The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
Emancipating
The
Exhausted
Artist
Christopher
Matthew
Dooks
Thesis
submitted
in
partial
fulfilment
of
the
requirements
of
the
University
of
the
West
of
Scotland
for
the
award
of
Doctor
of
Philosophy
November
2014
Declaration
The
research
contained
within
this
thesis
is
my
own
work
and
has
not
been
submitted
elsewhere
for
a
PhD
or
comparable
academic
award.
Christopher
Matthew
Dooks
November
2014
ii
Table
of
Contents:
i)
Abstract
p.vii
ii)
Prologue
p.ix
Chapter
1:
Introduction
p.1
1.
The
research
question
/
hypothesis
p.2
2.
The
rise
of
the
‘auto’
p.8
3.
Writing
in
the
first
person
as
an
academic
strategy
p.11
4.
Personal
experiences
within
doctoral
research
p.16
5.
Obstacles
within
reading
and
writing
p.17
6.
How
the
records
and
commentary
were
developed
p.19
7.
The
structure
of
this
text
and
the
format
and
availability
of
the
objects
p.21
Chapter
2:
What
is
CFS-‐ME?
p.24
1.
CFS-‐ME
-‐
Nomenclature
p.25
2.
The
medical
encounter
p.28
3.
Basics
-‐
the
primary
symptoms
of
CFS-‐ME
p.29
4.
CFS-‐ME
research
and
current
interventions
p.32
5.
Mindfulness,
a
cheap
panacea?
p.34
6.
The
‘entrepreneurial
sector’
of
CFS-‐ME
p.36
7.
CFS-‐ME
in
popular
culture
or
Suki,
go
to
the
well
p.38
8.
CFS-‐ME
and
thinking
oneself
well
p.39
Chapter
3:
Artists
in
Extremis
p.41
Cultural
Methodologies
of
Extreme
Limitations
1.
George
Perec’s
A
Void
p.42
2.
Prisoner’s
Inventions
p.43
3.
The
Ayrshire
Lion
Tamer
p.45
4.
Three
artists
in
extremis;
Cancer,
Sickle
Cell
Anaemia
and
CFS-‐ME
p.46
5.
Jo
Spence:
Cancer
and
Phototherapy
p.48
6.
Donald
Rodney:
Sickle-‐Cell
Anemia
p.52
7.
CFS-‐ME
-‐
The
Half-‐Light
Studies
of
Penny
Clare
p.56
8.
Other
narratives
of
art
making
in
CFS-‐ME
p.60
9.
Usurping
the
second
suffering:
How
may
an
artist
respond
to
CFS-‐ME?
p.64
10.
Learning
with
CFS-‐ME
p.71
iii
Chapter
4:
Bricolage
and
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
p.72
1.
Introduction
/
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker:
my
story
p.73
2.
When
the
filmmaker
falls
apart,
his
films
fall
apart
too
p.78
3.
Defining
bricolage
p.80
4.
Bricolage
and
autoethnography
p.83
5.
The
fractured
film
p.84
6.
Benefits
of
cross-‐disciplinary
practices
p.85
7.
A
larger
cultural
overview
of
bricolage
p.86
7a.
Montage
and
collage
p.88
7b.
Film
production
and
bricolage
p.90
7c.
Bricolage
in
music
p.94
7d.
Musique
Concrète
p.95
7e.
Hip
Hop
p.97
8.
Bricolage
as
a
methodology
for
the
exhausted
artist
p.100
9.
Conclusion
p.101
Chapter
5:
The
Sonic
Contexts
of
the
Project
p.103
1.
Introduction
p.104
2.
Nomenclature
and
niches
of
vinyl
records
p.106
3.
Is
sound-‐art
the
dominant
field?
p.108
4.
Is
music
the
dominant
field?
p.110
5.
Is
radio-‐art
the
dominant
field?
p.111
6.
Therefore,
the
analogue
record
as
an
art
is
the
dominant
field
p.113
6b.
The
Recording
Angel
p.115
i)
The
need
to
make
beauty
and
pleasure
permanent
p.117
ii)
The
need
to
comprehend
beauty
p.118
iii)
The
need
to
distinguish
oneself
as
a
consumer
p.119
iv)
The
need
to
belong
p.120
v)
The
need
to
impress
others,
or
oneself
p.122
7.
Audio,
music
and
interdisciplinary
artists
p.125
8.
The
re-‐rise,
risks
and
rewards
of
vinyl
records
p.129
iv
Chapter
6:
A
Survey
of
Holism
as
a
Basis
for
an
Artist’s
Intervention
p.134
Preface:
from
Aristotle’s
Metaphysics
p.135
1.
On
defining
holism
p.136
2.
CFS-‐ME
as
an
‘holistic’
illness
p.141
3.
The
birth
of
the
term
‘holism’
p.142
4.
Holism
and
the
encounter
between
western
health
&
complementary
health
p.146
5.
Criticising
holism
within
the
complementary
health
encounter
p.153
6.
John
Clark’s
Social
Ecology
and
investigation
of
holism
p.157
7a.
Gideon
Kossoff’s
‘Radical
Holism’
p.160
7b.
Gideon
Kossoff
-‐
interview
responses,
early
2012
p.164
8.
Tarnass
and
The
Passion
of
The
Western
Mind
p.167
9.
Making
the
world
strange
p.171
10.
The
radical
cosmologies
of
artists
p.172
11.
The
new
testaments
of
artists?
Concluding
thoughts
p.177
Chapter
7:
Idioholism:
an
artist’s
intervention
p.182
1.
Introduction:
The
One
Minute
Manifesto
of
the
Exhausted
Artist
p.183
2.
The
idio
p.185
3.
A
short
survey
of
idios
kosmos
p.192
4.
Existing
idioholistic
publications?
p.199
5.
The
transferability
of
the
project’s
principles
p.214
6.
Conclusion
and
The
Ten
Minute
Manifesto
of
Idioholism
p.223
Chapter
8:
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
-‐
Photography,
Design
&
Sleevenotes
p.231
1.
Photography
&
Design
p.232
2.
The
Idioholism
sleevenotes
p.238
3.
‘Part
of’
or
a
primer?
p.241
4.
LP1
SLEEVENOTES:
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
p.243
5.
LP2
SLEEVENOTES:
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
p.252
6.
LP3
SLEEVENOTES:
CIGA{R}LES
p.261
v
Chapter
9:
Contribution
to
Knowledge
and
Conclusion
of
Project
p.274
Preface
p.275
1.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
The
terrain
of
arts
practice
as
research
p.277
2.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
Published
vinyl
records
and
download
packages
p.283
3.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
Papers
and
appearances
p.292
4.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
Terminology
p.295
5.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
The
Exhaustion
Symposium
p.298
6.
Conclusion:
a
self-‐reflective
account
of
successes
and
failures
of
the
project
p.314
Bibliography
p.327
Acknowledgements
p.344
vi
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
Emancipating
The
Exhausted
Artist
Abstract
This
research
project
is
a
first-‐person,
practice-‐led
endeavour
which
contributes
to
the
fields
of
both
medical
humanities
and
the
sonic
arts.
Through
a
reflexive,
auto-‐ethnographic
process,
employing
a
wide
range
of
audio-‐visual
methods,
I
set
out
to
explore
a
range
of
possible
creative
strategies
that
might
be
available
to
the
‘artist
in
extremis’
–
i.e.
the
artist
working
under
conditions
of
illness,
confinement,
restriction
or
limited
energy.
This
process
was
distilled
down,
over
five
years,
to
three
conceptual
vehicles
in
the
form
of
vinyl
records
which
sought
to
offer
openings,
strategies
and
responses
to
conditions
of
extreme
limitation.
From
2009-‐2014,
the
three
vinyl
record
projects
were
developed
by
myself,
an
ex-‐broadcast
filmmaker
continuing
to
navigate
a
life
under
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
/
Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis
(CFS-‐ME)
since
1998.
Each
vinyl
record
project
contains
strategies
across
a
given
stratum
of
life
of
the
‘exhausted
artist’.
The
project
created
a
body
of
both
methodological
and
practical
outputs,
aiming
to
bypass
the
exhaustion,
poor
cognition
and
pain
associated
with
CFS-‐ME.
Through
‘triangulating’
a
series
of
sonic
projects,
each
of
which
was
created
in
a
‘modular’
or
‘bricolage’
process,
the
resultant
trilogy
of
interrelated
12”
vinyl
records
created
a
kind
of
‘cinema
for
the
ears’.
The
recordings
(with
their
sleevenotes
and
vii
graphics)
were
subsequently
published
by
both
external
record
labels
and
also
self-‐
released
via
the
University
of
the
West
of
Scotland.
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
became
an
appropriate
autoethnographic
framework
containing
exercises
towards
a
personal,
‘idio-‐holistic’
existence
for
a
filmmaker
who
could
no
longer
produce
intensive
film
work.
The
expansive
and
attractive
format
of
the
12”
record,
under
the
doctoral
praxis,
allowed
for
a
more
‘modular’
approach
and
format
than
in
formal
filmmaking.
As
an
ex-‐filmmaker
who
is
now
an
exhausted
artist,
I
postulate
that
a
trilogy
of
vinyl
records
could
hone
and
home
the
divergent
media
(i.e.
soundtracks,
spoken
word,
music,
text,
photography)
–
which,
taken
together,
might
have
previously
resulted
in
a
complete
film
in
my
‘past’
life.
viii
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
Emancipating
The
Exhausted
Artist
Prologue
Part
One:
Triceratops
My
three-‐year-‐old
boy
wants
to
lick
my
face.
He
stomps
into
the
room
with
a
beaming
smile,
all
curls,
rosy
cheeks
and
effervescence.
He
is
the
light.
I
love
him.
He
dances
and
he
twists
and
he
laughs
and
he
farts.
He
is
running
about
without
his
pants
on.
He
asks
me
to
put
on
one
of
my
‘round
and
rounds’
so
he
can
dance
to
it.
I
creakily
rise
and
put
on
a
James
Brown
funky
vinyl
I
picked
up
in
Berlin
last
year.
He
asks
me
if
it
is
a
picture
disc
like
our
soundtrack
of
E.T.
I
say
no,
it’s
black
and
smooth.
I
want
to
join
him
but
I’m
dizzy
and
fall
back
onto
the
sofa.
I’m
struggling
today.
My
heavily
pregnant
wife
is
bending
down,
hitching
up
his
new
trousers
that
are
patterned
with
big
stars,
then
she
ties
his
laces.
She
can
hardly
bend
because
she
is
due
to
give
birth
in
twenty
days
and
I
should
be
doing
the
bending
for
her
and
the
tying
for
him,
but
if
I
do
that,
then
I
won’t
have
the
energy
to
gently
engage
with
them
later.
I
want
to
get
up
from
the
sofa
and
take
everyone
out
for
the
day,
or
even
better,
take
the
boy
up
the
summit
of
Goatfell
on
the
Isle
of
Arran,
stick
him
in
my
back-‐pack
and
just
scale
it.
But
I
can’t
do
it.
I
can’t
exercise
myself
out
of
this
illness.
Big
men
crumble
under
it.
Wife
and
boy
leave
the
house
without
me.
ix
My
left
arm
hurts
like
a
tennis
injury.
Tennis!
I
wish.
Veritable
tip
of
a
veritable
iceberg.
Fifteen
years
of
sweaty
exhaustion
from
nowhere,
of
ferocious
drawn
out
fevers
and
edge-‐of-‐your-‐seat
alarm,
missed
heartbeats,
oesophageal
spasms,
reflux
and
retching.
Many
symptoms
are
infuriatingly
hard
to
articulate
-‐
‘psychophysical
phenomena’
is
the
best
I
can
do.
Others
I
recognize
all
too
well,
especially
when
I’ve
overdone
it;
hypnogogic
jerks,
panic
attacks,
cold
sweats,
hot
sweats,
oh,
and
the
current
new
foe,
diabetes.
And
I
write
this
having
just
violently
emptied
my
bowels.
I’ve
been
running
to
the
toilet
for
years.
