Wanderer (2009) by Rory Macbeth is an English translation of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, produced without knowledge of the German language. To understand the context of this post, it’s helpful to read the previous one.
German capitalises all nouns. When Kafka writes “den Augen” “the eyes”, Macbeth’s translation becomes “towards Augen”, as if Augen were a geographical location. This is not a mistranslation in the traditional sense; rather, it is a relocation of meaning. The work does not simply translate German into English. Instead, it appears to misread or mishear it, treating certain German nouns as destinations and following sound rather than semantic fidelity. In doing so, it produces something that feels both derivative and entirely new.
This method continues throughout. Kafka’s “sein Zimmer, ein richtiges”, translated into English as “his room, a proper human room”, becomes in Macbeth’s version “since summer, the rich man”, an apparent phonetic drift. At several points, Gregor’s sister’s name, Grete, is also translated as “great”. For example, Kafka’s “Komm, Grete” appears in Macbeth’s version as “Commandant! Great!” while the standard English translation reads “Grete, come”. These shifts suggest that Macbeth is not translating through grammar but by ear, treating German as sound material to be sculpted into English.
As the text progresses, one can sense a shift from guessing through sound to asserting narrative intention. At first, the work reads like a linguistic experiment, a kind of phonetic dérive. Gradually, however, something changes. The more one reads, the more an independent narrative begins to solidify; it begins to feel like the writer claiming territory. Wanderer begins to detach itself from The Metamorphosis. Betty starts to echo, but not duplicate, Grete. Threads remain visible, yet they no longer bind the text to its origin. By the end of the story, the authorial voice becomes unmistakable, and Wanderer tests how far transformation can go before it becomes authorship. Macbeth’s restrained conclusion expands into something vast, and the writer steps forward!
This raises the question of where translation ends and authorship begins. In Translation by Sophie J. Williamson (p. 43), a selected passage from Walter Benjamin’s essay The Task of the Translator states that “a translation issues from the original — not so much from its life as from its afterlife”. Benjamin’s idea of translation as a text’s afterlife helps illuminate what is at stake here, yet Macbeth also seems to exceed this model. Benjamin suggests that translation renews the original by revealing the hidden kinship between languages, allowing the text to unfold further in time. Translation, for him, is not reproduction but continuation, a stage in the original’s ongoing life.
This post introduces the next, which will focus on Wanderer (2009) by Rory Macbeth, an English translation of The Metamorphosis produced without knowledge of the German language. Instead of translating through grammar or meaning, Macbeth works by visually and phonetically interpreting the German text and reconstructing it into English. The result is a work that exists somewhere between translation and authorship.
It’s important to briefly touch on The Metamorphosis (1915) by Franz Kafka before writing about Wanderer, and I’ll also use this opportunity to mention The Overcoat (1842) by Nikolai Gogol. I referred to Gogol’s story in our session when we discussed avoiding direct expressions of trauma during Zoe’s presentation. For me, Kafka and Gogol employ absurdity and a kind of quiet defeatism as narrative strategies through which trauma is expressed indirectly.
The Metamorphosis is a small text, yet incredibly heavy in its existential weight. The narrative begins with an unexplained event, Gregor Samsa’s transformation into a giant insect, presented without cause or preamble. Instead of questioning the transformation itself, the narrative quickly shifts to the practical consequences of his condition. His family who once depended entirely on his income, gradually begin to see him less as a son or brother and more as a burden. One gradually senses that the true transformation is not merely physical but human and moral. The story is existential in its questioning, absurd in its world, surreal in its structure, and deeply social in its critique…
Akaky Akakievich, the protagonist of The Overcoat, lives a lonely, repetitive life and struggles to make even minor changes. It takes him a long time to save enough money to buy a new coat, but when he finally does, the simple act of wearing something new gives him confidence and a glimpse of happiness. This joy is short lived… The coat is stolen on his way home! He desperately tries to retrieve it, fails, falls ill, and dies shortly afterwards. In the end, his ghost wanders the city stealing coats from others. The story oscillates between the real and the surreal, it’s sad, absurd, brief, yet emotionally expansive. It’s often seen as an early example of the absurd bureaucratic protagonist and is believed to have influenced many writers. For me, it’s enough to recall Dostoevsky’s saying “We all came out from Gogol’s The Overcoat”.
