Making time: (per)forming reparative craft

Text from my symposium presentation, as part of my masters.


My name is leves and my presentation today is titled

Making time: (per)forming reparative craft

As a textile artist, my practice involves weaving on a TC-1 Digital hand-Jacquard loom. Please share and handle the samples and explore their textures and errors. Each weft thread, interlocking with the black warp, marks my labour, throwing the shuttle, pressing the peddle, and beating it down thousands of times. The time I have spent besides my loom is woven into these very fabrics. Guided by touch, transported by rhythm and monotony, only half a mind on the task at hand.

Through the process of writing this thesis, I intend to navigate the ways unities are constructed, and how, through practices of hand making, more convivial relations can be crafted, to give texture to the social and to allow us to make time. Using Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s theorisations on texture, affect and reparative reading, I bring them together into a practice of reparative craft.

Texture, affect and reparative craft

In her book, Touching Feeling, Sedgwick outlines the conceptual frameworks behind the title of the book: texture and affect, touching and feeling.

“To perceive texture is never only to ask or know What is it like? nor even just How does it impinge on me? Textural perception always explores two other questions as well: How did it get that way? and What could I do with it?” (13eve)

For Sedgwick, texture is intrinsically interactive. This approach to perception being indebted to post-war cybernetics and systems theory. Touch makes nonsense out of divisions between agency and passivity, and to touch is also to do so in the knowledge that others have done so before, even if it’s just in the making of the textured object. So there is a relation to labour here and the class stratifications of fabrication.

There is texture that is dense with information about how it came into being, and other textures that are smooth and glossy which defiantly or even invisibly block or refuse such information, but they never lack texture. But texture can have what Sedgwick terms a “narrative-performative density”, an “ineffaceable historicity”, a fetishism occurring for example in exoticism, “of the palpable and highly acquirable textural record of the cheap, precious work of many foreign hands in the light of many damaged foreign eyes.” (15) Sedgwick’s touch is not romanticised or distanced from the real world effects of what she speaks of.

Texture is not isolated to a single sense. Senses beyond and including the visual and the haptic are involved in the perception of texture. Texture across different senses also needs to be thought across different scales, and that no matter the scale, one bump on a surface, or even three, won’t typically constitute texture. It requires many, as texture is an array of perceptual data that can include repetition. It looks to what motivates performativity and performance, and to what individual and collective effects are mobilised. To touch in the affective turn is to encounter; to be open, responsive, active, rather than solidifying dead objects of knowledge in the epistemological tradition.

Sedgwick proposes that texture and affect, touching and feeling, belong together. Affect gives us the motivation to satisfy biological drives, but the object of affect, typically understood through their capture in our emotional states, is not proper to the affect in the way breathing air is proper to the biological drive to breathe. For example, what gives you joy may not give me joy, but we still both encounter it.

Using Sedgwick’s perceptual frameworks of texture beside affect, my paper will tend to textile practices across rhythms of labour, artistic production and performance in order to attend to the senses that each animates, the moods that motivate, and the reparative crafts that can be undertaken, embracing the error, surprise, debris and abundance that affects each of these works. To learn the many ways such practices allow selves and communities to extract sustenance from the “objects of a culture – even of a culture whose avowed desire has often been not to sustain them.” (150-151)

How did all this debris get here?


Much of the debris of modern life comes down to two things: accelerated and racialised production. The fashion industry introduced the concept of obsolescence with its seasonal items. The power loom which drove the Industrial Revolution fascinated Marx and Engels, whilst witnessing the jacquard loom gripped the imagination of Ada Lovelace.

Moving from the loom to modern computing, cyberfeminist theorist Sadie Plant takes up the convergence of woman and machine in cybernetic discourse.

Weaving has always been at the forefront of machinic development. The weaver, throwing the shuttle carrying the weft thread, is integrated into the machinery and its rhythms. Even in its most basic form it is a complex process, weaving together one or several threads into an integrated cloth.


The punch card system of early jacquard looms “was an unprecedented simulation of memory”, (52) an early migration of control from weaver to machinery. A black square on graph paper would become a hole in the punch card, which would lift the warp thread. It is this function that captured the imagination of Ada Lovelace, pouring her ideas into the footnotes of a translation. Her work, initially marginalised by patriarchal history, later influenced the development of modern computing. “Never within the body of the text, women have nevertheless woven their influence between the lines.” (63-64) Now, a pixel on the screen is one intersection of warp and weft, a black pixel performing the lift.


Plant proposes that weaving, as the art and science of software, has been “perhaps less of a contribution to civilisation than its terminal decline.” Plant speaks of the loom as being a fatal innovation, fatal to a patriarchal notion of history, defined here as the self-narrating story of man’s drive for domination, and his attempt to deny and transcend what he understands as nature. “A passage from carnal passions to self-control; a journey from the strange fluidities of the material to the self-identification of the soul.” (57-58)

Material relations have typically only been celebrated when they can be exploited, creating constructed unities. Labouring communities bear the brunt of this. By bringing Lisa Nakamura’s text Indigenous Circuits into dialogue with Sadie Plant’s work, we see how the hands that create these glossy objects of modern computing in discourses celebrating “nimble fingers”, is not only a gendered discourse, but a deeply racialised one.

