I took part in a workshop led by Alex Schady as part of the Fine Art Digital Residency week which thoughtfully organised by Jonathan for both MA classes.
The session focused on collaborative making and began with a simple exercise: a flat sheet of cardboard was shared and each student created an arrow. I made a very simple arrow, similar to Alex’s example, while others explored more playful and experimental shapes. I noticed something familiar about my role in workshops I often observe more than I produce, watching how others approach the task becomes part of my learning process.
We then moved outside to the street and began performing with our objects, engaging with the urban environment and the people around us. The arrows shifted from being simple objects to becoming gestures in public space.. Accusatory fingers!
In the next stage we worked in pairs to create inflatable body extensions using plastic sheets. I collaborated with Rachael, and we agreed to make angel wings. The process was technically tricky, due to delicate material, but we managed to build them, and had a lot of fun experimenting with movement.
Afterwards we gathered outside for a collective performance where everyone presented their creations. Eventually groups merged and people began wearing multiple extensions, forming a kind of shared body. The performance ended with one large collective body.
What stayed with me most was the way Alex held the space. He allowed collaboration to happen naturally without pressure. No one felt forced to participate in a particular way. This made me think about concept of social sculpture and the idea that society itself can be shaped through collective processes.
The workshop felt like a small example of this idea. Through simple materials and shared actions we created a temporary social structure based on making, negotiating and performing together.
Afterwards I visited the first-year MA students’ exhibition. It was interesting to see the space and reflect on how quickly time passes during the MA journey. It was also lovely meeting fellow artists in person for the first time there was an immediate sense of familiarity and trust.
Although I could only stay for a few hours, the experience felt full. Sometimes a few meaningful hours can contain days of learning. Alex’s workshop demonstrated how much can happen in a short time making, performing and collaborating and it left me wondering how much deeper this process could go if we had the opportunity to continue it over several sessions.
As I write this final reflection on The Right Map, I can see how many threads hold this project together. There is the community garden that Tom Doubtfire leads with steady optimism. There is the fundraiser that Tom and I organised as members of Ghost Art School, with generous support in kind from The Bakery in Liverpool. And there is the final day itself, which happened only because of the effort and kindness shown by Rory Macbeth, there was no funding and no safety net, there were only people who care and people who give far more than anyone could fairly expect.
The Community Garden
The garden at the old social club-Kensington was meant to be a shared space, a place for people to grow food, spend time, and reclaim something green together. We cleaned it again and again. We cleared rubbish, made plans and planted possibilities… Yet there were days when I felt defeated. Rubbish would reappear as soon as we removed it.. Things were stolen! Many times it felt as if the effort was swallowed by indifference!
But Tom is different.. He keeps turning up with a sense of commitment that is both hopeful and stubborn. He holds a belief in slow change that I respect deeply and I’ll continue to support him, not only as a friend but as an artist I respect.
Fundraising as a Collective Gesture
The fundraiser at The Bakery was a small moment when collective energy came together. With the help of visitors, friends, and many acts of generosity, we raised £300 for Thamara Organisation.
The rooms held an installation by Tom D, inspired by the community garden. There were drawings made by children in previous workshops Tom led. There were my political ceramics. There was a tiny painting by Tom Kelly, fixed to a huge blob of blue tack. There were paintings prints by Alison Reid.
And from food sales and prints and T shirts that I printed, some showing the map of Palestine and others carrying the Ghost Art School logo designed by Rory Macbeth, along with extra donations, the amount slowly gathered. It felt modest, but it carried meaning. It was a gesture of care that reflected the spirit of The Right Map.
The Final Day: Unstable 4
The final day of The Right Map was full of beautiful chaos.. I was working in other side at Crosby Library until the afternoon for a Liverpool Biennial event with the collective DARCH, so I arrived with no time to prepare anything special. Once again it was Rory who brought the day to a close and who held everything together with calmness and capability. I will not forget the amazing large carousel installation by Marie-Sofie Braune, who is now doing an MFA at CSM. It arrived from Germany and was too large to ship at a reasonable cost, so Rory travelled to deliver it and installed it.