The Overcoat and The Metamorphosis are both essential reading for lovers of short fiction. They present deliberately ordinary protagonists, characters who almost disappear rather than dominate the plot, humans positioned at a humble level far removed from heroic or supernatural figures. These are stories that sometimes make you want to step inside the page and shake the character awake. In Gogol’s story, the narrator also seems strangely unconcerned with certain details or histories of events. A similar feeling emerges in Kafka.. What happened to Gregor Samsa is, in some sense, not important. Although he lives believing he is essential to his family, they ultimately continue without him, and his perceived importance dissolves.
This becomes significant for me when thinking about Wanderer. I sense something familiar here, perhaps one leading to the other, at least in my perception. Just as the lives of Akaky and Gregor seem strangely insignificant within their own stories, the linguistic accuracy of the text also becomes strangely insignificant in Macbeth’s work. Regardless of the original context or linguistic accuracy, the act of translation itself becomes conceptually aligned with the story. This also resonates with my own interest in communication and miscommunication as a form of social sculpture, where meaning is shaped collectively rather than fixed.. It raises questions about what is essential and what is not. What carries meaning? What survives translation? What do we choose to care about, and who decides this?
After reading Translation, I found myself asking what I would add if I were given the chance to contribute more pages to the book. Three came to mind: Omar Bahabri the translator, Arnaud Balard’s Deaf Flag, Adriano Celentano’s Prisencolinensinainciusol, and Wanderer by Rory Macbeth particularly after What Is a Minor Literature?//1986 by Deleuze and Guattari page.
The first story is a Yemeni tale set during the period of British occupation in southern Yemen. Omar Bahabri was a Yemeni tea merchant who spoke English through his work with foreign traders. At a time when the British struggled to communicate with the local population due to the lack of Arabic translators, Omar was called upon to help. The British asked him to translate pamphlets intended to win the trust and loyalty of the Yemeni people. Omar translated their demands into Arabic, and pamphlets were printed and distributed by aircraft across the country.
Some time later, a British general visited Aden to inspect the situation. He was familiar with Arabic, so he picked up a handful of the pamphlets and read them. He asked the officer in charge about their purpose and was told they were meant to encourage public support for British rule. The officer explained that the pamphlets called on people to join the Allies and support them. The general replied that the pamphlets read “Buy the finest tea from Omar Bahabri” . And here only reference I found in English: https://www.jstor.org/stable/48752006
Whether the story is true or not is hardly important here. What matters is how brilliantly it portrays the fate of outsiders who believe they can exploit local language and people for their own ends, only to find those intentions quietly undermined in favour of distinctly Yemeni interests. It also led me to reflect on the fact that the British occupied Aden for 128 years, from 1839 to 1967, yet hardly any of them learned Arabic. From this, it becomes easier to understand why the French aggressively imposed their language in colonised territories, and how English was forced upon Indigenous populations in North America, Australia, and New Zealand. This reinforces my belief that language is essential to the survival of culture and heritage.
Thinking about this story alongside Translation, I realised that what draws me in is not accuracy, but refusal. Translation here is not a neutral act. It becomes a space of misalignment, humour, survival, and agency. Language appears to serve power, while quietly redirecting it elsewhere.
So yes, I already know what my next ceramic piece will be.. A tea set! A familiar site of hospitality, negotiation, and politeness. Cups that sit between people, holding conversation, holding silence or things that are never quite said…
Jonathan recommended this book to me twice. Before I ordered it, I assumed it might be similar to Against Expression by Kenneth Goldsmith and Craig Dworkin, a great book in its own right on conceptual writing. But I found myself loving Williamson’s Translation much more. It feels like a fruit salad, a wide variety of flavours, each sweet or sour in its own way, yet deeply enjoyable together. While Against Expression is larger in size, Translation feels more balanced and brings together a broader range of international voices.