It’s
where
a
lot
of
the
thinking
for
this
research
project
comes
from,
forged
in
between
bouts
of
diarrhoea,
the
lost
days
and
what
feels
like
detention
for
an
unknown
crime
and
I’m
still
not
sure
what
I
am
being
charged
with.
Paradoxes
come
thick
and
fast.
Here
are
a
few
of
my
favourites:
Too
exhausted
to
sleep.
A
need
for
warm
sun,
that
is
then
too
warm
and
too
bright.
A
need
for
a
dark
room
that
is
then
too
miserable
and
which
compromises
my
circadian
rhythm.
It’s
too
noisy,
but
then
I’m
missing
out
on
life.
Symptoms
go
on
relentlessly
-‐
mood
swings,
or
the
too-‐bright
light
bulb
in
an
acceptably
lit
living
room.
Then
there’s
the
hyperarousal
or
‘falling
out
of
my
hammock’
because
someone
disturbed
me
having
a
quiet
conversation
three
doors
away
in
the
street.
Cat
on
a
hot
tin
roof.
Fried.
Brain
fog.
Edgy
insomnia
evolves
into
x
total
sleep
reversal.
For
some
reason
I’ve
gone
‘back
on
nights’
again.
Oh
and
the
teeth.
There
are
teeth
falling
out
at
the
back
of
my
mouth,
maybe
because
my
chemistry
is
so
acidic,
and
gum
nerves
inflame
the
optic
nerve
of
my
eyes.
Inside
them,
bits
of
my
retina
have
been
falling
off
into
the
vitreous
creating
irritating
and
distracting
floaters
in
my
vision.
Is
this
part
of
the
illness
too?
They’ve
been
growing
since
I
was
a
child.
Was
I
already
a
little
bit
ill
then?
Maybe
mercury
fillings
are
to
blame.
Mercury
fillings
removed.
No
difference.
Diet
adapted;
wheat,
gluten,
sugar,
alkaline-‐acid,
veggie,
vegan
or
glycaemically-‐
friendly
diet.
Little
real-‐world
difference.
Hard
to
get
the
amount
of
exercise
right,
too
little
or
too
much.
When
I’m
really
unwell,
if
I
have
the
audacity
to
walk
to
the
end
of
the
street
and
back,
or
up
a
modest
incline
I’ll
be
forced
to
spend
the
next
24
hours
regretting
every
minute
of
it
with
calf
muscles
and
sternum
ligaments
burning
with
acid-‐like
pain.
I’m
scared
to
view
television
documentaries
that
would
have
been
a
breeze
to
watch
in
my
past
life
as
a
television
documentary
maker.
A
career
that
lasted
eighteen
months.
2013
saw
the
premiere
of
a
film
that
a
friend
of
mine
directed,
an
award
winning
doc
on
a
brave
man
with
Motor
Neurone
Disease.
I
didn’t
make
it
past
the
tenth
minute.
I
don’t
have
an
illness
like
that
yet,
hopefully
never.
There’s
no
way
I’m
that
ill.
But
does
that
mean
I
don’t
suffer?
Or
not
feel
bad
for
those
worse
off
than
me?
Thinking
of
those
in
dire
straits
should
foster
perspective,
but
it
can
make
it
worse
knowing
how
easily
atrophy
can
develop.
It
just
makes
coping
with
today
more
xi
difficult.
My
hand
lies
like
a
lead
weight
on
the
laptop.
My
face
throbs
and
my
thinking
isn’t
straight.
I
can
feel
my
bowels
twisting
or
on
the
edge
of
shitting.
My
biceps
are
sore
and
my
skin
burns.
My
wife
stroked
my
ankle
the
other
night
and
it
felt
like
a
lit
cigarette
on
the
skin.
My
heart
pounds
and
I
feel
toxic,
as
if
I’ve
been
poisoned
or
am
a
hundred
years
old.
I
stop
myself
writing
more
misery-‐memoir.
I
need
that
light
back
in
the
story.
The
family
are
back.
My
boy
asks
to
watch
our
Jurassic
Park
Blu-‐ray,
specifically
where
the
Triceratops
has
eaten
the
wrong
berries
and
lies
heaving
on
its
side.
He
loves
it
for
some
reason.
We
both
do.
He
ate
the
toxic
berries
I
tell
him.
Triceratops
did.
And
me?
Maybe
it
was
something
I
ate?
For
this
long?
Through
losing
work,
relationships,
through
losing
face,
my
mind,
what
is
wrong
with
me?
With
this
illness,
sometimes
I
am
treated
with
suspicion.
I’ve
got
two
friends
with
cancer
and
I
envy
the
pity
and
respect
their
condition
fosters.
I
don’t
envy
their
illness,
or
their
surgery,
or
their
chemo:
I’m
not
a
monster.
I’m
not
an
idiot.
It’s
those
pink
ribbons,
or
blue
ribbons
and
of
not
having
to
explain
the
problem
over
and
over
again
to
suspicious
doctors
or
anyone
I
encounter.
Cancer?
Job
done,
we
understand.
It’s
shorthand
isn’t
it?
It’s
shorthand
for
serious.
What
is
CFS-‐ME
shorthand
for?
It’s
shorthand
for
a
bit
tired.
It’s
shorthand
for
people
that
weren’t
hard
enough
to
man
up
(women
included)
or
maybe
they
are
a
bit
sad.
Or
maybe
they
are
a
bit
mad.
And
of
the
paradox
that
a
G.P.
once
told
me
in
confidence
that
‘on
the
books’
it
looks
like
patients
with
CFS-‐ME
are
getting
good
treatment
because
they
don’t
come
back…
xii
CFS-‐ME,
the
names,
the
politics,
Chronic
Fatiguewhatever,
what
else
is
it
shorthand
for?
Maybe
those
people
are
just
a
bit
too
westernised,
or
a
bit
too,
well
they
are
just
wee
delicate
flowers
aren’t
they?
But
Triceratops
wasn’t
a
wee
delicate
flower.
No
one
would
ever
suggest
it.
He
just
ate
some
toxic
berries.
And
I
wish
the
answers
to
my
illness
were
so
simple.
I
wish
I
could
say
I
had
eaten
some
toxic
berries.
So
I
stay
here
with
my
dead
arm
and
I
look
over
to
my
turntable.
I
think
about
last
night
where
I
stopped
breathing
in
my
sleep
and
woke
up
with
a
bang
gasping
for
breath.
I
have
just
been
diagnosed
with
sleep
apnea,
where
this
is
the
primary
symptom.
Then
there’s
the
night
before,
where
I
got
my
diabetes
diet
wrong
and
couldn’t
sleep
without
a
low
glycaemic
slug
of
avocado
and
marmite
at
4am.
Part
Two:
Jupiter’s
Moons
from
Ayrshire
A
few
years
ago,
when
we’d
just
moved
to
Ayr,
I
went
outside
with
my
telescope,
musing
on
the
‘golden
record’
that
was
sent
past
the
gas
giants
Jupiter
and
Saturn,
on
the
Voyager
probes
to
the
edge
of
the
solar
system
in
the
late
1970s.
It
was
a
cold
January
night
and
I
had
a
flask
of
coffee
and
new
fingerless
gloves
so
I
could
operate
the
scope.
I
managed
to
see
Jupiter
up
close
and
its
moons
Ganymede,
Calisto,
Europa
and
Io.
All
this
from
a
back
garden
in
Ayrshire.
I
visualized
the
probes
flying
past
those
planets
carrying
the
precious
cargo
of
a
golden
LP
record.
It’s
quaint
and
surreal
to
think
of
a
record
being
used
as
our
(then)
cutting
edge
intergalactic
handshake,
but
why
not
a
record?
It’s
the
ultimate
format
for
interplanetary
contact.
It’s
an
orbit
in
itself.
It
pulls
the
stylus
to
the
centre
like
gravity.
It’s
a
spiral.
It
doesn’t
xiii
last
long.
About
twenty
minutes
on
each
side.
From
the
outside
to
the
in,
a
brief
life
captured
on
a
few
oscillations
before
it
hits
the
run-‐out
groove…
I
wanted,
in
the
most
literal
sense,
to
record
my
own
dispatch
into
the
ether.
It
hit
me
that
out
of
the
defencelessness
I
was
feeling
at
the
time,
I
needed
to
document
my
own
escape
route,
plot
a
trajectory
from
all
of
this
illness
and
incarceration.
I
wanted
to
document
it
on
something
simple,
pure,
and
a
little
more
solid
than
the
digital
ether
we
are
living
in.
I
wanted
to
send
that
document
out.
I
wanted
to
make
a
thing
to
put
it
all
on,
and
not
just
document
things,
but
to
work
out
a
proper
coping
strategy
from
this
and
to
learn
how
to
outfox
the
illness.
Impossible?
I’ve
thrown
everything
into
it
regardless.
And
so
out
of
that
chilly
night
air
five
years
ago,
I
came
back
in
the
house
and
I
walked
over
to
the
turntable
and
flicked
through
some
records.
I’d
started
buying
vinyl
again
after
a
huge
gap
of
twenty-‐five
years.
I
pick
a
handful.
I
can
barely
lift
them.
It
really
hurts…
but
they
are
worth
the
effort.
It
hits
me
that
there
is
something
in
the
format,
in
the
weight
and
the
gravitas
of
‘proper’
records
that
would
ultimately
serve
as
my
witness
–
even
an
epitaph1
to
me
after
I
am
gone.
They
don’t
call
them
records
for
nothing.
Half
a
decade
later,
I
arrive
at
the
end
of
a
doctoral
process
where
I
am
presenting
my
own
vinyl
record
trilogy
at
a
conference
on
exhaustion
and
around
other
institutions.
Perhaps
I
assumed
I
would
be
the
wild
card
in
these
conferences
and
symposia,
but
it
turns
out
that
there’s
a
logic
to
making
a
red
record,
a
blue
record
1
Astonishingly,
when
I
googled
the
word
‘epitaph’
the
second
hit
of
over
two
million
results
back
was
a
record
label.
At
the
time
of
writing
this,
that
was
certainly
the
case.
http://www.epitaph.com
xiv
and
a
yellow
record
and
joining
them
together
to
transcend
this
controversial
and
relentless
illness.
I
made
three
records
to
articulate
how
I’ve
tried
to
turn
things
around,
how
I’ve
tried
to
furiously
and
aggressively
sketch
out
some
meaning
from
it
all,
and
as
my
career
as
a
filmmaker
fragmented
over
the
last
fifteen
years,
what
follows
has
arisen
from
that
fury.
xv
Chapter
1:
Introduction
1.
The
research
question
/
hypothesis
2.
The
rise
of
the
‘auto’
3.
Writing
in
the
first
person
as
an
academic
strategy
4.
Personal
experiences
within
doctoral
research
5.
Obstacles
within
reading
and
writing
6.
How
the
records
and
commentary
were
developed
7.
The
structure
of
this
text
and
the
format
and
availability
of
the
objects
1
Any
important
disease
whose
causality
is
murky,
and
for
which
treatment
is
ineffectual,
tends
to
be
awash
in
significance.
(Sontag:
1978,
p62)
1:
The
research
question
/
hypothesis
Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis,
or
M.E.2,
or
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
(or
Chronic
Fatigue
Immune
Dysfunction
Syndrome
in
the
USA)
is
a
complex
and
life-‐retarding
illness
that
can
last
a
lifetime,
hindering
the
sufferer
in
physiological,
mental
and
social
aspects
of
life.
I
have
had
the
illness
since
1998
and
was
diagnosed
in
1999.
Long-‐term
severe
and
painful
exhaustion,
unimproved
by
rest,
is
the
overriding
and
universal
symptom
of
CFS-‐ME.
The
illness
varies
dramatically
between
sufferers
regarding
the
multiplicity,
existence,
severity
and
development
of
other
symptoms
(and
their
complications).
I
will
expand
on
these
challenges
later.
A
key
point
for
this
research
project
is
that
nearly
every
CFS-‐ME
charity
agrees
that
any
given
sufferer
will
experience
a
bespoke
collection
of
individualistic
hindrances
and
impairments
across
layers
of
their
life.
