I am spending 3 studio days at the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne, a unique invitation from the gallery to artists.

Although my space is marked out by a pink line on the floor, there is a sense of floating. There are no other partitions and I struggle to feel grounded.
The building somehow invites me to wander.
It feels freeing not to carry anything, not even expectation.
And so I anchor myself in watching a series of projected images previously made, of a scaffolding bolt resting, holding, containing, biting at my body.
I think about leeches.
The lighting in this gallery space is stark and too bright, and tests my focus.
I decide to sit on the dark grey floor and feel quite child like.
I lose myself in the images.

Today I bring with me a large white bag,so big it can carry me.
And it does.
I open it up, and as I do, the sound cracks through the space.
I smooth out its corners and folds, and after a few minutes, I climb in.
I am a stowaway in my own space…

I roll, move, and stretch out its walls out with my hands, arms, head, feet.
I hold the scaffolding piece and the weight of this plays an anchoring role in my movements.
The top starts to fold in over me and all I can see through the crack is the ceiling, and a face that quickly peers in and retracts, unsure what to do.

I decide to make a 5 minute performance, staying inside the space of the bag, letting restriction and the white space shape and choreograph my movement and sense of place.

Yesterday’s images are now projected on to the back wall Of the space.
Again I am taken aback at how quickly new things surface when a new space opens up. These images are a shift, and somehow seem to play a part in opening up new questions.
What plays on my thoughts now, what I seem to be craving, is a wider sense of movement exploration…
How to let/make this happen… How to embody this in my research and practice… New questions, and the ghost of a new desire…

Images: Hana Zaaroura


3 days passing though Njimegen and interrupted skies.
Rivers, arteries and escape routes.
Storms push me back and I remain on the outskirts.

Storm No 1 pushes me against a tree.
all I can feel is the rain interrupting the surface of skin
and the river I wanted to cross…

Storm No 2 pushes me through the doors of Galerie Marzee, where I open drawer after drawer of sculptural body ‘ jewellery ‘.
I am absorbed in the act of repeatedly opening and closing drawers to discover.
I imagine them being filled with the rain water…

Storm No 3 holds me indoors.
I can’t breath.
I am held still by a blanket being placed across my knees.
I stay very still until I decide that a glass of water and slipping up the wooden stairs will be my escape.

3 days of being held in…fractured connection. A lesson in expectation…