Before even reading the Translation introduction, I couldn’t resist starting with Frantz Fanon and James Baldwin. I love both of their styles, it’s heavy, yet smooth in motion and settling deep in the soul. The anthology brings together an impressive mix of writers and artists, including Shirin Neshat, Jess Darling, Yinka Shonibare, Stephen Morton, Susan Hiller, Walid Raad, Walter Benjamin, and many others.
There were several moments where I had to pause, wanting to comment or reflect. Although the contributors come from very different backgrounds and perspectives, you still feel that they share something. Language is not just words or signs; it reflects how far the human mind can reach in understanding its surroundings what is seen and unseen. It is about comprehension, and about noticing what might otherwise remain incomprehensible.
Shirin Neshat’s page took me back to my childhood in Dubai. Growing up across different cultures, I’ve come to see communication as a vast ocean. It can feel overwhelming and frightening at times, but it also has a magical quality: moments where connection happens without you fully understanding how.
Where I grew up, our neighbours formed a small, diverse world. To the right was an Iranian Shia family; to the left, a Yemeni one. After our Emirati neighbours moved away, we had Palestinian, Pakistani and Omani neighbours opposite us. They were all kind and friendly, with children who played together on the sandy street before the area became very posh and built up. Our relationships were friendly, formal, and respectful, shaped by care and sharing.
I formed a close bond with our Iranian neighbours, and their daughter became my best friend. We grew into each other’s families, spending time playing and eating together, getting into trouble, being told off, and sharing fun (she’s the one I mentioned in the Dear Moon preface). Her parents did not speak Arabic well, and in their home they spoke Farsi. I loved listening to them, I couldn’t understand but I relied on facial expressions and tone of voice, especially when we were in trouble and her translations were completely inaccurate..
I didn’t learn about Sunni and Shia differences until middle school. I once asked my friend to join my prayer, She refused, because I was Sunni and she was Shia..terms I had never heard before, and which were never discussed in my family. When I asked my father, he simply said: they are Shia, we are Sunni, and their prayer is slightly different. My response was simple “i thought we are just Muslims”.
I became more curious.. my religion teacher with patience and care became the target of my endless questions, until I moved to secondary school, where I continued my research. So did my library teachers, who would quietly prepare books for me to borrow. Reading history gave me joy and deeper understanding. I began to realise how many of our problems come from judging events without understanding their roots or contexts.
Prayer might seem like a diversion here, but it still feels connected to languages. I began practising prayer at around 11 or 12 years old, not through parental guidance but after being dared by a cousin, I was the youngest in my extended family to do so and he mocked my attempts.
What I’ll never forget, my very very first attempt. I was almost 5 years old. My second sister had been born ill, and when she was one month old, my father took her to hospital one evening while my mother was unwell. No one explained anything to me.. and I was scared seeing my mum crying… I took a prayer mat, faced a random direction, put one of my mother’s headscarves on and stood there silently. I didn’t know what to say.. No one had taught me how to speak to God. I only knew that we believe in Allah our creator (Allah is the Arabic word for God, used by Arab Christians too)… So I just cried and simply said “please don’t let my baby sister die”. She came home the next day and grew up to become my moody sister!
Later, I understood why my parents were soo panicked. Back in Yemen, they had lost their first child, a baby boy… I was born after him, small and sick. My grandmother took responsibility for caring for me, and five women from her family and circle breastfed me until my mother recovered. I grew up with five “milk mothers” and milk siblings. In my village, some babies had one or two. I had five! Perhaps that explains why I grew up with the smallest body, it might have been that extra dose😂
This came back to me while reading Gayatri Spivak’s The Politics of Translation page. She mentioned Mahasweta Devi’s story Stanadayini’s translations. One English translation is titled Breast-Giver, another The Wet Nurse. Spivak notes that when you read both translations side by side, the loss of rhetorical silence from one translation to the other becomes clear. This reminded me of Rory Macbeth’s Wanderer the translation of Kafka’s Metamorphosis translated from German into English without him being able to read or speak German. Years ago, he told me: “I don’t believe there is such a thing as an accurate translation”.