Counterpointing
this
–
it
will
likely
be
the
case
that
access
to
and
the
experiencing
of
the
multiplicity
of
life
is
almost
always
compromised
by
CFS-‐ME.
There
exists
both
a
variability
and
universality
within
the
illness.
The
universal
aspect
of
the
illness
is
that
it
affects
the
sufferer
across
the
physiological,
mental
and
social
layers
of
one’s
life.
At
the
same
time,
each
sufferer
will
experience
an
individualistic
and
varying
severity
of
symptoms
and
capacities
within
such
layers.
That
2
In
the
main,
I
use
the
abbreviation
CFS-‐ME
in
this
document
–
but
there
are
times
when
I
need
to
refer
to
the
disease
as
M.E.
which
in
certain
contexts
has
become
the
main
term.
2
the
illness
is
individualistic
in
where
and
how
it
attacks
the
sufferer
has
been
the
root
impulse
for
my
equally
individualistic
response
to
it.
I
produced
idiosyncratic
and
self-‐
reflexive
art
practice
activities
through
the
research
process
that
has
led
to
this
thesis
but
may
also
be
compatible
with
the
illnesses
of
others
as
transferrable
practices.
Working
in
divergent
media,
my
practice
is
comprised
of
small
projects
in
diverse
subjects
and
formats,
chiefly
sonic
art.
However,
at
the
same
time,
or
perhaps
because
of
my
initial
background
in
filmmaking,
my
works,
despite
being
diverse
(i.e.
photographic,
sonic
and
occasionally
written)
relate
strongly
to
each
other.
Filmmaking
is
an
art
form
that
ties
disciplines
together.
There
is
a
sense
of
both
‘fragment’
and
‘overview’
in
my
practice
that
has
served
me
well
over
the
years,
to
the
point
where
I
now
call
myself
a
‘fragmented
filmmaker’.
Because
fragment
and
overview
have
been
practiced
reflexively
in
my
work,
under
a
goal
of
improving
my
own
life
‘holistically’
-‐
without
making
myself
grossly
unwell
-‐
it
has
led
me
towards
a
research
question.
The
research
question,
in
which
the
problem
of
improving
a
multiplicity
or
‘holistic’
breadth
of
life
for
CFS-‐ME
sufferers,
via
art
methodologies,
is
presented
thus:
If
three
idiosyncratic
contemporary
art
projects
were
developed
by
an
averagely
affected
sufferer
of
CFS-‐ME,
across
three
different,
even
divergent
subject
areas,
what
process
and
shape
would
such
projects
need
to
take
in
order
to
foster
the
practitioner
with
a
more
satisfyingly
engaged
existence?
This
is
a
project
about
wellbeing,
made
through
sonic
art
processes
and
objects;
namely
three
expansive
coloured
vinyl
records.
Accompanying
the
soundworks
are
downloads,
HD
films,
and
assemblages
of
visual
art.
Each
LP
collates
3
different
collections
of
sound
and
music
works
produced
across
three
diverse
fields
in
the
first
person.
Research
questions
invariably
set
in
motion
other
questions:
i)
Can
bespoke
strategies
drawn
from
contemporary
art
history
and
their
methodologies
enable
CFS-‐ME
sufferers
to
enjoy
everyday
life
in
more
satisfying
and
integrated
ways?
ii)
At
the
end
of
the
research
will
the
contemporary
art
practitioner
have
forged
a
kind
of
‘holism’
through
art
methodologies
–
‘holism’
being
a
term
understood
in
complementary
health
care
for
example?
iii)
How
can
the
kind
of
pain,
exhaustion
and
cognitive
difficulties
of
the
illness
which
usually
prevents
activity
of
many
kinds,
be
usurped,
negated
or
negotiated
with?
iv)
What
is
actually
going
on
during
the
art
practice?
Is
it
merely
an
enterprise
to
distract
the
sufferer
for
a
few
moments?
What
happens
when
that
distraction
ends?
This
seems
an
appropriate
place
to
introduce
the
kinds
of
projects
that
formed
my
own
response
to
these
issues.
Working
closely
with
an
abandoned
and
decrepit
harmonium
in
the
Scottish
borders
was
one
example,
as
was
forging
Twitter-‐length
statements
about
the
universe.
These
tactics
may
not
be
on
the
medical
map,
but
to
artists,
interventions
like
these
are
a
way
of
life
and
are
at
the
core
of
this
doctoral
project
–
as
responses
to
this
chronic
illness.
What
underpins
such
interventions
is
4
explored
between
the
records
themselves,
the
sleevenotes,
associated
imagery
and
this
text.
Three
records
in
three
different
cultural
areas
were
postulated
as
the
minimum
number
of
objects
with
their
unique
processes,
which,
if
created
so
deliberately
different
from
each
other,
might
form
crossovers
and
overlaps
of
experiences
in
the
practitioner.
Why
three
records?
One
record
may
have
explored
a
very
singular
arc.
If
two
records/areas
were
chosen
for
the
research
project,
there
would
have
been
a
danger
of
producing
a
slightly
misleading
(albeit
interesting)
‘mirroring’
of
one
aspect
of
existence
with
another,
whereas
with
three
projects,
a
sense
of
breadth
becomes
the
goal.
It
is
when
we
introduce
a
third
record
that
we
do
not
form
a
singular
trajectory
(as
in
one
project),
nor
a
project
that
compares
or
contrasts
phenomena
(as
in
two).
It
was
my
experimental
proposition
that
if
the
subject
matter
of
each
record
in
a
trilogy,
was
idiosyncratically
diverse
to
those
surrounding
it,
then
there
was
a
chance
that
a
methodology
in
sync
with
CFS-‐ME
could
be
located
which
might
improve
one’s
relationship
to
illness.
Having
three
records/projects
permits
just
enough
diversity
in
the
practitioner’s
life
to
generate
an
array
of
potential
art-‐strategies,
whilst
crucially,
not
overwhelming
or
exhausting
oneself.
It
is
a
very
delicate
balance.
Whilst
this
is
not,
strictly
speaking,
a
social
science
experiment,
perhaps
an
analogy
can
be
drawn
from
social
science
theory
by
looking
at
the
term
triangulation:
5
Triangulation
refers
to
the
use
of
more
than
one
approach
to
the
investigation
of
a
research
question
in
order
to
enhance
confidence
in
the
ensuing
findings.
Since
much
social
research
is
founded
on
the
use
of
a
single
research
method
and
as
such
may
suffer
from
limitations
associated
with
that
method
or
from
the
specific
application
of
it,
triangulation
offers
the
prospect
of
enhanced
confidence.
Triangulation
is
one
of
the
several
rationales
for
multimethod
research.
The
term
derives
from
surveying,
where
it
refers
to
the
use
of
a
series
of
triangles
to
map
out
an
area.
(Bryman,
2011,
p.1142)
Three
projects
(I
term
a
‘trilogy’
or
‘trinity’)
provide
the
sick
practitioner
with
some
options.
I
found
aspects
of
some
projects
stronger
than
others
regarding
their
efficacy
in
‘treating’
my
condition.
This
is
perhaps
because
of
the
unpredictability
of
the
illness.
Some
of
my
projects
required
light
walking,
others
required
light
thinking.
Some
projects
required
what
I
sometimes
refer
to
as
‘heavier
cognition’
and
some
failed
altogether.
My
thinking
is
stronger
on
some
days,
and
my
walking
on
others;
the
same
is
true
of
my
listening,
my
ability
to
record
an
interview
to
a
professional
level
or
focus
a
photograph
for
publication
on
one
of
the
LPs
is
variable
on
any
given
day.
The
idea
of
triangulation,
at
least
in
the
context
of
my
making
three
collections
of
art
strategies
was
not
a
panacea
to
cope
with
illness,
nor
do
I
define
the
project
as
the
kind
of
triangulation
with
its
specific
context
in
the
social
sciences.
But
when
there
is
such
variability
in
the
illness,
triangulation
could
be
an
interesting
idea
for
the
6
exhausted
artist
who
on
one
day
may
be
cognitively
strong,
whilst
on
other
days
prefer
aesthetically
led
practices.
However,
as
Bryman
continues,
when
seen
in
context,
triangulation
cannot
negate
every
research
method
nor
can
be
seen
as
covering
all
critical
enquiry.
Instead,
with
this
caveat
in
mind,
triangulation
is
a
useful
conceptual
(and
methodological)
construct
in
terms
of
‘richness’
-‐
a
goal
of
the
vinyl
trilogy:
The
idea
of
triangulation
has
been
criticized
on
several
grounds.
First,
it
is
sometimes
accused
of
subscribing
to
a
naive
realism
that
implies
that
there
can
be
a
single
definitive
account
of
the
social
world.
Such
realist
positions
have
come
under
attack
from
writers
aligned
with
constructionism
and
who
argue
that
research
findings
should
be
seen
as
just
one
among
many
possible
renditions
of
social
life.
On
the
other
hand,
writers
working
within
a
constructionist
framework
do
not
deny
the
potential
of
triangulation;
instead,
they
depict
its
utility
in
terms
of
adding
a
sense
of
richness
and
complexity
to
an
inquiry.
(ibid,
p.1142)
My
use
of
triangulation
in
the
project
exists
primarily
as
a
useful
allegory;
that
three
projects
aimed
at
three
divergent
areas
of
life
may
be
the
minimum
to
simply
and
gently
introduce
a
sense
of
dynamism
to
the
practitioner’s
life.
In
regards
to
my
vinyl
trilogy,
some
components
of
the
work
were
completed
in
24
hours.
Others
took
a
year
or
more,
depending
on
which
aspect
of
my
life
the
illness
was
attacking.
Because
there
were
three
projects,
I
always
had
a
different
project
to
turn
to,
more
attuned
to
7
that
given
condition
on
that
given
day
in
order
to
build
up
a
large
body
of
work
over
a
five-‐year
period.
The
projects
were
also
designed
with
an
economy
of
energy
in
order
to
tread
lightly
with
the
illness.
Or
put
another
way,
I
made
the
works
until
I
fell
ill
with
each
one,
and
‘reined
in’
any
project
that
worsened
my
condition.
This
can
only
be
done
in
the
first
person
as
sufferers
of
chronic
illnesses
like
CFS-‐ME
may
have
different
symptoms
or
similar
symptoms
with
different
emphases.
The
LP
records
and
packages
are
the
results
of
one
over-‐arching
experimental
art
practice
unique
to
this
author.
By
demonstrating
such
an
idiosyncratic
approach
in
this
project,
where
do
such
first-‐person
projects
then
find
their
place
critically?
2:
The
rise
of
the
‘auto’
In
Illness
as
Metaphor
(Sontag,
1978)
Susan
Sontag
states
that
medicine
for
many
has
abdicated
its
caring
role.
In
such
a
landscape,
she
describes
how
abandoned
sufferers
of
incurable
chronic
illnesses
feel
alienated
and
are
used
as
cultural
scapegoats
when
their
illness
is
not
understood.
It
has
been
my
experience
that
where
medicine
fails
chronically
ill
sufferers
of
such
misunderstood
conditions,
people
may
turn
to
experimental
and
experiential
strategies.
An
artist’s
take
on
illness,
especially
their
own,
is
a
tactic
that
is
gaining
interest
in
both
the
academic
and
cultural
sphere.
For
example,
Jacqueline
Donachie’s
reflexive
art-‐publication
DM
(Donachie,
2002)
is
an
autoethnographic
and
autobiographical
8
illness
narrative
where
the
artist
explores
her
own
family’s
vulnerability
to
Myotonic
Dystrophy,
which
affects
muscle
function
and
can
be
a
terminal
disease.
This
line
of
research
expanded
over
several
years
resulting
in
Donachie’s
subsequent
collaborative
installation-‐show
and
publication
Tomorrow
Belongs
to
Me
(Donachie
&
Monckton,
2006).
In
the
publication
and
exhibition,
she
draws
her
autoethnography/biography
closer
to
the
institution
by
collaborating
with
one
of
the
University
of
Glasgow’s
Professors
of
Genetics,
Darren
G.
