, like I am, a believer in performance art and the value of this ephemeral art activity to change the hearts and minds and consciousness of people, then you need to have this bible in your life. The end. —Martha Wilson 

We’ve been seeing performance art materialize around us, but without feeling that there was a context for such ideas. Artists have been doing such pieces for a long time without much recognition that in fact their ideas are related. Now, with Emergency INDEX, we get the sense of a magical secret shared among many artists. Emergency INDEX is a profoundly important publication. It guides us to a new place. —Robert Ashley 

Emergency Index:

I’m with you:

Open Dialogues:

Do you know?

Commissioned to accompany Noemi Lakmaier’s ‘Dance and the Homemade Commission’ Sharing, 20th Feb 2014

Do you know the true weight of your body?  If you breathed all the air out of your lungs, would you float or would you sink?  What would happen to your exhaled breath?  Would the room be thick with it?  Would I be able to feel it, touch it, pat it with the back of my hand, draw a tight rubber knot around it, carve a shape with it in the air? 

Do you have a dancer’s body, or a viewer’s body?  Which is the more punishing bodily discipline: to rehearse in a space full of anticipation, practicing a method for your body to be seen, or to wait in silence on a wooden bench, while other people draw their bodies through the air?  To prepare yourself in a space inscribed with the traces of looking, or to follow other people’s footsteps along a narrow corridor, across a red carpet, knowing only that you must wait and see?

Is it you moving, or is it your body?  Is your mind consumed by the physical task, or is your mind making decisions about what to do?  How long must you rest after you have climbed the stairs to get to this space?  How do you know you will have the energy to go back down again? 

If I asked you to dance right now, alone or accompanied, with music or to no sound at all, except for the dull thud, like a heartbeat, of your weight as it makes contact with the hard floor – what would you do?  Would you think my request was an invitation or a punishment?  Would you dance solo, or would you bring another body with you?  Whose body would you bring?  

When you walk onto the dance floor, who is looking? Does it matter? Do you look before you make a step?  Do you know where your feet have been? Would you look if I was dancing?  Is your exhaled breath lighter or heavier, than you are?  Does it make you chase after it?  Does it make you dance?

Do you feel a bodily empathy with dancers? Do you feel your arms rising and falling with theirs, your breath quickening, a pool of sweat starting to gather at the nape of your neck?  Do you feel the weight of another body on your shoulders when dancers collapse, limp and tired, in the shadow of the stage? 

Do you know the true movements of your body?  Do you watch your body move when nobody else is looking?  Do you watch it when it doesn’t know you can see?  Do you think watching is the best way to understand a body?  Do you like to watch other people’s bodies, even if they are different to yours?

Do you know what it feels like to carry your body up two flights of stairs? 

Which part of you is the most weightless?  Whose bodies have you squashed, intimidated or trampled in order to get here? Which part of you is most like me?

Do you like to watch in order to pretend, for a moment, that you are weightless, bodiless, empty and somehow connected, if only for the fragile duration of the breath of the dance, to other minds and other non-bodies watching?  Do you watch in order to sit in darkness until the itch on the back of your knee has receded and the dull pain in your finger has stopped pulsing, and the fact that you can’t get up the stairs, these days, without losing your breath – until this fact and others like it has gently slipped from your mind?

Or do you watch in order to feel the weight of your breath leave your lungs and find its way back again, to recognise the freedom in someone else’s limbs, their tight skin, their personal fluency?

Do you know what you are waiting for? Do you know what you expect to see?  Do you watch your step? Would you dance if I was looking?

The Live Art Almanac, Volume 3

The Live Art Almanac, Volume 3 has just been published by Oberon Books.  It includes two texts by me: a transcription of the first performance of #dawnchorus (October 2011); and a dialogue for SPILL Stings with Theron Schmidt (April 2011)

Eds. Lois Keidan and Aaron Wright // ISBN: 978-1-84943-396-9 //Live Art Development Agency and Oberon Books, 2013. paperback, 340 pages, 19cm x 24.6 cm

Buy on Unbound

The Live Art Almanac Volume 3 is a collection of ‘found’ writings about and around Live Art that were originally published, shared, sent, spread and read between January 2010 and December 2011. Selected from an open call for submissions and produced with a network of international partners, Volume 3 reflects the dynamic, international contexts in which Live Art and radical performance-based practices are taking place and the many ways they are being written about.