As Rory described it, the event became:“Unstable 4. The final event of Unstable at Port Sunlight fully embraced instability. A broken fever dream of a fairground carousel, a car trying to get into the gallery while playing dislocated tape loops, surplus images spat out of a machine, surplus films looping, noise performed, letters to the moon, records playing off centre, photographic sculptures hiding in half light, one to one performances in a tent.”
Somehow all of this disorder made sense. It was the right ending to a project that was never about polish but about presence. It showed what happens when artists, friends, and communities choose to take action even when resources are limited, even when schedules do not match, and even when the project is held together by human effort rather than funding.
Finally, The Right Map did not map places. It mapped relationships, labour, generosity, frustration, and persistence. It mapped the hidden work that supports community spaces and the unstability that becomes a creative method rather than a barrier.
The Right Map artists: Alison Reid, Alma Stritt, Charli Kleeman, Chelsea Johnson, Chris Roberts, Colm Moore, Conner Browne, Cos Ahmet, Danielle Freakley, David W Hicks, Eleanor Capstick, Finn Roberts, Gary Finnegan, Gwendolin Kircali, Halyna Maystrenko-Grant, Hannah Browne, Harriet Morley, Igor Prato Luna, Jasmir Creed, Jessica Crowe, Karema Munassar, Lily Patricija, Mai Sanchez, Marie-Sofie Braune, Molly Lindsay, Molly Mousdell, Phoebe Thomas, Priya Foster, Ritu Arya, Rory Macbeth, Sonic Relics, Theodora Koumbouzis, Tom Doubtfire, Tom Kelly, Valentina Passerini, and Xueying Zhang
Last Friday, I exhibited as part of Ornament–Intent, curated by Emma Rushton at her house in Manchester. The exhibition offered a chance to re-situate my practice within the intimacy of a domestic environment. The curatorial premise, that decoration and political intent flow through the home, aligned closely with my interest in how social and political meaning is transmitted through ordinary gestures, materials and language.
Rushton’s house, transformed into a living exhibition space, blurred the boundaries between art and life. The space carried traces of daily existence, forming a backdrop that resisted the neutrality of the white cube. Within this context, my ceramic works and participatory writing installation became part of an evolving conversation about the home as both refuge and political site.
On a handmade ceramic plate inscribed Sykes–Picot 1916, I presented a red velvet cake. The act of division mirrored the historical partition of the Middle East under the Sykes–Picot Agreement. I used the domestic ritual of cake-cutting, usually symbolic of celebration, generosity and communion, to expose its opposite: consumption, greed and geopolitical appetite.
This gesture was performative in the sense Joseph Beuys might describe as Soziale Plastik (social sculpture), where symbolic action and participation become material. The knife, crumbs and creamy surface formed an ephemeral installation that questioned how colonial histories persist within gestures of hospitality and everyday pleasure.
A second ceramic work consisted of 11 handmade spoons arranged in a circular formation across a white table. Each spoon was inscribed with the name of a country and a range of dates, including Gaza, Bosnia, Yemen, Cambodia, Congo, India, Ireland .. etc marking periods of famine, war and conflict. Together, they formed a kind of geopolitical clock, a cycle of recurring histories and unresolved wounds.
Unlike traditional cartography, this piece used domestic utensils, tools of nourishment and care, to map famines/conflicts. The spoons stood in for mouths, stories and silenced voices, suggesting that global politics is not abstract but deeply entangled with the rhythms of everyday life.
In the setting of Ornament–Intent, this work transformed the dining table into a site of memory. It invited viewers to confront histories of violence not through spectacle but through quiet familiarity. The domestic language of tableware became an entry point into questions of accountability and empathy. The work reflects my ongoing interest in social sculpture as an aesthetic of recontextualisation, where meaning is generated through the repositioning of ordinary materials within spaces of shared attention and care.