Monckton,
with
whom
she
builds
on
previous
collaborations
between
art
and
science
processes
and
protocols.
Donachie’s
project
was
‘born’,
however,
from
her
own
body
and
that
of
her
sister
in
which
the
enquiry
began.
One
could
say
the
project
was
born
from
the
inside
out,
or
from
the
first-‐person
outwards.
And
perhaps
one
could
also
add
that
she
built
a
bridge
from
insider-‐research
to
outsider
in
the
process
through
her
collaboration
with
Monckton.
Examples
like
these
mirror
the
increasingly
common
‘practice-‐led
PhD’,
or
‘autoethnography’
and
spawn
terms
like
‘illness
narrative’
as
emerging
fields
and
methods
within
the
medical
humanities
and
at
the
core
of
artists’
PhD
projects.
Despite
autoethnography
and
emergent
first-‐person
cultural
research
being
contested
for
its
inevitable
subjectivity,
such
research
may
be
celebrated
for
the
same
reason.
This
research
project
is
concerned
with
efficacy,
and
takes
the
opportunity
of
charting
the
bewildering
and
personal
experiences
of
illness
at
the
doctoral
level
of
art
practice
as
research.
The
rise
of
autosomatography3
or
the
‘disability/body’
memoir
is
a
cultural
example
of
first-‐person
or
‘self-‐reflexive’
research,
where
a
marginalised
3
Term
observed
in
Signifying
Bodies
-‐
Disability
in
Contemporary
Life
Writing
G.
T
Couser
2009,
p2,
4,
7,
11-‐12,
164
9
fragment
of
society
implements
and
modifies
critical
theory
through
(often
personalised,
politicised
or
idiosyncratic)
practice-‐led
methods.
The
rise
of
the
auto
in
response
to
chronic
illnesses
like
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
/
Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis
(and
Encephalopathy
-‐
terms
expanded
in
chapter
two)
often
arises
out
of
needs
that
are
not
being
met
medically,
and
as
a
consequence
the
researcher
may
also
be
(the
same
person
as)
the
researched.
Such
work
is
sometimes
seen
as
protest
or
activism,
but
it
may
develop
from
a
practical
need
to
simply
improve
the
quality
of
life
for
the
sufferer,
where
neither
pharmacological
solutions
nor
societal
respect
for
the
illness
are
in
ready
supply.
This
is
not
a
medical
PhD,
nor
is
it
social
science.
This
is
a
practice-‐led
doctorate
where
the
practice
is
sonic
and
visual
art,
with
commentary
frequently
in
the
first
person.
Although
it
will
result
in
something
to
read
here,
and
experience
with
the
records
themselves,
its
aim
is
something
to
do
and
something
to
be
when
assailed
by
forms
of
incarceration.
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
or
CFS-‐ME
is
a
disease
whose
causality
is
murky.
Short
of
a
panacea,
interventions
will
remain
maverick-‐like
for
the
foreseeable
future.
This
is
one
of
them.
10
3:
Writing
in
the
first
person
as
an
academic
strategy
It
is
common
to
read
academic
texts
in
the
‘third
person’
(i.e.
neither
‘me’
nor
‘you’
but
distanced,
even
‘omnipotent’).
However,
in
this
project,
to
adopt
such
a
tone
would
require
a
kind
of
‘acting’
-‐
even
a
kind
of
deceit
or
pretence
of
a
viewpoint
that
would
be
inauthentic.
I
would
be
creating
a
‘character’
-‐
externalising
my
own
‘embodied’
research.
One
would
need
to
perform
a
kind
of
‘conjoined’
trick
in
order
to
be
two
researchers,
one
first-‐person
and
one
third-‐person.
It
is
logical
therefore,
that
the
first-‐person
viewpoint
should
be
the
unavoidable,
primary
and
authentic
voice.
One
might
assume
that
the
personal
viewpoint
(or
the
first
person
“I”)
could
be
acceptable
only
in
the
artworks
themselves,
and
that
the
thesis
would
serve
to
‘objectively’
place
them
neatly
in
the
contexts
in
which
they
belong.
And
of
course,
this
is
a
perfectly
reasonable
request.
However,
the
‘embodied’
predicament
of
my
health
authored
and
dictated
the
manner
of
how
the
work
was
made
and
subsequently
written
about.
I
was
at
the
centre
of
such
a
predicament
and
it
was
not
a
place
where
objectivity
was
neither
possible
nor
desirable,
because
the
disease
is
very
‘site-‐specific’
and
particular
to
me.
I
cannot
even
speculate
if
other
CFS-‐ME
sufferers
are
undergoing
a
similar
experience
given
that
CFS-‐ME
as
a
phenomena,
is
a
shifting
melange
of
pain
and
fatigue
moving
around
different
parts
of
the
body
in
turn,
including
the
psyche.
If
we
understand
the
term
‘mood-‐swings’
and
the
association
that
word
has
with
the
unreliability
of
a
constant,
defined
character,
then
we
may
see
a
parallel
problem
regarding
the
unreliable
‘location’
of
CFS-‐ME
(body-‐swings?
mind-‐body
swings?).
One
of
the
problems
of
the
illness,
frequently
discussed
in
the
patient
groups
11
I
belong
to,
is
that
there
is
little
apparent
permanent
location
or
‘shape’
of
the
illness
in
the
‘host’
–
or
the
sufferer.
It
would
be
impossible
to
speak
about
these
kinds
of
phenomena
as
an
external,
objective
observer
with
any
real
insight.
Pat
Thomson
is
Professor
of
Education
at
The
University
of
Nottingham.
In
a
blog
post
on
her
widely-‐read
site
dealing
with
PhD
research
methodologies
and
academic
culture,
‘Patter’,
she
makes
a
strong
argument
for
writing
in
the
first
person
within
academic
contexts.
Moreover,
she
speaks
of
the
inappropriateness
and
limitations
of
the
third
person
voice
in
academic
writing
where
the
subject
or
field
itself
necessitates
a
personal
response.
In
this
following
text,
she
gives
a
particular
example
where
the
third-‐person
view,
while
claims
to
be
objective,
can
be
an
unreasoned
mode
of
writing
in
academic
texts,
and
Thomson
flags
a
paradox
where
the
researcher
messily
appears
nowhere
and
everywhere
in
third-‐person
perspectives.
A
little
more
than
two
decades
ago,
feminist
scholars
for
example
argued
that
the
use
of
the
third
person
in
academic
writing
was
a
masculinist
strategy
intended
to
create
the
impression
of
an
objective
view
that
did
not
exist.
Instead
of
resorting
to
what
Donna
Haraway
(1988)
described
as
a
‘god
trick’,
in
which
the
researcher
appears
nowhere
and
everywhere
via
the
use
of
the
third
person,
it
was
imperative
to
explicitly
situate
the
researcher
in
the
text.
If
the
reader
could
find
out
about
the
research
writer,
then
they
could
make
judgments
about
the
situated
and
particular
nature
of
what
was
being
offered
to
them.
One
way
for
the
researcher
to
make
herself
visible
was
through
the
use
of
the
first
person.
The
use
of
‘I’
allowed
the
reader
to
12
understand
that
the
research
was
a
social
construction,
just
like
any
other
form
of
knowledge…
…And
I
want
to
say
in
addition,
here
and
now,
that
it’s
almost
impossible
to
get
the
researcher
out
of
their
text.
Writing
in
the
third
person
doesn’t
do
it.
(Thomson,
2013,
n.p.)
But
not
everyone
is
excited
about
first-‐person
research.
A
practice-‐based
researcher,
Mitch
Miller,
in
his
2013
Dialectographer’s
Press
and
Journal
(Miller,
2013,
n.p.)
-‐
an
ongoing
autoethnographic
project,
warns
of
this
tension
from
within
some
academic
schools
of
thought:
Debate
continues
within
ethnographic
scholarship
over
the
comparative
value
of
outsider
and
insider
perspectives.
Anthropologists
such
as
Kate
Fox
have
been
somewhat
dismissive
of
insider
research,
the
stance
bound
into
their
own
sense
of
status
and
the
validity
of
their
profession.
(Miller,
2013,
n.p.)
[Those]
who
are
most
‘fluent’
in
their
rituals,
customs
and
traditions
of
a
particular
culture
generally
lack
the
detachment
necessary
to
explain
the
‘grammar’
of
these
practices
in
an
intelligible
manner.
This
is
why
we
have
anthropologists.
(Fox,
2004,
p.3
in
Miller,
2013,
n.p.)
13
Social
scientists
have
long
debated
whether
their
knowledge
is
objective
(etic)
or
subjective
(emic).
In
Philip
Kottak’s
Mirror
for
Humanity:
a
Concise
Introduction
to
Cultural
Anthropology
(Kottak,
2009)
there
is
a
clear
definition
of
these
terms:
An
emic
approach
investigates
how
local
people
think.
How
do
they
perceive
and
categorise
the
world?
What
are
their
rules
for
behaviour?
What
has
meaning
for
them?
How
do
they
imagine
and
explain
things?
Operating
emically,
the
ethnographer
seeks
the
"native
viewpoint",
relying
on
local
people
to
explain
things
and
to
say
whether
something
is
significant
or
not.
The
term
cultural
consultant,
or
‘informant’,
refers
to
individuals
the
ethnographer
gets
to
know
in
the
field,
the
people
who
teach
him
or
her
about
their
culture,
who
provide
the
emic
perspective.
The
etic
(scientist
oriented)
approach
shifts
the
focus
from
local
observations,
categories,
explanations,
and
interpretations
to
those
of
the
anthropologist.
The
etic
approach
realises
that
members
of
a
culture
often
are
too
involved
in
what
they
are
doing
to
interpret
their
cultures
impartially.
Operating
etically,
the
ethnographer
emphasises
what
he
or
she
(the
observer)
notices
and
considers
important.
As
a
trained
scientist,
the
ethnographer
should
try
to
bring
an
objective
and
comprehensive
viewpoint
to
the
study
of
other
cultures.
Of
course,
the
ethnographer,
like
any
other
scientist,
is
also
a
human
being
with
cultural
blinders
that
prevent
cultural
objectivity.
(Kottak,
2009,
p.53)
14
There
can
be
both
interplay
and
tension
between
these
insider/outsider
fields.
In
Views
from
inside
and
outside:
Integrating
emic
and
etic
insights
about
culture
and
justice
judgment
(Morris,
Leung,
Ames,
Lickel:
1999)
in
the
table
‘Assumptions
of
Emic
and
Etic
Perspectives
and
Associated
Methods’
(p.
783),
the
emic
is
summarised
in
the
following
points
as:
…Any
behaviour
[which]
is
described
at
source
from
the
perspective
of
cultural
insiders,
in
constructs
drawn
from
the
insider’s
views
and
understanding…
The
working
‘whole’
of
such
a
cultural
system
can
be
described
from
the
insider’s
observations,
gathered
without
the
imposition
of
the
researcher’s
constructs...
(Morris
et
al,
1999,
p.783)
The
same
table
suggests
that
emic
texts
and
their
contents
can
be
used
as
a
window
into
indigenous
thinking
about
justice
and
that
the
emic
view
‘describe[s]
the
system
as
a
working
whole’
(ibid).
Conversely,
the
etic
is
seen
as:
…Behaviour
described
from
a
vantage
external
to
the
culture,
in
constructs
that
apply
equally
well
to
other
cultures
…Describe[s]
the
ways
in
which
cultural
variables
fit
into
general
causal
models
of
a
particular
behaviour…
(ibid)
That
‘justice’
and
‘wide-‐ranging
observation’
are
flagged
as
qualities
of
the
emic
is
particularly
pertinent
to
this
project.
My
records
and
their
divergent
subject
areas,
made
over
several
years,
are
based
on
such
‘wide-‐ranging
observations’
over
various
15
‘settings’
with
the
motivation
to
identify
and
address
the
problem,
being
a
kind
of
‘justice.’
The
authors
go
on
to
discuss
the
differences
between
the
two
strategies
and
show
how
the
interplay
between
the
practices
can
ultimately
lead
to
a
‘dual
perspective’
account,
leading
to
an
integrative
explanatory
framework
where
research
strategies
could
cross
over
between
emic
and
etic
approaches.