This thought led me to the Qur’an. As Muslims, we believe the Arabic Qur’an to be the direct word of God, linguistically, structurally, and even mathematically unique. No Arabic writer has ever matched its form. Translations exist, but they are treated as interpretations, not replacements. The Arabic text itself is carried and protected by Muslims across languages and cultures, unchanged and only recited in Arabic.
Perhaps that, is part of what this anthology keeps circling back to: the beauty, limits, and responsibility of language and everything that slips through when we try to carry meaning from one place to another. I do believe that a translator can’t separate their life experience and feelings from their work; these inevitably shape their understanding. In this way, the translator and the original writer become new collaborators.
When I was reading for my research paper, I kept thinking about the unusual and slightly funny relationship between the German artist Joseph Beuys and the British critic David Sylvester! They were both major figures in modern art, but they never managed to build a close or comfortable connection.
Sylvester saw how important Beuys was. He never denied Beuys’s impact or how strongly he shaped his time, just as Duchamp had done for modern art. Even so, their relationship never became warm or collaborative. Sylvester had deep, ongoing conversations with many artists, but with Beuys he stayed distant, almost cautious.
This shows clearly in his writing. Sylvester never wrote a whole book about Beuys, nor explored him in the focused way he did with others. Beuys appears only here and there, usually as one example inside bigger discussions about conceptual art and post Duchamp ideas. Important, yes, but never at the centre.
The moment that captures their dynamic best is a small story Sylvester shared in About Modern Art, 2002 p.514-15. Beuys came to visit him at his flat in South London, bringing his wife, children and another friend. Before they entered, Sylvester asked him to remove his shoes, which he always asked visitors to do to protect his antique Persian carpets. Beuys refused!! His hat and clothes were part of his artistic identity and he would not take them off.. Sylvester refused too!! So they stood outside on the pavement, stuck between two different kinds of pride.
The more I think about it, the more I wonder what felt most important at that moment. For Sylvester, was it the artwork he lived with the antique rugs he treasured and protected or the chance to welcome an artist who was reshaping the art world? And for Beuys, a well established artist known for his big ideas, what mattered more being treated as a significant cultural figure, someone above everyday rules, or simply being a human guest respecting the home he was entering?!
In that moment, neither chose flexibility… And because of that, the visit never really began!
I find this story surprisingly touching…These were people who changed the direction of art, yet a simple request about shoes created a pause they could not overcome. Their relationship was always a mix of respect, misunderstanding, admiration and a bit of irritation.
They never became close, but their awkward meetings reveal something real about personality, ego and the small rituals of daily life. Maybe that is why I keep returning to this story. It shows how the biggest ideas in art can be interrupted by tiny habits and decisions. And sometimes, the most memorable parts of art history are not the grand gestures, but the little ones, like the moment when two strong characters collide at a doorway🙃
Since October, I’ve been immersed in the making of Dear Moon. What began as a simple idea grew into something layered and full of meaning. Over these months, I’ve learnt so much, not just about putting together a book, but about myself. The skills I’ve had to call on managing, organising, communicating, publishing, sharing all came with challenges. I had to practise patience.. I had to listen. And more than anything, I had to trust the process!
There were many moments when I didn’t know exactly where it was heading, but I allowed myself to follow the rhythm of the work, and something beautiful came through. I’m especially grateful that the work is expanding being read, being held and I’ve been watching it with a sort of quiet pride.
Still, I have to be honest. Sharing Dear Moon in public spaces hasn’t felt completely right. I tried presenting it in a vibrant setting, but I could feel the book asking for something else, something slower, more still. It asks the reader to sit, pause, and take time. And that’s hard to find in environments filled with movement.
So, although I didn’t quite succeed in the way I had imagined, I don’t see it as failure. Instead, I see it as another learning. The challenge now is to explore different ways a book like this can live in public space. How do I present it in a way that honours its pace and stillness? How can I guide people toward it gently, instead of expecting it to compete for attention?
I’m still learning, and I’m open. I’m proud of Dear Moon, and I know it will keep finding its way as long as I keep listening.
As part of my ongoing exploration of communication, I recently created a series of childlike drawings for an upcoming exhibition in Glasgow, documenting my journey to Auchingarrich Park for the Pitch 2024 Ghost Art School exhibition.