Another ceramic piece juxtaposed a sugar bowl labelled Third World with a spoon marked First World. Sugar, a substance historically tied to trade, slavery and colonial wealth, became a material metaphor for extraction and imbalance.
Placed in a domestic setting, the object drew attention to how structural inequalities are embedded in ordinary life. A simple act such as stirring sugar into tea carries invisible histories of power. In this sense, the work functioned as a micro-political sculpture, where meaning emerges not through spectacle but through subtle provocation within the familiar.
A handwritten note, in Arabic and English, listed key dates in Sudan’s history of famine and conflict: 1984, 1993, 2017, 2024, followed by the line (And Sudan’s issues remain words on paper…) with a ceramic spoon read (Money eats first)
Here, I explored the limits of communication and documentation, and how political struggle often becomes archived as text, detached from lived experience. The translation between languages paralleled the translation between activism and representation, between the urgency of lived crisis and the inertia of global indifference. The work questioned the gap between empathy and action, a recurring concern in my social sculpture practice. What is the role of the artist when language itself becomes complicit in the act of forgetting?
In another part of the house, I presented Dear Moon, a participatory installation inviting visitors to write letters to the moon. A small writing table, paper, envelopes and a black letterbox created a space for reflection and dialogue.
This piece extended my ongoing investigation into correspondence and indirect communication, letters that may never reach their destination yet carry emotional truth. The moon, as an unreachable listener, became a symbol of distance, empathy and collective longing.
Here, the act of writing functioned as a social sculpture, a participatory moment that transformed private thought into shared experience. It also reasserted my belief that art can hold silence as much as speech, offering space for what cannot be articulated in political discourse.
Ornament–Intent revealed how the domestic realm, often coded as private or decorative, is inherently political. Within Emma Rushton’s home, art entered the space of the everyday, resisting the hierarchies that separate aesthetic experience from lived reality.
My contribution sought to hold this tension between care and critique, ornament and intent, intimacy and history. Each ceramic object or written phrase acted as a small social gesture, reanimating the conversation between form, politics and communication.
Account Not Recognised at Birch in June was part of The Right Map programme by Ghost Art School. The exhibition took place in the Hamilton building, which was once a bank. This setting shaped my thinking about the title and the idea of value, exchange and belonging. The phrase Account Not Recognised came from my digital text piece and reflected both a technical error and a human condition. It suggested exclusion, misunderstanding and the unstable ways in which identities and actions are acknowledged or denied.
Co- curating this show was a process of collaboration and care. We wanted to create a space that could hold protest and rest, activism and absurdity, humour and exhaustion. The title Account Not Recognised came from the familiar digital message, but in this context it became about being unseen or misread, and about the tensions between visibility and erasure.
My own contributions included a pillow, a fragment of wall text and a digital LED display. The pillow was printed with an image found online showing a crowded boat of migrants at sea, overlaid with a pixelated speech bubble saying “HELLO”. It appeared soft and domestic, yet the image beneath disrupted that comfort. The LED panel displayed inverted scrolling red text Account Not Recognised and the wall text read “Dear Moon, The war has sto…” and referred to my Dear Moon project. It was a sentence left unfinished, a letter that could not be completed…
In the centre of the gallery stood a large boat containing soil and growing sunflowers. The boat came from the Kensington community garden project by Tom D and functioned as a living sculpture. It was both landlocked and adrift, a fragile symbol of movement, care and survival.
Other artists’ works brought further layers to the exhibition. Rory’s video showed a chicken foot strapped to his shoe, filmed during a protest in Russia on the second anniversary of the invasion of Ukraine. It was a quiet but powerful gesture that turned absurdity into endurance. Tom D’s photographs documented a Palestine Action protest at the Elbit Systems site in Oldham, where activists succeeded in stopping the production of weapons for the Israeli military. The red-stained facade of the building became both a wound and a mark of resistance.