Regarding gender, in the 1800s, the shift from the cottage industries to the factory floor was said to disrupt the natural rhythm of women, because “it is weaving by which woman is known” (57). Again, the essentialised “natural” is only reiterated when it can be dominated or exploited, even when ultimately it is constructed.

In Britain, the 1980s witnessed the collapse of cotton cloth manufacturing and Pakistani workers were being encouraged to labour in its failing weaving mills, yet, following deindustrialisation, labour was outsourced, overseas, often to where the workers had been recruited from. Across the Atlantic in Silicon Valley, Nakamura writes that in the 80s “electronic assembly had not just become women’s work, but women of color’s work.” (920)

Settler colonialist practices in the US marketed the traditional weaving skills of Navajo women as ideal for making circuit boards. This racialisation of the labour of Navajo women by a company called Fairchild was used in early electronics manufacturing. Fairchild’s claims to the Navajo women’s aptitude at making circuit boards drew on “existing ideas of Indians as creative cultural hand workers” (921), the brochure celebrating the idea that the women “produced circuits as part of the “reproductive” labor of expressing Navajo culture, rather than merely for wages.” (921) Although the workers were able to extract sustenance from the company that built factories in the reservations, the demand for it to be an affective labour romanticises the perceived transition from “traditional artisanal cultural work to industrial wage labor.” (928)

This is one of those strange examples in which traditionalist and non-traditionalist discourses converge, in their exploitative and exploited demands. The hands that touched this rug and this circuit board, these images taken from the brochure, are bound to a constructed unity put into the service of capital. The brazen fetishism and subsequent marketing of traditional craft shocked me, disrupting the utopian image of cyberfeminism’s weaving women, with the future at their nimble fingertips, with a different cosmology.

Abundance in the debris of history

Julia Bryan-Wilson writes in her book, Fray: Art and Textile Politics, that “even when practiced in the present, textiles are envisioned as perpetually drawn back to history.” (26fray)


Bay area artist Angela Hennessy is interested in blackness as a colour, a metaphor, and an identity. She negotiates her experience of her body through her materials, presencing the black body, focusing on black (social) death and mourning practices. For Hennessy, each material has its own cultural biography. Her 2007 piece, Blacklets: a speck of soot or dirt, began as an etymological investigation into slang terms for black women. Black velvet, also associated with Victorian-era mourning, was one of the entries. She conjoins black velvet with a term from the 1800s for coal dust, invoking the management of black matter and black bodies.

Velvet is the product of an intricate process of double weaving in which the looped fibres are cut to form the soft surface. Hennessy unravels the velvet between her fingers, teasing warp from weft, disarticulating filament from nap, appearing as hair mixed with dust and other debris. These fibres drift, actively inhabiting the white space of the gallery, resonating with Glenn Ligon’s use of Zora Neale Hurston’s line “I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.” Hennessy emphasises that these raced, gendered, and classed materials are sites of plenitude rather than deficit.

Édouard Glissant uses the poetics of weaving throughout his text ‘For Opacity’, writing that “in Relation the whole is not the finality of its parts.” With Hennessy’s piece, we see that by trying to reduce the fabric to its parts, we see that it is indeed, irreducible. Hennessy states during an interview that whilst unravelling the velvet, she considered the psychological state of unravelling, and how we never really let ourselves be undone.

Weaving has long been a poetic measure of time. In Greek mythology, Penelope weaves in the day and unravels her work at night in order to disrupt the assumed course of finding a new suitor in the wake of losing her husband. A colleague in the weaving workshop said that through the story of Penelope, it is thought that men spend their time, divesting it in a consumer relation, whereas women visualise their time, and that when she dies, you see her time in her weaving.

However, Bryan-Wilson builds on the historicity of textiles, saying “past and present collapse when histories erupt in the now. With its anachronistic collisions and unspooling into the future, craft time can intersect with queer time […] looping back between past and present and veering into imagined futures.” (262fray) Queer time is established through its difference from conventional imperatives of time, and, to quote Jack Halberstam, “queer uses of time and space develop… in opposition to the institutions of family, heterosexuality, and reproduction.” Queerness itself being “an outcome of strange temporalities, imaginative life schedules, and eccentric economic practices.”