In
this
research
project,
alongside
looking
at
the
world
of
other
artists
who
work
directly
with
illness
and
wellbeing,
and
studying
wider
cultural
practices
(such
as
bricolage)
as
a
primary
methodology,
I
have
also
sought
to
maintain
balance
between
first-‐person
research
and
the
cultural
anchors
which
surround
it.
4:
Personal
experiences
within
doctoral
research
The
Ethnographic
Field
The
anthropologist
Lejla
Voloder,
in
her
paper
Autoethnographic
Challenges:
Confronting
Self,
Field
and
Home
(Voloder,
2008)
borrows
references
that
back
up
the
idea
that
“personal
experiences
are
sources
of
knowledge”
(p
29)
and
that
“ethnographic
endeavour
may
not
only
be
defined
in
clear
movements
in
and
out
of
the
field”
(ibid).
She
proposes
that
there
has
existed
a
form
of
anthropology
that
was
highly
local
to
the
researcher
-‐
‘anthropology
at
home’
(p
30)
which
sometimes
unsettles
the
home/field
dichotomy.
This
resembles,
to
an
extent,
my
own
research
terrain,
where
I
am
both
researcher
and
researched.
16
In
Creating
Autoethnographies
by
Tessa
Muncey
(2010)
there
is
an
early
section
of
the
book
that
sets
out
to
validate
this
practice.
The
following
quote
is
especially
thoughtful
regarding
people
writing
/
working
around
their
illnesses:
In
order
to
take
the
leap
in
creating
an
autoethnography
one
has
to
recognise
that
there
is
no
distinction
between
doing
research
and
living
a
life.
The
person
who
suffers
from
a
long-‐term
condition
cannot
be
separated
from
the
researcher
investigating
it,
who
has
him/herself
experience
of
the
condition.
Just
as
a
counsellor
is
both
a
therapist
and
a
client,
the
autoethnographer
is
both
the
researcher
and
researched.
(Muncey,
2010,
p.3)
5:
Obstacles
within
reading
and
writing
One
of
the
symptoms
of
CFS-‐ME
is
the
‘fogging’
of
clear
and
precise
cognitive
thought
-‐
a
common
casualty
of
the
illness.
Prior
to
beginning
this
project,
my
research
practice
had
been
biased
towards
a
very
sensory-‐orientated
art
practice-‐as-‐research.
After
completing
my
first
degree,
in
1994,
(and
especially
after
I
‘officially’
contracted
CFS-‐ME
in
1998/9)
my
life
became
a
series
of
‘sensory’
modes
of
learning.
This
is
because
reading
became
cognitively
difficult
for
me,
as
did
writing
-‐
alongside
anything
that
involved
mental
or
physical
endurance.
However,
I
was
always
working
on
projects
(and
even
commissions)
and
eventually
my
work
adapted
to
my
primary
‘teacher’
–
the
illness
itself.
Any
intellectual
insights
I
gleaned
during
this
time
had
primarily
arisen
from
sensory-‐based
methods;
via
photography,
via
listening
(usually
17
whilst
field
recording)
and
via
assembling
sonic
compositions.
But
there
is
a
sense
that
this
wasn’t
knowledge
in
the
sense
of
empirical
‘facts’
that
could
be
communicated
in
a
text,
instead
this
knowledge
was
more
akin
to
a
kind
of
experience,
and
served
only
to
improve
my
own
life.
When
I
began
the
doctoral
project,
these
expansive
processes
were
formally
identified,
honed
and
refined
to
as
sharp
a
degree
as
possible
during
the
research
project,
resulting
in
art
objects
(as
multiple
vinyl
LPs)
‘framed’
by
graphic
design
and
artwork
and
writing
(sleevenotes
and
this
exegesis)
as
opposed
to
the
project
being
completely
forged
from
written
ideas,
or
sourced
from
a
written
template.
Without
the
development
of
the
increasingly
common
artist’s
PhD,
where
aesthetically
orientated
doctoral
practices
are
recognised
as
tools
of
articulation,
I
would
have
been
unable
to
pursue
a
more
conventional
PhD.
My
illness
and
difficulty
in
cognising
large
chunks
of
text
whilst
exhausted
and
in
pain
would
compromise
a
purely
theoretical
endeavour,
whereas
my
art
practice
is
utterly
tuned
to
my
illness
and
to
a
degree,
initially
bypasses
a
degree
of
cognition,
being
a
sensory
orientated
enterprise.
Reading
is
even
more
difficult
for
me
than
writing.
When
I
am
writing
sentences
like
these,
I
tend
to
be
doing
so
from
my
own
experience.
I
am
close
to
such
experiences
and
therefore
it
requires
less
energy
to
locate
and
reflect
on
them
than
filtering
weighty
text-‐based
resources
written
by
others.
18
Therefore,
it
may
be
ironic
that
as
an
artist-‐researcher,
I
have
been,
to
a
large
extent
following
a
fairly
traditional
reading/writing
approach
in
tandem
with
the
practical
work.
However,
this
has
been
an
especially
slow
process
for
me.
A
slim
book
that
would
take
an
afternoon
for
my
healthier
wife
to
read,
can
take
me
two
weeks
to
digest
with
stringent
note
taking.
It
can
take
a
day’s
energy
to
read
few
paragraphs
of
a
book
or
journal,
ascertain
its
relevance
and
usefulness
before
inserting
it
into
a
document
in
the
relevant
place.
Those
kinds
of
day
are
worth
the
enlightenment
this
kind
of
research
reaps,
but
such
days
create
a
‘debt’
of
energy
that
can
take
days
to
‘pay
off’.
Moreover,
what
defines
a
‘text’
for
artists,
may
be
different
from
established
forms
of
academic
research
such
as
books
or
a
journal
article.
Artists
may
flag
artworks
and
LP
records
as
texts
as
at
least
as
equal
bedfellows
as
academic
journals
for
example.
These
objects,
I
feel,
engage
the
psyche
at
least
as
equally
as
traditionally
accepted
forms
of
citation.
I
could
therefore,
refer
to
the
vinyl
trilogy
as
being
the
central
text,
with
this
text
being
the
exegesis.
6:
How
the
records
and
commentary
were
developed
The
process
I
undertook
could
be
described
as
a
‘praxis’,
where
the
practice-‐
based
methods
of
an
arts
practice
and
resulting
potential
for
ideas
were
tested
in
the
first
person
(but
with
an
eye
on
the
degree
in
which
the
methods
would
be
communicable
outside
of
the
project).
An
attempt
in
creating
a
contemplative,
rationalised
and
(ultimately)
realised
product
was
the
modus
operandi
that
would
not
19
only
allow
for
the
objects
to
be
created,
but
allow
the
creation
of
this
exegesis
also,
which
was
part
of
the
reciprocal
endeavour.
In
other
words,
the
text
and
the
practice
needed
each
other.
The
records
are
a
result
of
both.
In
the
beginning,
the
motivation
to
begin
such
a
process
was
the
random
injustice
of
my
declining
health
and
the
degree
in
which
I
must
to
adapt
to
change.
In
the
last
fifteen
years
of
my
life,
I
have
needed
to
constantly
listen
to
the
symptoms,
then
offering
adaptations,
testing
them
and
continuing
in
this
manner.
This
has
been
analogous
to
the
process
of
this
research
project.
Havi
Carel,
in
Illness
(Carel,
2008)
speaks
of
a
similar
‘plasticity’
of
method:
Being
able
to
improvise
and
create
new
ways
of
compensating
for
a
lost
capacity
shows
the
plasticity
of
behaviour
and
the
human
capacity
to
adjust
to
change.
...Some
sociologists
of
health
such
as
Simon
Williams
have
described
illness
as
a
‘biological
disruption’.
The
disruption
is
of
taken
for
granted
assumptions
and
behaviours
(especially
focusing
on
the
body,
which
no
longer
“passes
us
by
in
silence”
as
Jean-‐Paul
Stare
says)
and
of
the
explanatory
framework
(raising
questions
such
as
“why
me?”).
(Carel,
2010,
pp.82-‐83)
So
that
after
the
initial
anger
in
being
ill,
one
must
reflect
to
instigate
any
change,
which
has
been
a
method
I
have
employed
in
this
project.
That
Western
philosophy
has
focused
on
the
contemplative
lifestyle
is
the
subject
of
Hannah
Arendt’s
The
Human
Condition
(Ardent,
1958).
The
contemplative
life
(vita
20
contemplativa)
she
argues
is
not
engaged
with
life
at
all
(vita
activa)
(p20).
In
contrast,
Arendt
also
hails
a
“praxis”
(p185)
the
highest
and
most
important
level
of
this
active
life.
She
emphasizes
political
action,
and
praises
it
accordingly.
It
is
the
spirit
of
vita
activa
that
has
fostered
this
project.
7:
The
structure
of
this
text
and
the
format
and
availability
of
the
objects
The
first
goal
of
the
rest
of
this
text
is
to
identify
and
articulate
the
symptoms
and
challenges
those
with
CFS-‐ME
encounter
on
a
daily
basis,
which
is
explored
in
‘Chapter
2
-‐
What
is
CFS-‐ME?’
Fusing
the
medical
with
the
creative,
once
I
have
outlined
the
shape
of
the
illness
and
the
typical
obstacles
in
it,
I
will
shift
attention
to
narratives
of
“Artists
in
Extremis”
in
Chapter
3,
where
I
will
introduce
three
case
studies
outside
of
this
project
to
chart
a
sense
of
lineage
I’ve
hoped
to
align
the
project
towards.
After
this,
I
open
up
a
particular
methodology
as
being
critical
to
‘the
exhausted
artist’
–
that
of
‘bricolage’.
In
Chapter
4,
I
unpack
how
bricolage
is
part
of
mainstream
culture
citing
examples
in
music,
film
other
cultural
forms
but
with
specific
regard
of
music
and
sound
work,
which
is
given
greater
magnification
in
Chapter
5,
which
expands
on
and
explores
the
sonic
contexts
the
project
is
located
in,
with
specific
regard
to
the
form
of
vinyl
records.
21
Next,
we
encounter
two
expansive
chapters;
Chapter
6
and
7.
Following
the
previous
contextual
chapters,
these
are
two
pivotal
and
related
chapters
that
attempt
to
anchor
the
conceptual
core
of
the
research
project.
The
aim
of
these
chapters
of
is
to
argue
for
the
project
as
a
‘holistic
enterprise’,
but
also
to
define
holism
in
multifarious
contexts.
By
briefly
surveying
aspects
of
the
idea
of
‘holism’
the
aim
is
to
uncover
‘pluralities
of
holism’,
including
radical,
individualistic
terms
such
as
‘idioholism’,
a
term
that
has
been
developed
by
my
own
process.
Given
that
trajectories
of
artists
can
be
non-‐linear
or
occasionally
difficult
to
pin
down,
this
was
an
opportunity
to
survey
what
I
term
examples
of
‘idioholistic
exercises’
from
the
canons
of
other
artists
working
loosely
within
a
wellbeing
culture.
A
cluster
of
texts
are
cited
here,
illustrating
that
even
with
such
an
idiosyncratic
doctorate,
I
have
attempted
to
locate
examples
of
artists
expounding
D.I.Y.
practices
aligned
to
wellbeing.
The
chapter
on
‘idioholism’
also
examines
the
terms
‘idios
kosmos’
(private
cosmos
or
world)
and
‘koinos
kosmos’
(shared
cosmos
or
world)
to
illustrate
the
interplay
between
first
person
or
‘phenomenological’
perspectives
against
and
within
that
of
the
shared
cultural
universe.
Before
the
conclusion,
but
after
an
introduction
in
Chapter
8,
we
arrive
at
a
section
that
reproduces
verbatim
the
sleevenotes
of
the
records
themselves.
Here
is
the
compacted
textual
and
more
diary-‐like
account
of
how
the
combination
of
bricolage,
CFS-‐ME,
and
accounts
of
my
own
life
as
an
ex-‐documentary
filmmaker
have
been
assembled
track
by
track
to
form
three
vinyl
records.