Molly’s black and white drawings added a more abstract presence.. Lily’s film, projected inside a small metal alcove, appeared to be caught mid-edit, reflecting on itself as it played.
Two live performances took place on the opening night. Soop, by Hannah, Marie and Tom K, involved the audience in making a communal soup. It was messy, generous and unpredictable, reminding me of how collaboration relies on trust as well as misunderstanding. Xueying Zhang’s performance with her collaborator involved holding a cardboard pole between their bodies while slapping each other. It expressed the tension between cooperation and conflict, both intimate and absurd.
The work here whether documentary, performative or digital, asked what it means to be recognised and what is lost or gained in that process. It confirmed my interest in social sculpture and the politics of communication.
Finally, recognition is never simple or complete, yet within its uncertainty there is always room for empathy..
On Monday, I joined the open 1–1 tutorial with Jonathan. I really needed that conversation, my thoughts were fighting inside my head, and sometimes talking is the best way to organise them.
We discussed many different things. Jonathan has a great way of asking the kind of questions I should be asking myself. I feel that if I had one good question every day, I’d probably write on my blog much more often.
We talked about The Right Map exhibition series and my experiences, how much I learned from working with different people, and how I feel about working with different groups: one more formal and structured, and the other relaxed and informal. Although I’m an organised person who likes to plan ahead, I found that I have the ability to be adaptable and ready to work in fast-paced situations, finding solutions in the moment. It was a challenge, but it also increased my confidence.
I know people have different styles of thinking and working, and as long as we trust each other’s intentions and skills, things go smoothly. We can fill each other’s gaps, and I was definitely learning so much from our team.
For me, the goal of The Right Map was to create a free and welcoming space where everyone could learn and grow together. That’s what makes a social sculpture, and that’s the goal of making this kind of art.
We also talked about the CBS show Sculpture (see my previous post), which reminded me that I should share the short text I wrote for it, along with the 50-word bio I submitted, and the one I received written by artist Cos Ahmet, which my sculpture responded to.
Here are the two secret bios:
Cos Ahmet:
Tropes corporeal fragmented, human, other. Limbs without a host, the skin of things physical, digital. Choreographic. The material’s immaterial states between liminal space on the threshold of self, other. Dust.
Me:
A child took up her pen, signing walls with her name. We’ll play socially… I’ll sculpt the riddle. Language won’t matter; wisdom gathered on page 104–105. Forgive the broken clock!
Another part of our discussion was about Social Publishing, a lecture by Allegra Baggio Corradi that I listened to after the printing meeting with Alex Schady. Jonathan had attended that session too, so it was wonderful to exchange thoughts and notes with someone who was there. We both agreed how inspiring it was. I realised how much it connected with my ongoing project Writing Letters to the Moon.
Learning about Social Publishing, even just understanding its definition, helped me see what I’ve been doing from a new perspective. I’ve always thought of my book as a sculpture, its process far removed from traditional publishing. I don’t see myself as an author but as an artist, still figuring out what that means!!
These days it’s hard not to wonder are artists becoming celebrities, activists, or something in between? Genuine voices, attention-seekers or good actors? There’s definitely more to write about this.. I feel like I’ve gathered so much new information, yet the more I learn, the more I realise how far I am from finding the right answers.. And the higher I try to rise, the lighter I have to become, learning to let go of things and sometimes people along the way..
I showed a new work in the group exhibition Slip Stream at CBS Gallery 1st July , curated by Phoebe Thomas. The curatorial framework set us an unusual challenge: each artist was given a 50-word anonymous biography of another contributor. Without names, without identities, we had to respond to these fragments and create a work that became, in some way, a conversation.
My response was a sculpture that invited people to communicate through their hands. The idea began with a conversation I had with my tutor, Jonathan, about how deafblind people often use touch as their primary language. That image stayed with me, of words transformed into hand movements, of dialogue carried through the skin.
