Tag: Writing

Posted in 2025-2026, collaboration, Project, Reading, Social Sculpture, Writing

March Shared Reading

Posted on by KM

We recently started a new group in my programme called International Shared Reading, with the support of The Reader. Instead of taking the training myself, I recommended two women from my group an assistant from Afghanistan and a volunteer from Portugal to take the paid training and co-lead the sessions alongside my co-producer, while I support them where needed. I believe that our strength comes from building a strong team rather than individual effort.

As part of the preparations for our upcoming Iftar gathering, I led a special reading session. It created a space to ask questions and learn more about Ramadan. We read a poem together, spoke about prayer, and people asked many questions about fasting and other related topics. Questions are welcome, they help clarify misunderstandings. When I went home that evening, I kept thinking about our conversation. Later, a volunteer sent a beautiful message in our group chat thanking me for the session.

The next day I decided to create small blessing or affirmation cards for our guests, inspired by the poem we read together. I Hope You Make It, a poem by Maxine Meixner, is written in a simple and beautiful way. The words can reach people without challenging them with difficult language. I spent the day writing my simple prayers and preparing the cards so I could finish them at the library the next day.

The cards are simple and decorated with flowers. I chose lavender because it has a gentle, calming scent. In a way, the cards became a small social sculpture, something guests could take with them, carrying the memory of the Iftar after they leave.

Posted in 2025-2026, Books, Reading, Translation, Writing

Wanderer (2009)

Posted on by KM

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.

 

Posted in 2025-2026, Books, Reading, Reflection, Social Sculpture, Writing

Gogol, Kafka and Macbeth

Posted on by KM

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?

Posted in 2025-2026, Books, Reading, Reflection, Research, Translation, Writing

Translation #2

Posted on by KM

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.

Photos credit: https://www.gettyimages.co.uk/photos/aden-colony

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…

Posted in 2025-2026, Reading, Reflection, Writing

Translation by Sophie J. Williamsons

Posted on by KM

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.

Posted in 2025-2026, Reflection, Research, Writing

Animals Metaphors in Art

Posted on by KM

When revisiting my research statement from last year, I found myself returning to the ideas of care and failure within social sculpture. These themes continue to shape my practice and felt essential to include in my research paper. However, my section on animals in art grew too large for the word count and began to pull the paper away from its main focus. I removed it, but after simplifying and editing it, the section stands on its own and is worth sharing here.

My interest in non-human metaphors comes from noticing how artists and writers use animals to express political tension, historical memory and emotional states that might otherwise be silenced. These strategies reveal relationships between power, vulnerability and resistance, and they raise questions about ethics and communication that deeply influence my practice.

Animals and Non-human Metaphors in the Work of Joseph Beuys and Tania Bruguera

Animals sit at the centre of Joseph Beuys’s practice, shaping his ideas on power, vulnerability and transformation. The coyote in I Like America and America Likes Me symbolised Indigenous people and the pre-colonial landscape. For Beuys, it embodied an idealised belief in the intelligence and vitality of the natural world. The coyote represented resistance to American imperialism during the Vietnam War and carried his hopes for future healing between cultures and species.

In How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare, Beuys moved slowly through the gallery with his face covered in honey and gold leaf, whispering explanations to the dead animal in his arms. The hare, associated with intuition, knowledge and resurrection, became a metaphor for what cannot be reached by rational language. Marina Abramović’s re-performance in 2005 affirmed the lasting resonance of this symbolic encounter between human and non-human life.

Where Beuys often turned to animals as partners in myth, intuition and healing, Tania Bruguera approaches them in relation to power, authority and political memory. Her interventions expose the structures that shape public life and the institutional spaces that maintain them.

In Tatlin’s Whisper 5, Bruguera used two mounted police officers and their horses to carry out crowd-control tactics inside Tate Modern. The horses were trained for authority and control and entered the space with an unmistakable sense of force. Their presence transformed the gallery from a site of passive viewing into a charged environment where visitors were physically steered, separated and confronted. The work made visible the techniques of state power, such as dispersal, redirection and intimidation, which usually operate outside cultural institutions.