Diedrick Brackens, a Los Angeles based queer fibre artist, makes “issues of impermanence, decoration and rehabilitation” central to his work. Like history itself, his work is always a composite creation, a self-conscious construction that carries with it the debris of history and desire, a literal piecing together of histories that remain present today, in a queer collapse of time. Brackens says that the process of handweaving cotton is a small way to pay tribute to those who came before him, and worked with the material under very different circumstances. The black figures are woven in using an extra weft yarn. You can see on the reverse of the fabric that the white figure is woven into the structure of the fabric, but the black figures are woven across the surface, the black figures are not integral to the structure of the cloth. He weaves his time.

Brackens remixes the textile techniques of his heritage, working with an adapted form of kente cloth, a West African process of strip weaving traditionally done by men, whilst women spin and dye the yarns. Brackens’ adapted kente cloth is a practice of reparative craft, guided by the question: “‘what would it mean for queer people to be working intimately with the cultural symbols on the continent?’ to literally be a part of the fabric of the system trying desperately to deny their existence” (58queerthreads) Brackens literally has a practice that extracts creative sustenance from a culture that desires his erasure, the type of reparative practice which Sedgwick encourages us to learn from.

Both Hennessy and Brackens are undertaking a reparative practice, with different strategies – whether mourning or navigating one’s own affective and material embodiment, to improvising and assembling new histories that demands fresh engagement to embrace working beside such errors. Inciting and mobilising both individual and collective effects.

Making time: to (per)form reparative craft

Fred Moten writes in his book, In The Break, that “For Caribbean man, the word is first and foremost sound. Noise is essential to speech. Din is discourse… Since speech was forbidden, slaves camouflaged the word under the provocative intensity of the scream. […] This is how the dispossessed man organized his speech by weaving it into the apparently meaningless texture of extreme noise.” (7)

Forty knitters, with contact microphones attached to each needle, create a patter of metallic, digital rain in Oreet Ashery’s performance piece titled Passing Through Metal. Eighty channels of the clacking of needles, amplifying the sonic element of something instantly recognisable but rarely focused on. Ashery speaks of how each knitter has their own rhythm, which you can hear as part of the collective noise, or isolate an individual’s knitting rhythm.

The knitters are in concert with a death metal band, or sludge and doom metal if you want to be niche. Speaking on the genre, she says the lyrics are full of doom and sludge, yet contain hope in human activity that is maybe quiet but can be amplified. On her website, Ashery picks out lyrics from one of the performed songs, ‘A Line In the Sand’

“death before me

debris behind me

the end is getting closer

will we manage?”

For Ashery, there is the relation to death and its technologies, but also to potential communities, which she (per)forms, as well as political loss. The reference to death even built into the architecture of the performance space, a fake floor tilted skywards, towards the heavens.

There is a queer revelry and resistance to the piece, under Ashery’s influence, but the band find this relation difficult. This shyly convivial collective of knitters don’t respond to them, knitting long black cables, like those used to plug in their guitars. They had been told to ignore everything and just knit – even when the singer is screaming in their faces.

The production of these survivors yarns is fundamental. Ashery attends to people’s experiences of knitting as a methodical activity that can pull people out of depression, that offers hope, and focusing on the fact that it can often be something you do for somebody else. Knitting someone a hat for example. The hope contained in the amplification of reparative human activity.

Craft time is the time of the handmade, refined by the wisdom and knowledge of the collective, but still marked by error, folding and unravelling. Handmaking becomes a method for extending, or dragging out, time while remaining insistently present. Like Penelope, who weaves in the day and unravels her work at night, she makes use of craft time to disrupt her assumed course.

In her text Prognosis Time, Jasbir Puar writes that convivial “encounters are rarely comfortable mergers but rather entail forms of eventness that could potentially unravel oneself but just as quickly be recuperated through a restablised self.” (169)

To conclude, craft time is a way of making time. The handmade compels a generative turn to the material. The handmade is a methodological orientation, and in order to make a body social there are durational patterns. I want to explore craft time, queer time, and prognosis time, as they intersect through the textures of the handmade, queerness and ability. Textiles has an affective futurity, encountering and forming new bodies, textured objects, and ways of making time.

Collectives, care and isolation in Oreet Ashery’s Revisiting Genesis

<written in 2017, was to be developed into part of a publication>


Revisiting Genesis is a twelve-episode web series produced by Oreet Ashery, a transdisciplinary visual artist engaged with “bio/political fiction, gender materiality and potential communities.”[1] Revisiting Genesis explores digital environments, death-industry services, neoliberal necropolitics, post-industrialism and multiculturalism. The series comes from Oreet’s own experiences of seeing friends and artists dying online, in particular feminist artist Alexis Hunter[2] who documented her final days in hospital on Facebook. The series uses a combination of script and improvisation, blurring distinctions between fiction and lived experience. The three main narrative threads – Genesis’ slideshow, Bambi[3] and Nurse Jackie[4] exploring options for his digital legacy, and the stories of real people with life-limiting conditions – are presented in fragmentary formations that offer a turbid perception of the social ensemble: that of dispersed seriality[5] and market behaviour.