It
is
here
we
uncover
the
records,
the
examples
of
work
that
the
reader
of
this
exegesis
must
also
encounter
by
obtaining
the
physical
objects
themselves.
Each
sleevenote
account
was
written
a
year
22
apart
from
each
other,
and
was
extracted
directly
from
the
physical
LP
records
themselves.
Finally
we
arrive
at
the
conclusion,
which
also
includes
an
account
of
a
symposium
of
exhaustion,
which
took
place
in
October
2013
where
the
project
was
launched
(in
the
form
of
a
twenty
minute
paper
/
presentation
at
the
University
of
Kent).
The
conclusion
begins
by
exploring
the
current
terrain
of
arts
Practice
as
Research
(PaR)
in
relation
to
the
project
before
listing,
with
illustrations,
every
physical
and
digital
release
that
sprung
from
the
project.
As
well
as
the
symposium
on
exhaustion,
I
also
describe
other
conferences
and
publications
in
which
the
project
has
been
involved,
any
terminology
developed
by
the
process,
and
other
contributions
to
knowledge
the
project
has
hopefully
demonstrated,
ending
with
a
brief
self-‐reflective
evaluation
of
the
entire
project.
23
Chapter
2:
What
is
CFS-‐ME4?
1.
CFS-‐ME
-‐
Nomenclature
2.
The
medical
encounter
3.
Basics
-‐
the
primary
symptoms
of
CFS-‐ME
4.
CFS-‐ME
research
and
current
interventions
5.
Mindfulness,
a
cheap
panacea?
6.
The
entrepreneurial
side
of
CFS-‐ME
7.
CFS-‐ME
in
popular
culture
or
Suki,
go
to
the
well
8.
CFS-‐ME
and
thinking
oneself
well
4
In
this
chapter,
occasional
use
of
the
term
“ME’
or
“M.E.”
is
used
in
an
historical
and
contextual
narrative
and
I
explain
within
it
why
CFS-‐ME
(or
ME-‐CFS)
becomes
the
strategical
term
employed
in
the
UK
today.
24
You
spend
half
of
the
morning,
just
trying
to
wake
up
Half
the
evening,
just
trying
to
calm
down
(Feather
by
Feather:
Morrison,
2003,
n.p.)
1)
CFS-‐ME
-‐
Nomenclature
Most
doctors
now
accept
that
ME/CFS/PVFS
is
a
genuine
and
disabling
illness.
The
World
Health
Organisation
classifies
ME
as
a
disease
of
the
central
nervous
system…
…and
the
[UK]
Department
of
Health
officially
recognises
it
to
be
a
‘debilitating
and
distressing
condition5’.
However,
disagreements
and
uncertainties
remain
–
especially
over
nomenclature,
causation
and
the
most
appropriate
forms
of
management.
(Shepard
and
Chaudhuri,
2001,
p.1)
Such
‘management’
of
the
condition
in
my
own
case
has
ultimately
taken
the
form
of
my
art
practice,
which
is
never
divorced
from
my
daily
life.
My
vinyl
trilogy,
as
idiosyncratic
and
art-‐based
a
response
to
health
as
it
is,
has
arisen
as
a
logical
response
to
the
illness.
As
I
hinted
in
Chapter
1,
there
are
many
names
for
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
(CFS),
which
is
the
UK
medical
establishment’s
preferred
term.
Different
terms
exist
worldwide
such
as
Chronic
Fatigue
Immune
Dysfunction
Syndrome
(CFIDS)
Myalgic
5
reference:
House
of
Commons
debate,
13/11/91,
Hansard
col
582W
25
Encephalomyelitis
(ME)
Myalgic
Encephalopathy
(also
ME)
and
Post-‐viral
Fatigue
Syndrome
(PVFS)
Debate
continues
between
patients,
physicians,
psychiatrists,
lobby
groups
and
governmental
bodies
about
whether
these
terms
are
all
describing
the
same
illness.
In
much
of
this
chapter
I
use
the
historical
abbreviation
M.E.
as
it
is
only
in
recent
years
the
increasingly
common
“ME-‐CFS
/
CFS-‐ME”
term
is
seen
in
the
UK.
ME
(Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis)
is
a
name
which
was
originally
introduced
in
a
Lancet
editorial
(Leading
Article,
1956)
to
describe
people
with
the
illness
who
had
been
admitted
to
London’s
Royal
Free
Hospital
during
1955.
Clinically,
Myalgic
was
used
to
refer
to
the
characteristic
muscle
symptoms;
encephalomyelitis
to
the
brain
symptoms.
Pathologically,
encephalomyelitis
indicates
inflammation
within
the
brain
and
spinal
cord
–
pathology
for
which
there
is
now
very
limited
evidence.
(Shepard
and
Chaudhuri,
2001,
p.1)
In
the
UK
the
definition
popular
in
the
pre-‐1990s,
was
supplied
by
the
media:
‘yuppie
flu’
inferring
that
the
illness
was
a
result
of
capitalist
greed,
a
stereotype
sufferers
and
researchers
fought
hard
to
eradicate.
But
‘ME’
was
at
this
point
the
abbreviation
of
choice.
26
‘ME’
when
used
to
abbreviate
Myalgic
Encephalopathy
(as
opposed
to
Encephalomyelitis)
is
a
newer,
and
often
preferred
term
within
patients
and
perhaps
lower
numbers
of
medical
practitioners:
The
ME
Association
plans
to
substitute
the
word
encephalomyelitis
with
encephalopathy,
meaning
an
abnormality
of
brain
function.
We
believe
that
encephalopathy
is
now
the
most
appropriate
description
for
the
various
central
nervous
system
abnormalities
(i.e.
hypothalamic,
autonomic
and
cognitive
dysfunction;
cerebral
hypoperfusion)
that
have
been
reported…
(ibid,
p.1)
And
what
of
‘Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome?’
CFS
(Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome)
is
the
name
currently
favoured
by
the
medical
profession6
because
it
makes
no
firm
assumption
about
cause.
Two
major
criticisms
of
CFS
as
a
name
are
that
it
fails
to
reflect
the
severity
of
the
illness
and
it
has
become
a
convenient
label
for
anyone
with
unexplained
fatigue.
(ibid,
p.1)
6
Note:
in
the
USA
and
Canada
it
is
termed
Chronic
Fatigue
Immune
Dysfunction
Syndrome,
implying
either
that
these
countries
know
something
that
the
UK
doesn’t,
or
doesn’t
want
to
admit
to,
or
it’s
a
projection
or
kind
of
conjecture.
27
2)
The
medical
encounter
Sociologist
Lesley
Cooper’s
paper
Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis
and
the
Medical
Encounter
remains
a
relevant
primer
on
the
fraught
terrain
of
terminology
and
ownership
of
the
illness.
Despite
being
published
in
1997,
not
a
great
deal
has
changed.
…[patient
groups]
prefer
the
term
ME,
as
opposed
to
psychiatrists
and
some
medical
researchers
who
use
the
term
CFS
or
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome.
In
the
history
of
ME,
definitions,
nomenclature
and
classifications
have
varied
from
country
to
country,
and
also
amongst
groups
of
researchers.
Terms
have
been
based
on
place
(such
as
'Akureyri
Disease'
after
an
epidemic
in
a
town
in
Iceland),
on
symptoms,
and
on
hypothesised
aetiologies,
often
reflecting
different
ideologies
and
interests
of
the
groups
involved.
(Cooper,
1997,
p.188)
Moreover,
when
the
patient
(in
my
words)
‘reaches
the
end
of
the
line
with
healthcare
providers’,
a
doctor
may
tell
patient
X
that
‘you
don’t
have
a
disease
we
can
see
clearly,
so
you
are
either
well,
or
have
CFS-‐ME’.
Either
way
the
patient
somehow
feels
short-‐changed
from
the
encounter
and
whilst
given
a
title,
after
a
while
feels
not
‘legitimately’
ill.
Another
quote
from
Cooper
flags
the
importance
regarding
such
legitimacy
of
one’s
illness:
28
In
the
history
of
twentieth
century
western
medicine,
several
'syndromes'
have
been
denied
the
legitimate
status
of
'organic
disease'.
I
shall
entitle
these
syndromes
'non-‐diseases'
or
'illegitimate
illnesses',
because
they
neither
fit
the
category
of
organic
disease,
nor
do
they
have
the
status
of
legitimate
illnesses.
Hypoglycaemia
(Singer
et
al.
1984),
Repetitive
Strain
Injury
(RSI)
(Arksey
1994),
Candidiasis,
Multiple
Chemical
Sensitivity,
Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis
(ME)
and
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
(CFS)
are
all
examples
of
such
non-‐diseases,
being
generally
defined
in
terms
of
symptoms,
with
uncertain
aetiology
and
pathogenesis.
…Where
generally
a
biomedical
disease
name
represents
the
symbolic
legitimation
of
the
ideology
of
expertise…
…I
would
argue
that
in
this
particular
arena,
the
label
ME
has
come
to
serve
as
a
symbol
for
the
usurpation
of
power
from
doctors
by
patients.
(Cooper,
1997,
p.188)
3)
Basics
-‐
the
primary
symptoms
of
CFS-‐ME
“ME”
as
it
is
more
commonly
known
in
the
UK,
(or,
as
I
refer
to
it
throughout
this
text
CFS-‐ME)
is
a
long-‐term
(chronic)
fluctuating
(or
not)
illness
with
symptoms
affecting
many
bodily
systems,
commonly
that
of
the
nervous
and
immune
system.
There
is
wide-‐ranging
severity
and
chronicity,
from
those
who
are
able
to
work
with
some
reduced
ability,
right
through
to
25%
of
sufferers
who
are
house-‐bound
or
bed-‐
bound
and
need
full-‐time
care.
Outside
of
suicide,
a
morbidity
study
concluded
that
29
early
cancer
and
heart
failure
are
risks
for
some7.
It
is
nearly
always
highly
disabling
and
can
be
for
life.
It
is
also
difficult
to
prove
and
consequently
an
easy
illness
to
fake.
What
follows
is
a
fuller
list
of
common
symptoms
of
ME
from
N.H.S.
Scotland’s
“Scottish
Good
Practice
Statement
on
ME-‐CFS”
(Purdie,
G.
2010).
The
following
is
aimed
at
General
Practitioners,
to
assist
in
the
diagnosis
of
such
patients
and
to
follow
protocols
of
good
medical
practice
for
patients
‘diagnosed’
with
CFS-‐ME.
• Fatigue
–
a
significant
degree
of
new
onset,
unexplained
persistent
or
recurrent
physical
and
mental
fatigue
or
malaise
that
substantially
reduces
activity
level.
• Post
exertional
malaise
and/or
fatigue
–
loss
of
previous
physical
and
mental
stamina
and
rapid
fatigability,
malaise
and/or
pain
and
a
worsening
of
other
symptoms
that
the
patient
may
have.
The
recovery
period
is
prolonged
–
24
hours
or
longer
is
common.
• Sleep
disturbance
–
hypersomnia,
insomnia,
reversed
or
chaotic
diurnal
sleep
rhythms
and
unrefreshing
sleep.
• Pain
–
significant
myalgia
is
common.
Arthralgia
without
swelling,
redness
or
joint
deformity,
may
be
present.
Muscle
and/or
joint
pain
can
be
experienced
which
is
often
widespread
and
migratory
in
nature.
7
Suicide
is
one
of
the
three
main
causes
of
death
in
CFS
(heart
failure
and
cancer
being
the
other
two)
–
source:
Causes
of
Death
Among
Patients
with
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
(Jason
et
al,
2006)
30
• Headaches
–
are
often
present,
usually
migraine
or
tension
type
but
a
variety
of
patterns
and
severity
may
occur.
• Cognitive
symptoms
-‐
almost
always
present
-‐
particularly
sluggish
or
‘fogging’
of
thinking,
poor
attention/concentration
and
forgetfulness.
Perceptual
and
sensory
disturbances
may
be
experienced
–
e.g.
inability
to
focus
vision.