This action gained further weight when placed in the context of the building itself. Tate Modern stands on a history shaped by colonial wealth. Henry Tate’s fortune, although not derived from enslaved ownership, came from the sugar industry, which relied on enslaved labour in the Caribbean. The arrival of horses trained for policing, inside a space funded by a colonial economy, formed a powerful collision of past and present. Visitors were not only witnessing a performance but experiencing an enactment of authority within a space built from historical exploitation. The work stripped away any illusion of institutional neutrality and revealed how cultural venues remain entwined with systems of control.

Bruguera’s The Burden of Guilt, created between 1997 and 1999, offers another approach to the animal body. Drawing on a Cuban story of Indigenous resistance, she performed with a lamb carcass around her neck and ate soil mixed with saltwater. The lamb suggested innocence and sacrifice, becoming a sign of communal grief and historical responsibility. Eating earth became a way to carry memory physically, as if the body itself were absorbing history and mourning.

Bruguera and Beuys both use animals to raise moral, political and spiritual questions, yet their motivations diverge. Beuys turns towards healing, intuition and mythic reconciliation. Bruguera challenges institutional power, colonial violence and endurance under authority. In both cases, animals operate as active agents of meaning rather than decorative symbols. Their presence forces audiences to confront issues that are emotional, ethical and political.

Although the symbolism in both artists’ use of animals is powerful, I remain uneasy about the incorporation of real animals and human parts in art. Ethical questions arise about the process, the treatment of bodies and the implications of using them. I also wonder whether there are clear rules or guidelines, and how far artists are permitted to go.

Animal Metaphors in Literature

My favourite use of animals since childhood has always been in literature, storytelling and cartoons (Oh God, who does not like Shaun the Sheep!).. It feels playful, imaginative and often a very indirect way to speak the truth, especially when living under a dictatorship or in a place where free speech is a crime. Writers across cultures have used non-human characters to challenge authority and reflect on the human condition. Here are three examples from different cultures that I read and appreciate for their political and social insights.

In George Orwell’s Animal Farm, the animals rise up in search of equality, only for their revolution to collapse into tyranny. The pigs become the new political leaders, while the other animals represent broader society. I cannot help thinking about the Arab Spring when I read it. As someone who witnessed those moments of hope, I later realised how much of it was false, planned in advance and driven by forces far beyond ordinary people. Many were drawn into it with naivety, without knowledge, and without considering the consequences.

Kafka’s The Metamorphosis uses Gregor Samsa’s transformation into an insect to explore alienation and the erosion of identity. His inability to communicate and his slow disappearance from the concerns of his family reflect the conditions that made him feel powerless long before he changed form. It reminds me a great deal of social life in Europe. There is a sense of absence that hides beneath the appearance of belonging, and a feeling that you are present, yet not fully seen.

Kalila wa Dimna  (کلیله و دمنه), is a collection of fables in which animals take on human roles and dilemmas. The book contains fifteen chapters filled with stories that feature animal characters as heroes, advisers and rulers. One of the central figures is the lion, who appears as a king, attended by his loyal ox and two jackals of the title, Kalila and Dimna, serve both as narrators and as key characters within the tales. The work most likely originated from an ancient Indian text, translated to Arabic and later travelled across cultures and languages.

The stories appear simple but contain hidden meanings that allowed authors to criticise rulers while avoiding punishment. The animal characters become subtle tools for examining authority and ethical responsibility. For me, this is one of the best examples of how wisdom was taught during the Islamic Golden Age. It shows that people have always found ways to teach, influence and communicate important ideas while reducing the risks that come with speaking openly.

Finally, in Orwell, animals reveal the collapse of idealism. In Kafka, they expose psychological and social erasure. In Kalila wa Dimna, they protect dissenting views. In Bruguera and Beuys, they carry political, spiritual and historical weight. Non-human imagery creates space for reflection on power, vulnerability and the possibility of transformation. It encourages viewers to reconsider the boundaries between human and animal, self and other, institution and individual.

Books :

Kafka, F.Metamorphosis. Franz Kafka

Munshi, N. Kalila and Dimna. Translated by W. Thackston.

Orwell, G. Animal farm.

Posted in 2025-2026, collaboration, curation, Exhibitions, Project, Reflection, Research, Social Sculpture

Account Not Recognised- Reflection of The Right Map

Posted on by KM

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..