Volume 3 features more traditional forms of writing such as newspaper reviews, journal articles, catalogue essays and lecture texts as well as new platforms for critical discourses like blogs, tweets and other emergent online media, to reflect the huge diversity of work and the seismic shifts that have happened in Live Art over the last few years, particularly the unprecedented institutional embrace of performance and the rise and rise of activist practices.

The publication is grouped into seven loosely themed sections: Performance and the Institution; The Presence of Performance in Pop Culture and New Media; Performance, Activism and Public Protest; Taste, Trash and Outrageousness; On Stage/Off Stage: Performance and the Theatrical; Festivals, Scenes and Strategies: From the Local to the Global; and obituaries, lectures and miscellaneous writings.

The Live Art Almanac Volume 3 is published by Live Art Development Agency and Oberon Books, and was developed in partnership with Live Art UK, Performance Space 122 (New York, USA), Performance Space (Sydney, Australia), La Pocha Nostra (San Francisco, USA), and Maska (Ljubljana, Slovenia), with additional support from Asia Art Archive (Hong Kong), ArteEast (New York/Middle East) and Ashkal Alwan (Beirut).


Constraint: time.  I am running.  I am late.  I run through the sharp, flat landscape of Blackheath.  Run past rows of neat Georgian terraces.  Run past the old church, pretty as a picture.  Run through iron gates into Greenwich Park.  

Constraint: ramble.  Fertilise. Find new pastures.  New edges.  Like a baby who, on being laid down in his cot for the first time, runs his tiny hand along the cotton bumper, letting his thumb feel the space from bar to bar.

I am running.  My pulse is pounding in my ears.  Sweat is pooling at the nape of my neck.  All of a sudden, the world falls away, and takes my breath with it.  The hill in Greenwich Park drops like a magic trick.  Revealed: London.  


Revealed: an intricate cityscape, a grid of brick and stucco, a maze of shine and steel, a map of human endeavour, centuries old, iced with the distant grandeur of Canary Wharf, glass-eyed monuments to other people’s business.

Constraint: line.  Any line.  Children, on seeing the meridian line, instinctively hop from side to side.  “I’m jumping between different sides of the world!”


Follow a line.  Find a path.  The sharp shadow of a branch.  The wavy crease of damaged Tarmac.  A cold stretch of metal railing.   A broken ridge of Tudor stonework.                         


in this park, there is a fenced off area called ‘The Wilderness.’

 Look up, a window.  Below it, three pipes.  One pipe is blowing a warm mist into the air.  The sky whistles with the sound of sirens, aeroplanes, birdsong. 


 Constraint: time.  The time is passing.  Spend it wisely. 

in this park, there is a warm wooden bench,

The line of a fence, ridged with flaking black paint.

A row of naked trees, trimmed to match the slope of the roof of the National Maritime Museum.

dedicated to a woman who died aged forty-two. 

The line of people’s heads bobbing past on a sunken path. 

The line carved by a plane dipping its wing into the metallic sky. 

The line of a squirrel fretting its way along a branch, running in circles. 

A memory of Russell Square Gardens in the summer time.  I am sitting in a web of shadows cast by an ancient Horse Chestnut.  I am wasting time.  I am surrounded by tourists, students, office workers and people who are lost.  I am watching a fleet of pigeons fly from tree to tree – up to the branches, down to the ground, up to the branches.  A mysterious dance of wings and feathers; full of purpose and with no purpose that I can see. 


Constraint: memory. Don’t try to remember.

   ‘I will miss you,’ say the words engraved on metal plate.  You roll them around on your fingertips.  

Constraint: don’t remember.  I won’t remember everything.  Won’t record the passing of time.  Won’t recall the smell of these seconds; the feeling of finding a two pence piece left to rest on a squeaky gate, stroking it with a thumb, wondering if this means something. 

A memory of a low ceilinged classroom.  I am listening to the teacher narrate the stories of old Kings and Queens.  Henry VIII.  Catherine of Aragon.  Anne Boleyn.  I am warm with the boredom of childhood.  The second hand is stuck between 30 and 31.  