The commodity here is death – the afterlife – in which a legacy contact is selected (slash competes),[6] familial territories are enforced via inbox,[7] avatars are created making wonky co-declarations: we are futurists!,[8] smartphone séances and diagnosis-ware –please speak clearly into the handset stating your symptoms– and Nurse Jackie composes slideshows[9] that recompose the (soon to be) composting. In this text, I am interested in the collective formations and subsequent dispersals that occur in the web series, alongside what this means for care and solidarity within a larger psychic health in which isolation dominates social practices.[10]

Genesis is the central figure, the title of the series itself suggesting rebirth, or a second origin.[11] Connected by their Jewish migrant heritage, she is seen to be a reincarnation of artist Dora Gordine and Amy Winehouse, however her slideshow is also gleaned from Oreet’s own archives. Genesis’ presence is that of a disappearing figure, and is said to be ‘caught in a feminist death cycle.’ Attention is paid to the disappearance of women throughout the series, and subsequent developments in the story also stress the disappearances of spaces for minorities – in particular the working classes and migrants.

This text is indebted to contributions by the Revisiting Genesis collaborative writing group. Although our collaborative writing never much materialised beyond minute taking, their thoughts and insights offered new intensities and virtual mappings. Thank you to Oreet Ashery, Coral Brookes, Rosaliina Elgland, Ricardo Guimaraes, Kayla Izikowitz, Jun Lim, Zviki Mutyambizi, Ruyin Nabizadeh, Olga Paczka, Mi Park, Craig Thomas, et al. We experienced individual and collective grief, even joy in our encounters – and a wedding! In spite of now-expired visas, this is part of an unfinished project yet to be realised. Our discussions presence themselves, I hope to do them justice, even in partiality.[12]


-Please wait whilst we transfer you, a member of our team will contact you as soon as possible- [13]

Genesis is dying.

“At least, we think she is.”

 In the Unavowable Community, Maurice Blanchot writes that “to remain present in the proximity of another who by dying removes [themself] definitely, […] this is what puts me beside myself, this is the only separation that can open me, in its very impossibility, to the Openness of a community.” Much like Genesis’ friends, Blanchot doesn’t “keep up simply to help [them] die, but to share the solitude of the event” [14] that is most fully theirs whilst it dispossesses them absolutely. This means that in grief, or the process of dying, you are dispossessed of the sovereign self because the limits of self-sufficiency are exposed – opening you to the possibility of solitude-challenging collectivity. The reality of our existence as interdependent beings is laid bare.

It is through this vulnerability that Genesis becomes an uncertain and fragile center for the group. Genesis’ friends come to understand themselves as “a spontaneous group formation out of seriality.”[15] Genesis’ recomposition is the concern that her friends share, putting them beside themselves whilst opening them to commonality. From this grey point, “friendship means sharing a refrain, a semiotic set that allows us to see the same vision and helps to create a world out of chaos.”[16] Nurse Jackie assists the group and their vision, composing Genesis’ slideshow through archival and narrative reconstructions. This involves “an activity of selection, elimination and extraction […] to take something from chaos across the filter or sieve of the space that has been drawn.”[17]

Even though the group has entered into a process in which “everyone in turn serves as the unifier of the other members.”[18] It does not necessarily mean it is always successful and this group-in-fusion strains itself at the borders of solitude. The intensity of the dispossessive encounter leads to resistance. One of Genesis’ friends attempts to reclaim (possess) themselves through a reassertion of solitude, whilst another attempts to hold the unity:

“…some space, I need to be alone.”

“we should stick together.”

“I really need to be alone.”

Friendship is further challenged in a previous scene from another narrative – that of performance artist Annie Brett. Annie has Crohn’s disease[19] and the nature of her condition means she has to spend long stretches of time in hospital. Nurse Jackie queries her about loneliness, to which Annie replies:

“… I’ve got a very good friend … who actually came in to see me, in hospital, once … funny enough, she wasn’t actually there to see me … to have that five minutes … talking … it reminded me what again I was fighting for … almost like another drug had entered my system … boosted the need to get out, almost the immune system …”[20]

To reframe both of these scenes, it is not friendship itself that is under question, but the conditions that make friendship possible. The structural weakness of the social fabric jeopardises “the very possibility of communication, empathy and solidarity.”[21] The first can be read as isolation necessitated through processes of subjectification that privilege self-sufficiency. The second is isolation unwillingly endured because of chronic illness, requiring a rerouting through technology. Annie’s comments are noticeable for the prominence of communication technologies, in conjunction with her physical capacity for participation.[22] The surprise –oh!– of the accidental hospital visit solicits friendships sustained primarily through “actions without an actor” that “play out on the ground of social visibility, but they don’t create any common ground in the space of consciousness and affectivity.”[23] Instant messaging being one example of actions without an actor – for instance, think of those you speak to online but who do not acknowledge you in the street.[24] A re-evaluation of the social constructions of friendship and its mediations is demanded in order to revalue the corporeal mind[25] and what this means for the chronically ill and/or disabled. Seeing Annie as a corporeal actor beyond virtual platforms is the –oh!– of empathetic recognition.