Posted in 2025-2026, collaboration, curation, Exhibitions, Reflection, Writing

The Right Map-reflection: Writing on CBS Hands’ Box

Posted on by KM

I wrote this piece after meeting a stranger at the garden, young woman and her friend. I was with my friends at an abandoned garden space, helping a friend artist Tom Doubtfire who was turning it into a community garden. We planted flowers and vegetables, cleaned the area many times, and removed piles of rubbish, even though people kept throwing more and using the space at night for drug dealing.

It is sad to see that, but also inspiring to witness how a group of artists continues to work with hope and determination to make a tangible difference. This is what I believe social sculpture truly means, making change through collective effort and care.

The piece was first written in Arabic and then translated into English as a note to myself. Later, I decided to include it in my Hands Box sculpture, inviting others to add their own words if they feel moved to do so.

I will share more about the community garden and the legend Tom Doubtfire in another post.

Kate ..

في تلك اللحظة شعرت بعجزٍ تام عن التعبير. كانت العيون وحدها تتحدث بلا انقطاع، وكأنها تفرّ من الكلام عن ذلك الذي يخيم بيننا، كأنه شبح خفي. كانت عيناها تخفيان أسرارًا كثيرة، وكنت أتجنب التحديق فيهما، إذ كلما التقت نظراتنا، راودتني رغبة ملحّة في أن أقول ما هو جوهري: “أنا قلقة عليكِ… أنتِ بحاجة إلى المساعدة، ويبدو أنك لست بخير.”

لكن عينيها كانتا تقولان بصمت: “ليس الآن”، بينما لسانها انشغل بسرد قصص عن بطولات إنقاذ الحيوانات وحب النباتات. كنت أودّ أن أخبرها بأنني أرى نقاء قلبها، لكن الكلام بدا بلا جدوى، فقد بدت شبه غائبة عن الوعي. ما كان مهمًّا آنذاك هو أن تواصل الحديث ونحن نصغي، إذ كانت تحتاج لمن يسمعها في تلك اللحظة تحديدًا.

راحت مشاعر الحزن تطوّقني، وبدأت أتحرّك مضطربة بين اليمين واليسار، بينما هي تُصرّ على ألا تُبعد عينيها عني. اجتاحني ارتباك، فابتسمت وضحكت، دون أن أدري كيف أسيطر على كل ما كان يعتمل بداخلي.

كان الحرف الأول من اسمها هو ذاته الحرف الأول من اسمي، وكانت آثار الجروح واضحة على جسدها النحيل. كانت برفقة صديق بدا هو الآخر بحاجة إلى العون…

عانقت الجميع قبل أن ترحل، ووعدت بأنها ستعود في الغد حاملةً معها بعض الأزهار.

لم أكن وحدي في ذلك المكان، بل كنت بين أناس أعزّهم كثيرًا؛ أناسٍ كلما اقتربت منهم، رغبت لو أختبئ خلفهم ولا أبالي بشيء…

In that moment, I felt utterly incapable of expressing myself. Only our eyes kept speaking incessantly, as though fleeing from acknowledging what loomed between us, a hidden ghost. Her eyes concealed many secrets, and I avoided staring into them, for each time our gazes met, I was seized by an urgent desire to say what truly mattered: “I’m worried about you… You need help, and it seems you’re not okay.”

But her eyes silently replied, “Not now,” while her tongue busied itself with tales of heroic rescues of animals and a love for plants. I longed to tell her that I saw the goodness in her heart, but words felt futile, as she seemed almost absent, barely conscious. What truly mattered then was for her to keep speaking, while we simply listened, she needed someone to hear her in that very moment.

A wave of sorrow surrounded me, and I began pacing back and forth, while she insisted on keeping her eyes fixed on mine. I felt overwhelmed, smiling and laughing without knowing how to contain the turmoil raging inside me.

The first letter of her name was the same as the first letter of mine, and marks of wounds were visible on her frail body. She was accompanied by a friend who also seemed in need of help… She hugged everyone before leaving, promising she would return the next day, bringing some flowers with her.

I was not alone in that place, I was surrounded by people I hold very dear, people whose closeness makes me wish I could hide behind them and care about nothing else…

Posted in 2025-2026, Lectures 2025-2026, Reflection, Research, Writing

1–1 Tutorial 6th October 2025

Posted on by KM

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.. 

Posted in Drawings, Exhibitions, Experiments, Project, Reflection, Writing

Crash Test

Posted on by KM

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.

My work 😬