If you had the time, you would grieve for her.  If you had the time you would reach out a hand to the mind behind the dedication. 

The warm wood of the bench and the splinter in my thigh.  The magical revelation of London when the world drops away.  The attentive face of the person I love. 

Somewhere in this park,


Don’t try to remember, don’t try to remember, don’t try to remember, you will remember it away. 

there is a tree, that was stroked by the hands of an ancient queen,

Constraint: movement. Carry on moving.  Look up, a group of people. Are they my people?  No, they are strange people.  One of them says, “It’s all emails and filing.”  One of them is following a map on her phone.  She walks in straight lines, eyes down, pacing indiscriminately; she stops, turns, marches into a tree, offers no apology.

 only a few years before her head was severed from her body.  If you had the time

The orange line of a crane, pointing to the heavens. The silent line of a tourist’s photograph, interrupted by my protruding shadow.

A line of railings staking out the hill, framing the sky in squares, like a series of film stills.  The line of a long finger of ivy, gesturing back to the city. 

Constraint: time.  I am running.

 you might visit, run your thumb along the broken bark,

I am running out.  I am running down the hill.  I am running down a path for runners.  Heavy footed men pound past me, tinny sounds leaking from their ears.  I see their shadows first – long silhouettes predicting their arrival. 

wonder if this means something.  


A text written as part of Rambles with Nature with Sheila Ghelani.

Ramble #3

A purposefully quick ramble, #3 will consist of a series of performed conversations undertaken through, in and alongside a series of hedgerows. These conversations will be undertaken by members of The Working Party: Mary Paterson (producer and writer), Rajni Shah (performance maker), Suzy Shrubb (musician), Tracey Low (producer), Shauna Concannon (academic / digital artist), Tiffany Charrington (live artist), Lucy Cash (interdisciplinary artist) and Sheila.

Consider this: Control Signal

"I am proposing that you find a way to see each of the duets … and that you respond to them in writing."

a response to Control Signal, by Haranczak/ Navarre Performance Projects

Consider this: you are seated in a dark room in front of a dark stage, gazing over the dark shapes of other people’s heads and you are aware, ever so slightly, of a prickly irritation caused by the nasal hum of someone else’s breathing just as you can feel, ever so slightly, your neighbours’ neck muscles tense each time you scratch your pencil across a page in your notebook, and you begin to hear a noise that sounds like air being released from a tyre or pressure escaping from an industrial machine, and this noise is coming from the direction of the stage but you can’t see exactly from where, so you lift your pencil from your notebook and crane your neck up and over the dark shapes of other people’s heads and you hear the crackle of a raincoat behind you, which means that someone else is doing the same, and you look into the dark shadows of the stage until you see her: crouched at the front, a woman in a utilitarian pinafore that is reminiscent of a nurse’s uniform or a manual worker’s uniform or some other type of clothing that denotes a role more than it dresses an individual, and she is expelling her breath through her mouth which is held very wide and very open, just as you might hold your mouth if you were going to expel a loud breath onto a piece of silverware before rubbing it to a shine with a soft cloth, and in between each breath this utilitarian woman takes a brush and sweeps a dusty material onto the floor, a material which, you realise after twisting your neck some more, is sticking to the warm, moist residue of her rhythmic exhalations, and you realise that the noise you heard without knowing where it came from is the sound of this woman using the alchemy of her breath to coax a line of powder, incrementally, across the stage, which is to say, to make something appear from nothing.   

Consider this: you are seated in a dark room in front of a mostly dark stage and you see a woman whose feet are planted in a pair of practical boots while the rest of her body shakes loosely and thoroughly above them: loosely and thoroughly but slowly at first and then faster and more vigorously until you can hear the sounds of her fingers slamming into one another as they vibrate at the ends of her hands, which vibrate at the ends of her wrists, which vibrate at the ends of her arms which vibrate at the ends of her shoulders, her collarbone, her neck, her head, as if she is a marionette puppet being handled carelessly from above or alternatively as if she is some kind of element being driven by a force that emanates from the centre of her body or, as you think later, when you have seen other things happen on this stage (like an elephant dance slowly and sadly in a black and white film and two train carriages roll endlessly on separate tracks and a political prisoner being executed in an American jail, even though none of these things appears in this mostly dark room, which is to say these things appear but they are not materially present) that she shakes like a body that is becoming something else, that as her face dissolves into a blur and her limbs begin to rattle, that this utilitarian woman is being transformed into a different person, vessel, character or machine which is to say, at this moment in time she is all these things simultaneously: the possibility of all the lives she could lead, all the memories she could inhabit, all the people she is not and all the places she will ever be.  