I worked with a carpenter to build a wooden structure, box-like and slightly absurd. In fact, he thought it was a lab project at first, not an artwork. It has two circular holes on each side, just large enough for a hand to slip through. Inside, participants could meet in the middle, fingertips searching for another human presence.
What unfolded was fascinating. Some people laughed, finding the whole set-up comical. Others hesitated, uncertain about the strangeness of touching an unseen hand. A few lingered, holding on quietly as though the box had suspended time and language. I loved how the responses varied, awkwardness, tenderness, curiosity, even vulnerability.
For me, the sculpture is about the fragility of communication. We take for granted the ease of speaking or looking, but when those channels are removed, what remains? What does it mean to reach out when you cannot see or hear the other person? In the gallery, the box became a stage for these encounters: funny, intimate, and unsettling all at once.
This work revealed something important about my practice. I often circle back to questions of language, misunderstanding, and how people find ways to connect across barriers. I came to see how even the simplest gestures can be at once symbolic and deeply tangible. In its awkwardness, the sculpture echoed the curatorial task we had taken on blindly, while also reflecting my interest in co-production: an exploration of indirect connection, partial knowledge, and the fragile space between concealment and encounter.
Someone: Should artists invigilate their own exhibition?
Me: Absolutely not!
We finally opened our first exhibition Unstable #1 on the festival’s opening day 7th of June . The works were powerful, the team was wonderful, and I learned so much from them. I remain deeply grateful to everyone who came, especially my tutor Jonathan. The exhibition brought together artists from Liverpool, London, Glasgow, Germany, and even as far as Australia.
But despite the excitement, I had a difficult experience when I volunteered to invigilate for a day. The Biennial was short of volunteers, and I wanted to help. Yet what I found most challenging was being present in front of my own work: the Sykes–Picot plates, left exactly as they had been on opening night, still holding the crumbs of cake.
When visitors arrived, I would usually begin by introducing the other artists’ works, one by one. I avoided starting with my own. I didn’t present myself as “the artist” but as someone available to guide, to answer questions. I wanted to hear honest responses without the filter of politeness.
Two moments unsettled this:
– First, a group of visitors stopped at my work, were deeply moved, and immediately linked it to what is happening in Gaza. They asked questions, spoke at length, and even wanted a photo of me with the piece.
– Then, two other visitors became emotional as we discussed the history of Sykes–Picot. They spoke of the weariness of violence, of how exhausting it is to keep watching the news. One woman broke down in tears. I felt her exhaustion echo within me, though I tried to remain composed and gently encouraged her to look at the other works.
In those moments, I realised how much people need space to voice their rejection of violence and injustice. We all long for ways to speak out, to push against the weight of helplessness or guilt.. yet, after those encounters, I knew I couldn’t invigilate again. The conclusion was clear: invigilating is not for me.
For more than three months this year, my life was consumed by The Right Map. Coordinating and organising eight shows ( Unstable 1,2,3,4, Account, Account Not Recognised, Slip Stream and In Search of Swallow and Amazon show/fundraising event) across Liverpool was a huge undertaking logistically, emotionally, and artistically. It was intense work: curating, communicating with artists and collaborators, solving problems on the spot, and carrying the responsibility of holding so many different voices together in one programme.
During the summer, I couldn’t write about it.. The pace was too fast, the demands too many, and on top of that, family responsibilities and personal challenges were pulling me in different directions. I was tired, grateful, overwhelmed, and very often carrying mixed feelings that left little room for reflection.
Looking back, I see the full image: what worked, what I loved, what was difficult, and where I grew. Writing from this distance feels possible, even necessary. I realise that part of my practice is not only in the making or the showing but also in reflecting.
The Right Map reminded me of this: the gaps, the tensions and the silences were as important as the works themselves. The experience was more than making artworks. It was about what happens when we work together, recognising where we succeeded so we can carry that forward, and where things did not work so we can avoid them in the future.