Hypersensitivity
to
light
(photophobia)
or
noise
(hyperacusis),
are
common
problems8.
• Neurological
symptoms
–
muscle
twitches,
spasms
and
weakness
-‐
are
common
occurrences.
• Postural
light-‐headedness,
dizziness,
pallor,
palpitations
–
are
common
features.
Postural
light
headedness/dizziness
may
lead
to
an
unsteady
gait.
An
increase
in
heart
rate
may
suggest
Postural
Orthostatic
Tachycardia
Syndrome
(POTS).
• Paraesthesia
-‐
peri-‐oral
and
peripheral
paraesthesia
(skin
sensations
of
burning,
fizzing
or
tingling
–
author’s
experience
/
interpretation).
• Flu-‐like
symptoms
-‐
recurrent
symptoms
of
sore
throat;
tender,
painful
and/or
swollen
lymph
nodes.
Feeling
of
fever,
shivering
and/or
temperature
fluctuation,
sweating
episodes,
cold
intolerance,
cold
extremities,
intolerance
of
extremes
of
heat
and
cold.
8
On
a
personal
level,
I
developed
the
analogy
of
a
computer
with
‘low
RAM’
to
‘hold’
information
in
the
head
at
any
one
time.
As
a
result
of
this,
there
is
an
entire
chapter
devoted
to
using
‘bricolage’
in
expressing
this
phenomenon.
31
• Nausea
• Irritable
bowel
symptoms
• Altered
appetite
–
anorexia
or
abnormal
appetite,
loss
of
adaptability
and
worsening
of
symptoms
with
stress.
Marked
weight
change
may
also
be
a
feature
and
can
be
exacerbated
by
stress.
• Urinary
symptoms
-‐
frequency
and
urgency
(Purdie,
2010,
pp.6-‐7)
In
the
fifteen
years
since
my
diagnosis,
I
have
experienced
most
of
these
symptoms,
and
this
list
is
by
no
means
exhaustive.
At
the
time
of
writing
this
sentence,
I
have
had
all
these
symptoms
(and
more)
in
the
last
72
hours.
Indeed,
because
the
net
of
symptoms
can
be
cast
so
wide,
it
is
no
surprise
that
questions
could
be
raised
as
to
whether
ME
sufferers
all
have
the
same
disease
or
not.
4)
CFS-‐ME
research
and
current
interventions
The
National
Health
Service
now
acknowledges
that
the
tide
is
changing
as
to
whether
or
not
CFS-‐ME
is
a
physical
illness.
The
NHS
Scotland
Good
Practice
Statement
flags
that:
32
…there
is
accumulating
evidence
of
a
number
of
nervous
system,
immune,
neuroendocrine,
autonomic
and
other
abnormalities
in
patients
with
ME‐CFS.
However,
as
yet,
no
definitive
laboratory
test
(or
tests)
has
been
found
for
ME‐CFS,
which
must
remain
a
crucial
research
priority
for
the
diagnosis,
classification
and
sub-‐typing
of
this
disease.)
(Purdie,
2010,
p.32)
Unfortunately,
in
2011,
a
large
blow
was
dealt
to
ME
research
by
the
retraction
of
papers
in
publications
Science
and
Nature9
(Cressy,
D,
2011)
linking
the
illness
with
the
retrovirus
XMRV.
The
discovery
of
this
link
in
2009
had
sparked
hope
in
many
sufferers
and
a
cautious
sense
of
‘eureka’
was
experienced
in
both
research
circles
and
in
the
ME
community.
However,
the
integrity
of
the
research
was
questioned10,
resulting
in
full
author
retractions.
On
the
other
hand,
2011
also
saw
a
Norwegian
study11
(Fluge
and
Mella,
2009)
linking
Methotrexate
and
Rituximab12
both
(aggressive)
chemotherapy
drugs,
in
influencing
some
positive
results
in
patients
with
CFS-‐ME.
This
kind
of
discovery
is
rare,
and
veteran
sufferers
of
the
illness
have
learned
to
play
down
the
constant
oscillation
between
discovery
and
disappointment.
More
results
are
anticipated
from
further
studies.
Addictive
antidepressants
and
barbiturates
are
still
the
most
popular
pharmacological
solutions
in
order
to
quell
a
typical
CFS-‐ME
nervous
system
from
9
http://www.nature.com/news/xmrv-‐paper-‐withdrawn-‐1.9720
10
http://www.sciencemag.org/content/334/6063/1636.1.full
11
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2711959/
12
http://esme-‐eu.com/treatment/a-‐drug-‐for-‐me-‐cfs-‐the-‐rituximab-‐story-‐article468-‐110.html
33
‘hyper-‐arousal’,
a
state
where
the
body
is
constantly
over-‐adrenalised.
Moreover,
in
retaining
baggage
from
a
previous
historical
(even
hysterical)
mental
illness
view
of
CFS-‐ME,
Cognitive
Behavioural
Therapy
(CBT)
is
still
being
promoted
as
the
mainstream
but
controversial
therapeutic
model
alongside
‘graded
exercise’,
which
many
sufferers
have
found
unsuccessful,
and
some
even
harmful.
(Cognitive
Behaviour
Therapy
is
a
process
that
had
its
roots
in
treating
negative
emotions
in
depression
and
asks
the
sufferer
to
start
observing
how
these
emotions
arise,
leading
to
mutually
agreed
goals
of
changing
one’s
behaviour
and
subsequent
patterns
of
unhelpful
actions.)
5)
Mindfulness,
a
cheap
panacea?
There
is
no
single
pill
to
reach
for
in
treating
the
condition.
‘Mindfulness’
–
literally
a
form
of
paying
attention,
an
offshoot
of
Buddhist
meditation,
is
being
promoted
by
some
hospitals
as
a
new
way
of
treating
the
illness
because
it
claims
to
look
at
the
‘whole’
person
and
encourages
paying
attention
to
the
body’s
warning
signs
of
when
to
rest
and
when
not
to.
Given
that
my
research
project
is
concerned
with
a
kind
of
‘wholeness’
or
‘holism’
it
is
important
to
briefly
investigate
current
vogues
of
any
practice
aimed
to
enhance
the
life
of
‘the
whole
person’
of
which
mindfulness
is
part.
Whilst
there
are
major
texts
on
mindfulness
such
as
Jon
Kabat-‐Zinn’s
Full
Catastrophe
Living
(Kabat-‐Zinn
1991)
and
Buddhist
teacher
(and
Nobel
peace
prize
34
nominee)
Thích
Nhất
Hạnh’s
influential
The
Miracle
of
Mindfulness
(Nhất
Hạnh,
1987),
it
doesn’t
dilute
the
message
to
say
this
is
nothing
more
than
the
practice
of
paying
attention
to
the
task
in
hand.
Of
course,
one
could
unpick
that
concept
greatly
(as
these
texts
do)
but
mindfulness
in
my
life
has
served
to
isolate
unhelpful
thoughts
or
unpleasant
sensations
–
when
they
arise,
they
are
addressed,
accepted
or
moved
on
from
and
one
returns
to
the
present
moment.
Whilst
that
sounds
glib,
mindfulness
is
a
frequently
useful
and
practical
tool.
If
one
wants
to
explore
Buddhist
texts
more
deeply,
there
are
volumes
of
sutras
(Sanskrit)
and
suttas
(Pali)
that
outline
the
roots
of
the
practice.
At
Buddhist
retreats
where
some
of
the
more
immersive
forms
of
mindfulness
are
taught
I
have
encountered
a
large
number
of
CFS-‐ME
sufferers.
It
is
a
curious
thought,
but
one
which
has
implications
for
this
project,
that
CFS-‐ME
sufferers
are
trying
remedies
ahead
of
what
might
be
considered
useful
by
orthodox
medical
practitioners.
Buddhism
and
mindfulness
practice
was
the
first
encounter
I
had
which
seemed
to
help
me
work
within
the
condition
a
little.
I
assumed
this
would
be
a
maverick
approach
in
1999
when
I
went
to
my
first
retreat,
but
I
was
not
alone
in
the
condition
when
I
arrived.
There
is
at
least
some
interest
from
neuroscientists
in
mindfulness
practice.
Mark
Vernon’s
Wellbeing
(Vernon,
2008)
features
multiple
entries
on
mindfulness
–
although
he
uses
the
term
‘spiritual’:
Spiritual
exercises…
have
interestingly
been
called
an
“off
button”
for
the
self.
What
neuroscience
has
shown
is
that
during
meditation,
and
in
particular
the
Buddhist
practice
of
mindfulness,
the
brain’s
parietal
lobes,
the
parts
that
help
an
individual
locate
where
they
are
in
space,
become
cut
off.
The
lobes
are
still
working:
still
trying
to
establish
35
where
the
individual
is
and
where
the
boundaries
of
their
physical
presence
lie.
But
they
don’t
have
enough
sensory
information
to
complete
the
task.
(Vernon,
2008,
pp.88-‐89)
6)
The
‘entrepreneurial
sector’
of
CFS-‐ME
My
own
work
is
a
fairly
expansive
coping
strategy
regarding
the
illness;
it
is
a
somewhat
individualistic
and
idiosyncratic
in
its
approach.
In
untethered
and
experimental
territory
one
may
also
find
a
number
of
‘fringe’
treatments
as
bedfellows.
I’ve
found
some
slightly
unorthodox
treatments
effective;
acupuncture,
manual
lymphatic
drainage
(soft
neck
and
lymph
massage),
hot
stone
massage
and
–
at
one
point,
becoming
vegetarian,
then
vegan.
At
one
point
I
had
almost
decided
to
become
a
Buddhist
monk,
which
I
eventually
dropped.
Homeopathy
I
found
to
be
useless.
But
I’ve
used
magnets,
experimental
diets
(with
some
success)
but
have
always
viewed
the
various
free-‐market
solutions
on
offer
with
some
suspicion.
Journalist
John
Diamond’s
autobiography
of
cancer
Snake
Oil
and
Other
Preoccupations,
which
is
in
part
a
largely
dismissive
personal
account
of
holistic
health
culture,
features
an
equally
caustic
quote
by
Richard
Dawkins
in
the
introduction:
When
the
pathologist
has
read
the
runes;
when
the
oracles
of
X-‐ray,
CT
scan
and
biopsy
have
spoken
and
hope
is
guttering
low…
it
is
then
that
the
'alternative'
or
'complementary'
vultures
start
circling.
This
is
their
36
moment.
This
is
where
they
come
into
their
own,
for
there's
money
in
hope:
the
more
desperate
the
hope,
the
richer
the
pickings.
(Dawkins,
in
Diamond,
2001,
p.xiv)
Wherever
there
is
a
vague
illness,
capitalism
follows
closely
behind,
and
there
exists
a
world
of
experimental
treatments
for
ME
where
private
treatments
of
unclear
or
dubious
efficacy
flourish.
One
that
is
quite
prominent
and
works
more
on
the
mental
illness
model
is
‘Reverse
Therapy’,
and
this
is
an
expensive
and
controversial
therapy,
costing
many
hundreds
of
pounds.
The
following
is
a
statement
on
the
Reverse
Therapy
website
(the
marketing
of
the
treatment
employs
as
much
medical
language
as
possible,
yet
anyone
can
become
a
Reverse
Therapist):
…emotions
and
brain
processes
interact
with
the
Hypothalamus-‐
Pituitary-‐Adrenal
glands
(the
'HPA
Axis')
that
trigger
changes
to
the
Sympathetic
Nervous
System
and
the
Immune
System.
(Eaton,
2010,
n.p.)
In
other
words,
Reverse
Therapy
claims
to
offer
a
‘cure’
by
showing
sufferers
a
way
to
‘re-‐program’
themselves.
It
works
on
the
assumption
that
sufferers
have
been
dwelling
inside
the
illness
until
it
has
become
their
only
modus
operandi
and
identity.
The
sufferer
gets
caught
in
an
‘illness
loop’
and
not
a
‘wellness
loop’.
37
7)
CFS-‐ME
in
popular
culture
or
Suki,
go
to
the
well
My
heart
is
sinking.