Consider this: you are seated in a mostly dark room and for the third time in a period that you would measure in minutes rather than hours, two women have turned dramatically towards you and other people like you and announced with grand clarity, as if they are rolling the words around in their mouths to discover exactly what they are made of, that they will Now Synchronise Their Hearts, and they trace a finger across each other’s chests as if drawing out the movement of each other’s organs with some kind of elemental force or transference that emanates from the centres of their bodies, and you almost feel your own heart pause for half a beat in order to be synchronised too and you know with the part of your mind that is irritated by the presence of your neighbours’ untidy bodies that the hearts of these two women do not beat in unison following the tracing of their fingers, just as you know that they are not an elephant dancing slowly and sadly in a black and white film and they are not two train carriages rolling endlessly on separate tracks and they are not a woman who died when a plume of smoke left her body and in fact the appearance of all these things on stage is a kind of showmanship, a leap of faith taken voluntarily in the dark like the time the two women turn to us and toast us with their cups of water, the same water that has washed the hands of everyone here, or that has appeared to, which they lift to their mouths as if it is a rare and expensive substance that should only be enjoyed in company, and just as, when the two women trip the moment before the liquid reaches their lips, spilling the water at the feet of the people seated in the front row and thereby letting real water seep dangerously close to real bodies, and not just the appearance of all these things, just as in that moment you know that a picture of conviviality has been shattered, so you are sure, when you watch the hearts synchronise for the third time, that you and the people like you are all pretending, in other words that this is a pretence, the artifice of which we have individually and collectively chosen to ignore in favour of a leap into showmanship, unison and the appearance of something from nothing, which is to say: we are comforted by magic. 

Consider this: not long ago you saw two hands waving, two palms carving through the air as if the air was heavy as smoke and dark as matter, as if the movement of the hands could whip the air into a kind of thickness, and at that time you thought about the shapes of the heads in front of you and the bodies you have left in the foyer and the person sitting behind you who is wearing a coat that crackles when she turns, and at that time you admired the smooth uniformity of the movement across two hands that belonged to two women born half a generation apart, smooth and sure like a slow and accomplished dance, and you could see from the concentration on the faces of the women whose hands were moving that the carving of their palms through the air clasped something grave and important to itself, but it is only now, a period of time later that you would measure in minutes, if you were counting, which you are not, even quietly to yourself in that muted part of your brain that searches for order in things like a body searches for another body in a busy street, it is only now that you have seen other things appear on this stage that you realise this smooth and sure movement that whips the air into a thickness is also a spell that summons the traces of a plume of smoke that has risen from the head of a woman who was strapped to a chair in a room which may or may not have been dark, while a current was administered by hands and bodies that were not her own and passed through her skin, forced through her nerves,  pushed through her synapses, until her limbs convulsed and her fingers slammed loudly into one another and something left: a plume of smoke, just like this one, or in fact exactly this one, which has been summoned here, in a movement which you admired at first for its beauty and accomplishment, and which you feel keenly now because it is elemental and real in a way that is not materially real but really present nonetheless,  a reality whipped into the air with a simple and repeated movement until the room is thick with the memory of a stranger who tickles the hairs on the back of your neck, which is to say: our bodies do not keep us apart. 

“To be lost,” says the woman in a utilitarian pinafore reminiscent of a uniform given to a prisoner or to a school girl or of the bland attire of a member of the chorus, “is to walk in small circles around yourself,” and it is in that moment, when the woman looks up from the line of powder being coaxed across the floor by her loud and invisible breath and turns her eyes to her companion on stage, a woman born half a generation apart who is dressed in the same, drab style which standardises the bodies of these two people in a manner that also draws attention to their expressive and particular faces , that you wonder just how long it is that you have been lost, and you realise just why your body felt so heavy as you watched the two women transform  themselves, recently, into a pair of train carriages that roll endlessly on separate tracks, their eyes turned inwards until their faces became masks reminiscent of the gap between the version of yourself you present to the world and the version of yourself that you long to be understood, and you begin to wonder if you will ever be the kind of person who could vibrate until her fingers shook and whether, if you were that kind of person, you would be shaking out of fear, loneliness, persecution caused by a mistaken belief in the separation of bodies or comfort borne from the potential of change or in other words for something to arise from nothing and return to nothing again like the vibrations of a train carriage that career through the ground for hundreds of miles to rattle the seat of a man who is no longer alive. 