In the next posts, I want to unpack some of the moments that stayed with me: the artworks that resonated deeply, the tensions that tested me, the negotiations and miscommunications that revealed the realities of working collectively, and the unexpected joys that reminded me why I do this work.
I needed time to arrive here. To allow the intensity to pass, and to feel ready to write. Now, I can see The Right Map not only as a demanding project but as a turning point in how I think about curation, collaboration, and care in my practice..
The Right Map was a series of exhibitions presented by Ghost Art School as part of the Independents Biennial. Emerging from the spirit of Ghost Art School, it celebrated artists who move between margins, who learn in the cracks, who map their own routes when none are given.
Here, the map was never fixed, drawn in gestures, erased by time, redrawn in conversation, in defiance, in care. The Right Map asked not where we are going, but how we move… and who gets to move with us.
The Right Map 36 artists: Alison Reid, Alma Stritt, Charli Kleeman, Chelsea Johnson, Chris Roberts, Colm Moore, Conner Browne, Cos Ahmet, Danielle Freakley, David W Hicks, Eleanor Capstick, Finn Roberts, Gary Finnegan, Gwendolin Kircali, Halyna Maystrenko-Grant, Hannah Browne, Harriet Morley, Igor Prato Luna, Jasmir Creed, Jessica Crowe, Karema Munassar, Lily Patricija, Mai Sanchez, Marie-Sofie Braune, Molly Lindsay, Molly Mousdell, Phoebe Thomas, Priya Foster, Ritu Arya, Rory Macbeth, Sonic Relics, Theodora Koumbouzis, Tom Doubtfire, Tom Kelly, Valentina Passerini, and Xueying Zhang
Earlier this month, a group of us, friends/artists gathered at Birch Studios & Gallery in Wirral, for a one-night experiment we called Crash Test. Half exhibition, half crit, half scratch night. Crash Test was a place to try things out, to test-drive new work and unfinished thoughts in a space where feedback was as valued as the visuals.
The idea was simple: set up something raw, something you’re unsure about, and invite others to respond. The name Crash Test seemed fitting, not just for its visual punch, but because it captured the risk, the speed, and the impact of trying something unpolished in public.
I brought along some child-like drawings, experimenting with simplicity, ambiguity, and humour. The feedback I received was encouraging, people connected with the looseness, the absurdity, and the layered messages behind the bright colours and crayon lines.
That said, for the upcoming Show ‘Unstable’ as part of the Independents Biennial, I want to develop something more dynamic and expansive, something less stable and more open-ended. I’m thinking of revisiting the Moon Litters idea. There’s something about the unpredictability of that work, the way it can shift and change over the exhibition’s duration that feels right for where I’m at now. It allows space for other voices, movements, and moments to enter.
Coordinating The Right Map for the Ghost Art School artists was intended as an act of support for others. But in the process, I found myself unexpectedly charting new ground in my own practice. What began as a curatorial and facilitative role gradually unfolded into a deep personal enquiry, one that significantly shaped my ongoing research in social sculpture.
I began to notice shifts in my own thinking. Supporting artists to articulate their intentions, reflect on their choices, and ground their practice compelled me to ask the same of myself. It was not a passive role; it was active, dynamic, and generative.
Interestingly, throughout The Right Map, I found myself increasingly drawn to the curatorial aspects of my work more than the making itself. It’s not just about presenting artworks, it’s about orchestrating experiences, holding conversations, shaping encounters. I became fascinated with how frameworks are built, how meaning is constructed around and through art. In many ways, the coordination itself became a form of social sculpture.
This shift is not about stepping away from being an artist…it’s about understanding the expanded field in which I operate. Curation, facilitation, research, and community-building have become a core tool kit in my practice. Through coordinating The Right Map, I gained new confidence in embracing this hybridity. I no longer see it as fragmented, but rather as a cohesive and intentional mode of working that reflects my values and voice.
Karema 