Early on, Bambi is offered the choice “your right to total erasure”[26] an acid soaked data stick frozen in resin, printed with the refrain:

ne me quitte(s) pas [27]

This consummate object holding upon its surface an eerie cry of alien actors.

The serial interchangeability of actors behind digital actions enforces precarity in lived social relations. In desperation, this scarcity of affective solidarity can exhibit itself as a certain self-interested competitiveness. Genesis’ friends enter into a competitive relation when a legacy contact needs to be chosen, in order to take care of Genesis’ digital assets. In this scene, Genesis is the object of a smartphone séance, resisting the summons of the group, manifested as ‘sister’s grey matter.’ In Sartre’s framework,

“what look like static physical objects can be translated into human relationships of which they are the disguise, or what look like direct, face-to-face human relationships can be seen to constitute mere reflections of inert objects and material systems of things.”[28]

Petrifying (wo)man in order to animate matter, Genesis becomes the practico-inert object her friends are serialised by, slipping into individualism.[29] The friends gather around ‘her’, sharing a common objective yet promoting their individual interests. They bay at the screen, the expressive delineating the possessive:

“… choose me Genesis … choose me …”


These are the contemporary conditions we have to work from, proliferation of capitalist technics reinstating organic scarcity and separation, and to quote Deleuze and Guattari: “in animals as in human beings, there are rules of critical distance for competition.”[30] In a state of succession without coexistence, an assertion of bourgeois individualism attempts to smooth disruption. One of Genesis’ friends does this, attempting to stabilise themselves through laying claim to artistic production in a reassertion of possessive individualism – manifesting again in competition:

“In the field we work in, there isn’t really space for two people doing something so similar, is there Genesis?”[31]

Guattari writes that we have lost the languages of human solidarity.[32] Conditions of possibility are foreclosed in this context of competitive relations, for example, what might Genesis bring to the aforementioned field that her friend may not? In an unpublished text Acid Communism, Mark Fisher writes that “capital necessarily and always blocks the production of common wealth.” This ideological project can be seen to manifest in the consolidations and marketisations of educational structures.

Revisiting Genesis is concerned with the disappearance of spaces for minorities and it is to be argued that the real movement of accelerated capital is leaving-behind.[33] Using material from Ashery’s archives, Nurse Jackie tells Genesis’ story of the Charles Keene College in Leicester. It is here in 1988 that she[34] made costumes for dance classes and Nurse Jackie explains that

“… making those costumes gave you a creative outlet and a sense of community and that was important to you as a recent immigrant coming to Leicester.”

Charles Keene offered a space for experimentation that didn’t belong in professional-producing factories. The Undercommons argues that professionalisation, in its negligence, is “devoted to the asocial”[35] and involves “the reduction and command of the social individual.”[36] The college merger is one such mechanism, as Nurse Jackie explains:

“… for many years we have been witnessing the consolidation of small autonomous colleges into composite organisms made up of multicampus merger universities run by centralised management …”


This is a form of consciousness deflation, an intensification of serial dispersal, students as statistics, interchangeable as part of Leicester College – now one of the UK’s largest colleges. The Undercommons argues: “does the critical academic not teach how to deny precisely what one produces with others”[37] and it is to be argued that the oppressive frameworks of professional practice and job scarcity enforce this delineating and possessive ethos. To continue the quote from Acid Communism, Mark Fisher argues that “instead of seeking to overcome capital, we should focus on what capital must always obstruct: the collective capacity to produce, care and enjoy.”[38] The macro-consolidation of campuses is such an obstruction, however in its homogenising movement there is a guttural churning, to quote Moten and Harney, that “the uncanny feeling we are left with is that something else is there in the undercommons.”[39] This is where the outsiders attempt to consolidate themselves after the demolition of spaces that the profession(al)s did not recognize and subsequently folded. Increasing numbers of students are pushed through failing structures, and calls for the ‘creative side of withdrawal’[40] become snarled in a tricky reclamation -you felt like a fraud, you had to go … was it the flu or the immigrant in you-[41] from dominant discourses of failure, unprofessionalism and discrimination[42] in places like the academy where feeling welcomed is not universal. This institutional structure is symptomatic of a capitalism whose dominant mode is consumption, embodied by the marketisation of education. These material conditions perhaps even denying (official) entry.[43]