Consider this: there was once an elephant that was made to perform, there was once a woman called Ethel who died for something she may or may not have believed in, there was once a person who went looking in the city, there was once a dark room lined with the shapes of other people’s heads, there was once a body that convulsed when it was struck by lightning, electrical current or elemental force, there was once a pair of hearts that beat in unison, a pair of arms that waved in time, a pair of hands that were washed ceremoniously in front of a group of people just like you, as if they could have been your hands, as if they held the potential to slip into the fingers of all hands like so many pairs of human gloves, but for a moment you must try to forget almost all of these things because you cannot wrap your palm around the great sum of possibilities they entail and you cannot keep staring into the shadows or straining for the answer to a mysterious noise, or else you will never leave this dark room, and more importantly you will forget to remember the expressive and particular details of anything in particular, for example the expressive and particular details of a skeleton of a chair that is levitating on a stage, that is lifted by the taut power of two ropes held by the bodies of two women who are walking in unison in opposite directions, so that the seatless chair twists and turns slowly above the stage like an animal trained to act against its nature in order to meet the expectations of another species unable, unwilling or uneducated to imagine the gulf of understanding between their kind and its kind, an acceptance which, if it had been gained, might coax the two parties towards the recognition of some thing or some things they might have in common, which is to say, might synchronise their hearts. 

#dawnchorus365 – collaborative experiments in text, time and Twitter


Artist collective Seven Art Writers (Mary Paterson, Natasha Vicars, Tamarin Norwood, Sally Labern, Eddy Dreadnought, Tiffany Charrington and Joanna Brown) is pleased to announce the launch of #dawnchorus365 – a yearlong collaborative artwork commissioned by Fermynwoods Contemporary Art. 

Launching on 15 November 2013 at, this online artwork reinterprets the dawn chorus, every day for a year. Each morning #dawnchorus365 will perform a ‘chorus’ of tweets during the dawn hours. The tweets combine with a visual representation of the changing light conditions and the locations of the SAW artists.

#dawnchorus365 reinterprets birdsong at dawn, which is thought to be for defence of territory, redrawing boundaries after the cold night when many birds perish. The work is an artistic intervention into Twitter and its relationship to public space, geography and identity.

The artwork will perform the tweets to fit the precise timings of dawn on each day of the year.  On 15 November 2013 the work will begin with first light at 5.25am and conclude with sunrise at 7.25am; on 15 May 2014 it will play from 1.54am to 5.09am.

In addition to the SAW artists, anyone with a Twitter account can contribute by tweeting to #dawnchorus365. Their tweets will then be accumulated into the online artwork the following dawn. As a result, the project will build an international and virtual performed text that explores the meaning of dawn in the digital environment. 

"The content of the writing will shift with the light; we’ll be making live observations about the time and place where each of us is situated. We will be in different cities and rural locations spread across the UK - Sheffield, New Forest, London, Oxford, Dunfermline and in Fermyn Woods. We will watch, listen and sense the environment out of hours, and craft tweets from our observations and explore language in relation to this. At times we will respond to each other - stealing phrases from each other’s tweets and reworking them live," said Natasha Vicars from SAW. 

The online artwork will use colour, space and text to present the ‘chorus’ of tweets.  Each daily performance will only be visible during the hours of dawn GMT. SAW are collaborating with creative technologists Wired Canvas who will develop a dedicated microsite to present the artwork.

#dawnchorus365 was commissioned by Fermynwoods Contemporary Art as an individual work for their fourth annual online exhibition, this year exploring different ways that we engage with our own social, urban and rural environments. Fermynwoods Contemporary Art is an independent arts organisation that works with artists and audiences to develop a programme that explores and reflects on art and ecology to enhance understanding and engagement with these environments. The project has been funded by Arts Council England. 