Childlike drawings carry a unique authenticity and emotional impact. They are often raw, unfiltered, and filled with a sense of honesty. By using this approach, I aim to challenge traditional notions of what serious art should look like.
My practice has always focused on breaking down barriers and fostering meaningful connections, and this childlike style is a way to make art more accessible to a wider audience.
One of the key aspects of my practice is questioning hierarchies within the art world. By choosing a childlike style, I’m challenging the idea that only refined, technically skilled works are valuable. Instead, I’m highlighting that artistic value lies in the ideas, emotions, and dialogue that the work generates.
The simplicity and playful nature of these drawings highlight themes of innocence and exploration. In the context of my journey to Auchingarrich Park, this approach allowed me to convey a sense of wonder and curiosity, encouraging viewers to reflect on their own memories of childhood and play.
As I continue to explore this style, I look forward to seeing the book in the exhibition and observing how people will interact with it next week.
I had fun playing with a new scanner I bought to help me upload the physical Moon Letters to my computer. The quality is great, and I immediately thought—this would be perfect for digitising my Asemic writing.
I decided to experiment: I uploaded a piece of Asemic writing, then tried a translation tool to read the text from the image. I wasn’t expecting much, Asemic writing is by definition without a fixed meaning, existing in a space between language and pure form. But to my surprise, I got three translated lines.
This unexpected outcome was a moment of algorithmic improvisation, a piece of text I never wrote was suddenly part of the work. The machine involved itself in the process, introducing an element beyond my control, much like the way audiences reinterpret asemic writing in unpredictable ways.
Two questions immediately came to mind:
• What does it mean for an asemic text to be “translated”?
• Does this process create a new kind of auto-generated asemic language, where machine logic meets human mark-making?
This might just be the beginning of a new asemic project. And, I’m excited to experiment more, to invite the machine into the asemic process, and to see where this unexpected collaboration between human intention and machine misinterpretation leads me.
Yesterday, I had a 1-1 tutorial with Jonathan, and it was a great opportunity to think aloud about my practice and research. It helped me reflect on where I’m, what comes next, and how I want to present my work in the interim show. More importantly, it allowed me to articulate the intentions behind my work—what I’m truly trying to communicate through it.
At the moment, I’m working on collecting all the moon letters people have submitted into a book, which I see as a sculpture—not just because of the process involved, but also due to the layers I’ve applied throughout its creation. Here, I wanted to make a book—not just a representation of one, but a real, physical book as a sculptural form. I wasn’t trying to turn a book into a sculpture; rather, I wanted to sculpt a book itself. This distinction has been crucial for me, and I feel I’ve achieved a lot through this approach.
The process remains ongoing—collecting letters, designing the book, and considering communication in both content and form. The creative process has pushed me in new ways and opening many doors.
Jonathan shared some useful links to researchers and artists, including Donna Haraway, Claire Bishop and Lucy & Jorge Orta. He also gave valuable advice on selecting the right paper type for the book, its cover, and how different inks could react on specific papers.
We also discussed different ways the book could be displayed, which made me think more deeply about its presence in a space and how the audience will engage with it—what I could add or take away. This reaffirmed that my work is not just about making an object; it’s about layering meaning, process, and interaction.
Today, I led a session at Bootle Library with my usual cultural group of ladies, joined by my colleagues from Rule of Threes, a representative from Liverpool Biennial, and artists from Darch Collective. It was a special gathering, as we’ll be contributing to their work for Liverpool Biennial: Bedrock 2025.
The session had a wonderful turnout, and I received 15 more letters for The Moon Letters project. I’m so grateful to everyone who has taken the time to contribute, and I can’t wait for the moment when I finally hold the book in my hands.
There’s something deeply personal about letters. I find myself attached to each one, treating them as precious objects. They arrive in different ways: through messages, emails, and in person. Each carrying unique thoughts, emotions, and perspectives. People respond in their own way, and I appreciate every word, every feeling that has been shared.
This project is becoming more than just a collection of letters, and I’m excited to see where it leads and to share these stories with a wider audience.
Karema 