Few other professions struggle for self-determination than nursing.[44] Under contemporary conditions, there are alarming similarities between sociologists writing about workplace resistance in call centres and the palliative care nurses’ dialogue in Episode 9. The nurses dislike acknowledging the target economy of their work and it appears in momentary lapses … I’m trying to sell the patient … sell… I shouldn’t use that … the real movement of the situation can only be read by actor Akiya Henry in her role of Nurse Jackie, “But it’s true isn’t it! You’re becoming a sales person.” The movement of the fictionalised nurse expresses the nurses’ real movement[45] – the separation between a passion for care, and the lived reality of meeting targets and pitching themselves as healthcare professionals to patients, families and colleagues in order to receive a paycheck. Similarly to telesales, there is a perceived individualisation of worker resistance because of the way the nurses have had to reconfigure the dynamics of resistance.[46] “Silent strategies of the collective disengagement from corporate culture”[47] manifest as resistance in the break:

“…tea gives you the time … to have a discussion you know … it’s almost like a timer … whereas if you’re just standing here … ooh I should go back … but you know, you’ve gotta drink your tea…“ “…sometimes I wanna have a cigarette…“[48]


Resistance practices such as ‘working to rule’ might be heavily criticised in care professions,[49] because of reduced complicity and empathy between staff and patients over working conditions. Part of the problematic here is how work-to-rule is conceptualised. On the one hand, there is the media conception that proclaims patient safety would be compromised, threatening the striking nurses with a deeply affective public outcry. On the other hand, work-to-rule can be a practice in which the nurses ignore the bureaucracy of their role and attend purely to patient safety and reproductive labour in order to criticise the unnecessary labour that obscures them from performing their role. Work-to-rule redefined through the lens of life-making instead of institution-building or contractual restrictions.

Human capacity have been encroached upon, emotional labour appropriated in the management of the sales encounter. This is a material structure “arising from people’s historically congealed institutionalised actions and expectations that position and limit individuals in determinate ways that they must deal with.”[50] This low period of class consciousness, driven by consumer satisfaction which turns oppressed against the oppressed in a kind of ‘negative solidarity’[51] or ‘magical voluntarism’,[52] makes us forget collective forms through mandatory individualism.[53] Capital’s mechanisms of capture (precarity, need to survive) force a serial dispersion, “for the middle classes fear the mass of workers and react preventatively [in] the lowering of salaries”[54] for example the stagnation of public sector wages. Unfortunately, in the lived reality of care and class interests, it can be difficult to separate necessity from target-economies, when patient care is intimately linked to the propagation of a service economy.

The intimacy of the role of the palliative care nurse, if we think of the first Blanchot quote,[55] pulls the nurse in two directions. One, the serial interchangeability of patients, two, the narrative punctuations, husks of dead actions (freedoms?) that sediment themselves upon the nurses’ subjectivity – calling their capacities into question.[56] An inhuman landscape is revealed, demanding interiorisation that alienates because of the sheer number of other human actions that impede individual (and collective) action. It is a confrontation that “exposes the real relations among people as inhumane.”[57]

“I feel like I’m trying to be a machine but the person, the human being side is taking control. I’m finding it very difficult to like, emotionally disconnect …”

Patients dehumanised into serial numbers and statistics, the revelation of the inhumanity of human relations realises itself.[58] Statistical anonymity:[59] one, two, three hundred slideshows and counting for Nurse Jackie. Living besides herself, a dispossession “that marks the limits of self-sufficiency and that establishes us as relational and interdependent beings” although “our interdependency establishes our vulnerability to social forms of deprivation.”[60] The nurses attend the funerals of the patients they’re close to, as well as helping people with no one left to plan their own funerals. In a society constructed upon market logic it “accepts that there must by definition be casualties.” [61] Nurses see the realities of loneliness, sharing in their patients’ ultimate solitude, their absolute dispossession. It is no consequence that failure “is personalised by the most dispossessed and powerless groups.”[62]

“… it can happen to you when you’re nursing. You know, after a while you see patient after patient … familiarity … it’s very difficult to get nurses to stay in cancer nursing … literature describe it as burnt out, that we’re burnt out emotionally because you’re having to grieve and you’re having somewhat to confront your own self and your mortality …”


Ungrounded, burn out prevails. In the current conditions, fantasies where “those whispered secrets and sideways glances that used to pass in the stairwell on smoke breaks start to run the show”[63] spill out into dialogue. Moten and Harney affirm that it is “in the trick of politics we are insufficient, scarce, waiting in pockets of resistance, in stairwells, in alleys, in vain.”[64] It must be understood that when practicing in bad faith, that “none of them [the nurses] have any power to disobey in the system’s terms.”[65] Freedom through the system’s terms runs the risk of reiterating bourgeois individualist hegemony where their work is not related to a larger working class struggle.[66] The system’s terms are unjust. Mark Fisher writes that “neoliberalism’s[67] victory [depended] upon a co-option of the concept of freedom. Neoliberal freedom, evidently, is not a freedom from work, but freedom through work.”[68] The inhumanity of relations demanded by target-time and statistical dehumanisation will reach burn out, intensified by the rapid depletion of the racialised and gendered workforce the NHS has always required and exploited.[69] Pushes towards the digital must reduce clerical work and resist the further precaritisation of care,[70] and a second move to recognize that the nurse as part of the class of the dispossessed, co-produces ecologies of care and life-making that must move into common practice[71] not rampant privatisation.