#dawnchorus365 will be online from dawn on 15th November at

CAMARADEFESTSaturday October 26th 2013 - 2pm to latefree entryRich Mix Arts Centre, Main Space poets in 50 pairs reading original collaborationsThe Camarade poetry festival is a unique one day explosion of dynamic collaboration in contemporary avant garde and literary poetics. 100 poets align in 50 pairs, each writing an original collaborative work, written specifically for the festival and premiered on the day. The 5th Camarade event, and the crescendo of the Enemies project’s first year, this ambitious exploration of the possibilities of collaboration in poetry will evidence the true width and depth of poetry that is happening now.{2pm – Session I}David Berridge & Mary PatersonKirsty Irving & Jon StoneJeff Hilson & Fabian MacPhersonEdmund Hardy & James WilkesGiles Goodland & Alistair NoonMendoza & Nat RahaMarek Kazmierski & Wioletta GrzegorzewskaMatt Dalby & Steven WalingTom Chivers & Ross Sutherland{3.30pm – Session II}Marcus Slease & Claire PotterRhy Trimble & Harry GilonisBea Colley & Francine ElenaPascal O’Laughlin & Scott ThurstonGhazal Mosadeq & Ricardo MarquesSarah Crewe & Jo LangdonAndy Spragg & Joe KennedyRobert Sheppard & Robert Hampson{5pm – Session III}Ahren Warner & Mark WaldronJulia Bird & Sarah HeskethEkaterina Paronian & Sophie MayerChrissy Williams & Nia DaviesBecky Cremin & Ryan OrmondeStephen Watts & Will RoweZoe Skoulding & Ondrej BuddeusOli Hazzard & Caleb Klaces{7.30pm – Session IV}Carol Watts & George SzirtesTim Atkins & Jessica Pujol I DuranRyan Van Winkle & William LetfordJack Underwood & Alex MacDonaldJoanna Rzadkowska & Kristen KreiderStephen Connolly & Emily HaslerSophie Collins & Rachael AllenDeborah Pearson & Tamarin NorwoodSarah Kelly & Gabriele Lebanauskaite{9pm – Session V}Holly Pester & Emma BennettSam Riviere & Joe DunthorneOllie Evans & Robert KielyNathan Jones & Sam SkinnerChristodoulos Makris & Kim CampanelloReza Mohammedi & Ana SeferovicJames Davies & Philip TerryJames Byrne & Sandeep ParmarChris McCabe & Tom JenksThe Enemies project is supported by the Jerwood Charitable Foundation and Arts Council England.

Saturday October 26th 2013 - 2pm to late
free entry
Rich Mix Arts Centre, Main Space
100 poets in 50 pairs reading original collaborations

The Camarade poetry festival is a unique one day explosion of dynamic collaboration in contemporary avant garde and literary poetics. 100 poets align in 50 pairs, each writing an original collaborative work, written specifically for the festival and premiered on the day. The 5th Camarade event, and the crescendo of the Enemies project’s first year, this ambitious exploration of the possibilities of collaboration in poetry will evidence the true width and depth of poetry that is happening now.

{2pm – Session I}
David Berridge & Mary Paterson
Kirsty Irving & Jon Stone
Jeff Hilson & Fabian MacPherson
Edmund Hardy & James Wilkes
Giles Goodland & Alistair Noon
Mendoza & Nat Raha
Marek Kazmierski & Wioletta Grzegorzewska
Matt Dalby & Steven Waling
Tom Chivers & Ross Sutherland

{3.30pm – Session II}
Marcus Slease & Claire Potter
Rhy Trimble & Harry Gilonis
Bea Colley & Francine Elena
Pascal O’Laughlin & Scott Thurston
Ghazal Mosadeq & Ricardo Marques
Sarah Crewe & Jo Langdon
Andy Spragg & Joe Kennedy
Robert Sheppard & Robert Hampson

{5pm – Session III}
Ahren Warner & Mark Waldron
Julia Bird & Sarah Hesketh
Ekaterina Paronian & Sophie Mayer
Chrissy Williams & Nia Davies
Becky Cremin & Ryan Ormonde
Stephen Watts & Will Rowe
Zoe Skoulding & Ondrej Buddeus
Oli Hazzard & Caleb Klaces

{7.30pm – Session IV}
Carol Watts & George Szirtes
Tim Atkins & Jessica Pujol I Duran
Ryan Van Winkle & William Letford
Jack Underwood & Alex MacDonald
Joanna Rzadkowska & Kristen Kreider
Stephen Connolly & Emily Hasler
Sophie Collins & Rachael Allen
Deborah Pearson & Tamarin Norwood
Sarah Kelly & Gabriele Lebanauskaite

{9pm – Session V}
Holly Pester & Emma Bennett
Sam Riviere & Joe Dunthorne
Ollie Evans & Robert Kiely
Nathan Jones & Sam Skinner
Christodoulos Makris & Kim Campanello
Reza Mohammedi & Ana Seferovic
James Davies & Philip Terry
James Byrne & Sandeep Parmar
Chris McCabe & Tom Jenks

The Enemies project is supported by the Jerwood Charitable Foundation and Arts Council England.

#duskchorus, Thursday 17th October

#duskchorus, Thursday 17th October

Dawn Chorus 2013

Rainham Hall, Havering, approx 4am

Sunday June 9th 2013

Dear Stranger, I love you: the ethics of community in Rajni Shah Projects’ Glorious

Dear Stranger, I love you

by Lucy Cash, Becky Edmunds, Elizabeth Lynch, Mary Paterson and Rajni Shah

published by Lancaster University and the Live Art Development Agency, 2013.

Comprising: two books (120 and 40 pages) and DVD (32 minutes), all housed in a card envelope. 140 × 210 × 20mm

ISBN: 978-1-86220-306-8

Available from Unbound

Dear Stranger, I love you offers an in-depth exploration of artist Rajni Shah’s Glorious, an experimental performance project that began with a series of conversations between strangers and ended in a large-scale theatre production involving local residents and musicians in each location where it was presented.

The publication brings together four ways of looking at Glorious: a short film made in response to six performances of Glorious by filmmaker Becky Edmunds; a music video shot in and around Lancaster and Morecambe by Lucy Cash; a critical overview of the process behind two iterations of the project by Elizabeth Lynch; and The Glorious Storybook, a collection of memories from throughout the process, edited and contextualised by writer Mary Paterson. 

The publication is designed to reflect a process of letter-writing between strangers that lay at the heart of the project, and is packaged within a cover that can be posted directly to each recipient, resulting in a uniquely personalised book cover each time it is sent out.

#Dawn Chorus at the National Trust, Sunday 9th June 2013


As the sun rises on Sunday 9 June, we’re inviting the whole of the UK population to join the birds as they herald in a new day. Join us online and collaboratively create a new dawn chorus of tweets on Twitter during the hours from 2:45am to 5am. Anyone can follow this public performance using #dawnchorus, or join in by tweeting to and following @NTlovesLondon.

What will happen?

Led by a core group of seven writers stationed at National Trust places across the capital, anyone can participate in this open performance – a creative mass observation on Twitter. Birdsong at dawn is widely understood to be a vocal defence of territory; in Dawn Chorus the writing is specific to each writer’s location, tracking the changes in the environment through the dawn hours and the meeting of city with nature.

Creative writers, poets, bird lovers, outdoor enthusiasts and the wider public are invited to tweet about a place that is special to them.
The tweets produced will be collected and published online immediately after the event. By participating in Dawn Chorus at #dawnchorus you are allowing us to reproduce your tweets.

How to join in:
You are invited to observe a place you know, out of hours, and craft tweets reporting the sight and sound of daybreak.

§                      Pick a place, this could be your back garden or anywhere you can safely be outdoors in the early hours.

§                      Any time from 2:45am start your watch and tweet @NTlovesLondon. Our writers will tweet continuously from 2:45am to 5am.

§                      Observe the sounds, sights and smell and feel of the place around you. Notice what is different in these dawn hours and write about it in your own style, tweeting to #dawnchorus.

§                      Follow @NTlovesLondon for more ideas on what to write and what to look out for.

Dawn Chorus is an original concept by Natasha Vicars that has been developed through collaboration with Mary Paterson and the following writers: Joanna Brown, Tiffany Charrington, Eddy Dreadnought, Sally Labern and Tamarin Norwood.