In the series, collective closure is attempted through Genesis’ party, a more convivial setting for the realisation of her friends’ common project[72] the reconstitution of Genesis. The narrative strands of Revisiting Genesis come together, Genesis’ friends, as well as the real people with life-limiting conditions. This unity – both the party guests and the web series itself – is a struggle between sad passions and the joyful encounters of friendship,[73] presenting itself as a “complicated coexistence of groups at various stages of their development and masses of serial individuals surrounding them.”[74] In the heat of the group’s fusion, as they come to understand themselves as such a unity, an individual breaks in the face of its cooling:

“Nothing’s ever good enough is it? It’s just not working! Look we’re all here and it’s … do we know what’s even supposed to be happening?”



In the end, the group disperses. Genesis’ grey matter remains on display. Fredric Jameson writes that “Sartre’s theory is only designed to account for the empirical fact of the very real sense of life-and-death urgency which a group-in-fusion confers on itself.”[75] Although, it is to be argued that the accumulated interpersonal history, the encounter with others, sustains a responsibility to that which has passed. In its invisibility, there is still a politics in process which may be more active than perceived, in the will to honour a memory and a history of struggle. Sartre’s framework incites Jameson’s dialectic: “until such fetishism of individual isolation itself dissolves and yields before a swarming, suffocating, intolerable feeling of human relationships and violent antagonistic struggle in all directions and at every instant […] one cannot awake until one has first measured the extent and the intensity of the nightmare.”[76]

Although in Oreet’s words:

“Casting is how we can affect the future, in Genesis’ part of the story there are no white men until episode eleven.”[77]

Continue reading “Collectives, care and isolation in Oreet Ashery’s Revisiting Genesis”

a thank you

Written for the FAAH degree show catalogue, whilst I was a junior fellow


This show is a celebration; a celebration of the final year group’s ability to collaborate and to be kind in times of hardship. Not only to gather in the Marquis of Granby, but to produce a collective body of work that is impressive and expansive because of the alliances that have kindled here. These are bonds that we have all been lucky enough to be a part of, building amid the hungover utopianism.

The death of Mark Fisher, the theorist and teacher we treasured, who affirmed so many of us during our time at Goldsmiths, shook us to the core. We were adamant that he would not be forgotten and the displays of pure militancy across the joint honours degree were certainly acts to be proud of. When I see the work and speak to this third year, I see how Mark’s presence and writings have worked in and through them – yet each person brings their own spin to it. It is these mutations that are exciting.

This is a year group orientated towards collective adventure, experimentation and joyful openness in a year that has been dogged by grief, disturbing global politics and division. This is a year group that acts with confidence, whether they would claim it or not, confidence in their ability to do something different, to bring one another together and produce something brilliant.

My life has been irreversibly affected by the influence of this incredible group of artists. I’ve jokingly said a few times that I’m having the best year of my degree and I’m not even on it anymore. The transmutations that have occurred through these additive and contagious alliances are tangible. A ferocious patience will be required to see where it will go next, but it is adoring in its immanence.

Thank you – all of you.



Knitting and weaving are deliberate (see: slow) processes, even when digitally assisted. By translating the cartoon image into the fabric, the immediate pleasure of the animated sequence is decelerated. The frames become fixed into the very structure of the fabric, yet the fabric itself is moveable, flexible. Cartoons are used because they have distinct framings, making them an easy subject matter for an interest in the mechanics of moving images. Rearticulated, fictionalised sequences reduced to key frames. Image is the structure of the fabric. Images are structure. Images are an integral part of our understanding of the world. (popular) Open images, which provide access to sites of memory – individual, collective, social (all of the past in the present). We have been produced through these image environments – television produces people. This is not an archaic practice steeped in nostalgia, but an exploration into the potential collective practices afforded by ‘common’ mediums. To reach beyond the provinces of alienation to create objects that reassure us in our ‘common’ culture. Our lives are serial. Understanding is accrued sequentially: repetitive sequences, linear and non-linear. We become our habits, unless we are fortunate enough to see the possibility to push beyond them.

Television offered some form of collective memory. Programs had time slots – the nostalgia for which is best summarised by Orin Incandenza in David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest;

‘I miss sneering at something I loved. How we used to love to gather in the checker-tiled kitchen in front of the old boxy cathode-ray Sony whose reception was sensitive to airplanes and sneer at the commercial vapidity of broadcast stuff. […] I miss stuff so low-denominator I could watch and know in advance what people were going to say. […] I miss summer reruns. I miss reruns hastily inserted to fill the intervals of writers’ strikes, […] I miss seeing the same things over and over again.’ (p.599-600)

In Infinite Jest Orin goes on to argue that modern entertainment services are ‘not the same. The choice, see. It ruins it somehow. With television you were subjected to repetition. The familiarity was inflicted.’ I feel that inflicted is the important term here. The production of the subject through images is more ubiquitous than ever before. However there is a greater illusion of choice that subjugates us to greater control from alienating powers rather than towards a path of immanent liberation.


Multiple screens, now our primary mode of consumption, was once a symbol of technical grandeur as well as potential madness through isolation. The descent into alienated psychosis is marked by the presence of multiple television sets in Roeg’s The Man Who Fell To Earth and Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. In the television studio, multiple screens are used – the visual effect of so many cathode ray television planted into the walls … the control room … behind the scenes. Bertrand Tavernier’s Death Watch, Sidney Lumet’s Network, Charlie Brooker’s Dead Set … and many other works portray this surreptitious world of multiple screens. Bruce Nauman used multiple television screens in his 1986 piece Violent Incident. To see violence multiplied, repeated – therefore intensified. The television set itself holds a material presence little matched by domestic digital outputs. Gretchen Bender’s Total Recall 1987 orchestrates the commercial media landscape into a beautiful, yet critical piece. The arrangement of 24 monitors (techno-accumulation) a spectacle in its own right.


For years I’ve wanted to curate an exhibition of video art in a shop window. Akin to an old television shop display where people would watch the news through the window in films. On the BBC’s Monkey Dust, Tony Blair repeats “education education education” from the television screens in the shop window. Propaganda dressed up as choice-freedom – “great sex for everyone … even if they’re married” – and the misery of unmet yet perfectly reasonable demands – “trains, that actually turn up”, “houses people can actually afford”. Monkey Dust exposes the bleak reality of the televisual mantra faultlessly. The beginning of the ‘emancipatory’ choice reflex (it’s your fault, you didn’t work hard enough to do well), rather than a critique of structural misery. Art cannot be confined to the inside of institutions – counter messages need to be on the streets and in communities.

We derive comfort from personal attachments, aesthetics, utility, touch. I posit that textiles and television are a natural combination in the field of domestic comfort (and conceptualisation of identity). Textiles have a strong sentimental value, and they play an important role in developing social and individual memory. Watching the television wrapped in a blanket, sat on the sofa with some pillows. There is a rich material culture constituted by textiles which is often only acknowledged popularly through clothing. The textiles that furnish our homes and bodies feel good and present us to the world and ourselves. I have spoken previously of the collective nature of watching, and as I’ve grown more familiar with textiles processes like knitting and weaving, I have begun to recognise the communities that take great pleasure in swapping skills and making together. I think there is great value in these community practices. Sewing, darning, weaving and knitting all have a value far beyond ‘hobbyist’ – they can enrich lives and are a sustainable practice against overconsumption, particularly when the ubiquity of textiles is recognised. It is an anti-alienating practice. Class difference is subtle but noticeable in commodity textiles, as quality correlates with price. In austere times, it is empowering to know how to repair rather than replace. From Mike Kelley to Rosemarie Trockel, textiles has a place in art; challenging notions of comfort and familiarity as well as shifting social expectations regarding class and gender.

I was a member of a film group called really off – we were working on a project about Milton Keynes. The soft drink Rubicon, produced in M.K, inspired the topic. One of Rubicon’s advertising slogans is “believe in beach” – an ironic statement for a drink made deep in middle England. From this starting point, we intend on creating a docu-fiction. We feel that a fictional Milton Keynes is particularly interesting as it is a relatively new city that can potentially facilitate our partial memories and fictions. We’ve developed a camera that always points in the direction of Milton Keynes. We’re looking forward to using it.

Overall, I believe in transversality – the intersectional spaces that constitute our experiences and the potential interactions contained within and between these sites. Television is a hybrid medium, traversing space and time, sound and vision, experience and non-experience, actual and virtual. Now the internet perpetuates an unhealthy ‘connoisseur’ relationship between subject and object – a false individuality potentially more universal and insidious than anything we could have imagined to come from television. The topography is different now, but it is still possible to achieve intersectional distributions of communities.

The transference of familiarity and comfort upon the art object – transference rather than sentimentality or nostalgia. I want to use the potential contained within these subconscious emotional registers. Regions that promote stability, acceptance, familiarity and comfort without inducing sentimentality nor nostalgia. An affective register. Bergsonian nodes. The working title for a textile work is How I Learned to Stop Worrying – a nod to Kubrick’s satire of state coping mechanisms and an acknowledgment of these innate desires for stability –  immanence – in the world. Manoeuvring these desires without succumbing to regression is what I intend to explore further in my future practice. Prioritising exteriority through both sensation and image cultures developed through machinic processes to provocate immanence. To move beyond the discontinuous cut off of identity to a continual uniting connection through materiality and image.