I
am
watching
influential
comedian
Ricky
Gervais
on
his
“Fame”
tour
DVD
(Gervais,
Fame,
2007),
unaware
that
he
is
about
to
help
reinforce
the
prejudice
that
ME
sufferers
have
spent
the
last
twenty
years
attempting
to
eradicate,
not
just
in
the
UK,
but
globally.
In
his
‘Suki,
go
to
the
well’
sketch,
Gervais
sets
up
a
scenario
to
demonstrate
that
“you
never
hear
a
starving
African
complaining
about
having
ME”13
This
is
a
clunky
sketch
with
a
comedian
I
normally
find
funny,
but
in
the
skit,
when
Suki’s
father
asks
her
why
she
cannot
go
to
the
well,
several
miles
away,
‘Suki’
shrugs
her
shoulders
and
she
simply
states
“ME”,
losing
her
African
accent
having
adopted
the
stereotype
of
a
British
benefit
fraudster.
Everyone
laughs.
At
the
time
of
writing,
this
feels
like
the
cultural
meme
hinted
at
on
Twitter
or
Facebook
with
the
hashtag
as
“#firstworldproblems”.
Gervais
infers
here
is
that
ME
is
a
problem
of
a
delicate
western
bourgeois
culture,
or
a
‘nanny
state’:
that
if
it
were
in
the
‘real
world’
such
as
Africa,
sufferers
would
somehow
‘get
over
themselves’.
I
found
this
sketch
hard
to
take
when
this
illness
has
deeply
retarded
my
life.
It
can
prevent
me
from
playing
with
my
son
or
walking
to
the
bus
stop,
or
remembering
essential
words,
and
puts
pressure
on
my
family
and
friendships.
And
I’m
one
of
the
lucky
ones
who
is
not
a
‘25-‐percenter’,
where
life
is
reduced
permanently
to
a
bed.
For
13
In
fairness,
Gervais
also
says
in
his
intro
to
the
joke
that
“ME
is
a
real
physical
illness”
or
words
to
that
effect,
which
serves
to
allow
him
the
right
to
lampoon
the
condition
in
the
skit.
38
some
ME
sufferers,
suicide
has
eventually
been
their
only
release
from
daily
suffering.
I
wonder
if
the
Gervais
sketch
presents
a
common
view
of
CFS-‐ME
in
today’s
UK?
Ultimately,
I
realise
I
am
part
of
a
phenomenon
that
the
wider
society
finds
it
difficult
to
deal
with.
8)
CFS-‐ME
and
thinking
oneself
well
The
culture
around
sufferers
often
implies
they
have
made
themselves
ill.
Expensive
treatments
such
as
Reverse
Therapy
use
techniques
borrowed
from
the
advertising
industry.
They
first
make
people
feel
that
they
are
‘wrong’
or
somehow
inferior,
and
then
sell
them
the
solution.
Meanwhile,
in
the
NHS,
anecdotal
evidence
suggests
that
many
UK
physicians
still
see
CFS-‐ME
as
a
mental
illness
(and
this
has
been
my
personal
experience).
Frequently
sufferers
are
diagnosed
as
depressed,
the
irony
being
that
sufferers
usually
are
depressed
on
some
level,
but
often
(in
my
experience)
as
a
secondary
symptom
of
either
not
being
believed,
or
being
snowed-‐
under
by
the
condition,
or
both.
The
core
problem
with
some
of
these
attitudes
and
inappropriate
treatments,
is
that
it
is
assumed
that
the
patients
themselves
have
‘thought
themselves
into
a
state’
and
are
assumed
to
be
able
to
‘think’
themselves
out
of
it,
or
exercise
themselves
out
of
it:
a
view
which
would
be
seen
as
highly
inappropriate
with
desperately
ill
cancer
or
HIV+
patients.
The
reasoning
seems
to
be
that
CFS-‐ME
is
not
as
‘serious’
as
these
conditions,
an
opinion
rife
within
some
of
the
medical
community,
which
in
turn
filters
through
to
popular
culture,
from
dramas
to
stand-‐up
comedians.
39
Nevertheless,
if
we
return
to
the
Reverse
Therapy
website,
there
are
phrases
that
I
find
interesting.
In
a
kinder
context,
they
could
potentially
link
to
my
own
personal
intervention
into
my
illness.
But
if
I
were
being
totally
neutral,
I
would
say
this
state
of
being
in
an
“illness
loop”
is
common
to
many
chronic
illnesses.
It
is
certainly
not
unique
to
my
illness.
Reverse
Therapy
charges
the
CFS-‐ME
sufferer
(a
large
fee,
typically
£40-‐£70
per
hour
over
several
sessions)
to
teach
him
or
herself
how
to
get
out
of
this
negative
cycle,
and
it
loudly
offers
the
successful
sufferer
a
‘cure’
using
that
actual
word
cure
on
it’s
website,
a
move
similar
to
evangelical
ministries
in
the
USA.
This
is
no
accident.
‘Faith’
is
a
big
part
of
these
treatments.
Instead
of
the
word
cure,
a
‘coping
mechanism’
is
perhaps
a
more
realistic
description
of
what
a
‘wellness
loop’
can
be.
That’s
why
I
ended
up
making
my
own,
free
interventions.
While
it
may
not
be
as
profitable
as
a
dubiously
heralded
‘cure’,
any
intervention
that
enhances
the
quality
of
life
of
someone
with
a
chronic
illness
is
worth
exploring,
particularly
if
it
is
freely
available.
My
own
project
is
one
such
attempt
to
regain
this
sense
of
wellbeing.
40
Chapter
3:
Artists
in
Extremis
Cultural
Methodologies
of
Extreme
Limitations
1.
George
Perec’s
A
Void
2.
Prisoner’s
Inventions
3.
The
Ayrshire
Lion
Tamer
4.
Three
Artists
in
Extremis;
Cancer,
Sickle
Cell
Anemia
and
CFS-‐ME
5.
Jo
Spence:
Cancer
and
Phototherapy
6.
Donald
Rodney:
Sickle-‐Cell
Anemia
7.
CFS-‐ME
-‐
The
Half-‐Light
Studies
of
Penny
Clare
8.
Other
narratives
of
art
making
in
CFS-‐ME
9.
Usurping
the
second
suffering:
How
may
an
artist
respond
to
CFS-‐ME?
10.
Learning
with
CFS-‐ME
41
In
this
chapter
I
examine
how
sufferers
of
CFS-‐ME
could
benefit
from
a
survey
of
limitations
per
se,
both
conceptual
and
practical.
By
beginning
with
examples
of
resourcefulness
firstly
in
literature,
then
in
prison,
before
turning
to
artists
affected
by
serious
illness
and
other
narratives
of
art
making
in
CFS-‐ME,
I
am
also
laying
the
foundations
for
my
experimental
approaches.
1.
George
Perec’s
A
Void
The
French
writer
George
Perec
produced
a
novel
without
the
letter
‘e’
titled
A
Void
(English
edition:
Perec,
2008)
with
the
original
title
being
La
Disparition
(Perec,
1989)
(literally,
"The
Disappearance").
The
English
translation
is
also
an
impressive
technical
exercise,
still
avoiding
the
‘e’
-‐
but
with
exacting
conceptual
prowess
despite
being
a
translation.
Here’s
a
typical
paragraph
without
an
‘e’
to
be
seen:
Haig,
a
pallid,
sickly,
timorous
boy,
an
unwitting
victim
of
all
that
gloom
and
doom,
was
psychologically
unfit
for
this
cold,
harsh
world
of
ours,
a
world
in
which,
if
you
want
to
function,
you
simply
cannot
show
any
pity.
Gradually
coming
to
know
his
son,
snapping
out
of
his
nihilistic
sloth
at
long
last,
disparaging
his
past
duplicity,
his
misconduct,
his
casual
abandoning
of
his
offspring,
Augustus
finally
got
down
to
pray
for
moral
stamina,
so
that
no
guilt,
no
stigma,
should
attach
to
his
son
for
a
sin
that
was
his
—
which
is
to
say,
his
own
—
and
nobody's
but
his.
(Perec,
G,
A
Void,
2008,
p.135)
42
In
a
subsequent
work,
Perec
effectively
took
all
these
unused
‘e’s
and
built
a
kind
of
‘reverse’
text
around
them
in
which
the
‘e’
is
the
only
vowel
employed.
Titled
Les
Revenentes
(Perec,
1991)
(sic
–
The
Returned),
Perec’s
work
here
is
equally
idiosyncratic
and
has
a
playful
sense
of
adaptation
towards
a
very
strict
rule.
2.
Prisoner’s
Inventions
In
2003,
Chicago-‐based
artist
collective
Temporary
Services
published
Prisoner’s
Inventions
(Angelo
and
Score,
2003)
authored
by
the
prisoner
known
only
as
‘Angelo’.
The
book
was
an
anthology
of
creative
responses
to
restricted
materials
in
prison.
Angelo
makes
home
furnishings
(pp.6-‐20),
recreational
aids
(pp.82-‐88),
even
a
kettle
(‘stinger’
p.35)
and
dozens
more
inventions
out
of
papier-‐mache,
plastic
bags
and
paperclips.
There’s
a
tattooing
machine
(p.96)
made
from
a
Walkman
cassette
motor
attached
to
a
biro
and
a
sharpened
strand
of
paperclip
wire.
Further
examples
include
a
loudspeaker
made
out
of
an
empty
tobacco
tin
(p.115),
an
earphone
(p.114)
and
there’s
a
worktable
(p.14)
made
out
of
an
inmate’s
mattress.
Some
of
these
inventions
are
purely
functional,
but
then
there’s
also
the
idiosyncratic;
a
‘spider
house’
(p.111),
where
Angelo
has
made
a
kind
of
dolls
house
for
spiders,
complete
with
en-‐suite
graveyard
for
spiders
that
have
passed
away.
Prisoner’s
Inventions
is
much
more
than
a
publication.
Temporary
Services
have
expanded
the
work
with
Angelo
to
include
gallery
installations
(exhibited
in
Greece,
Germany,
Spain,
the
UK
and
several
times
in
the
USA14).
These
installations
feature
14
http://www.temporaryservices.org/pi_overview.html
43
actual
mock-‐ups
of
the
inventions,
additional
videos
of
how
the
methods
are
created
from
minimal
means
–
and
finally,
there
is
usually
one
large
mock-‐up
of
Angelo’s
cell,
resembling
a
kind
of
claustrophobic
film-‐set.
Reading
areas
are
set
aside
which
feature
expository
information
on
the
works
and
critical
responses
to
it,
one
of
which
The
Cell
Block
and
The
White
Cube
by
Jennifer
Schmidt
(Schmidt
et
al,
2001),
expands
on
the
project
in
a
non-‐judgmental
manner,
speaking
of
the
‘survival’
aspect
of
Angelo’s
book:
Angelo’s
drawings
illustrate
inventions
in
situations
where
resources
are
limited
and
time
is
immeasurable.
The
reader
can
reflect
on
the
system
of
incarceration
and
what
that
necessitates,
while
recognizing
the
inherent
relevance
of
the
object
as
it
pertains
to
an
actual
person’s
experience.
Serving
as
a
starting
point
for
investigation
and
inquiry
into
the
penal
system,
“Prisoners’
Inventions”
also
addresses
issues
concerning
the
role
of
expression
and
freedom
of
speech…
[Angelo]
clearly
likes
that
his
creative
work
is
finding
an
audience,
but
as
long
as
he
is
incarcerated,
he
just
wants
to
“stay
sane”
while
serving
his
time.
He’s
not
interested
in
becoming
a
celebrity
prisoner.
Perhaps
his
work
on
this
project
will
be
personally
helpful
to
him
later
in
life
if
he
gets
paroled,
but
for
now,
the
public
dispersal
of
his
work
seems
to
be
reward
enough.
(Schmidt
et
al,
2011,
n.p.)
The
author
also
cites
the
importance
of
experimental
approaches
when
dealing
with
the
incarceration
of
individuals,
and
whilst
there
is
a
marked
difference
between
criminality
and
those
house
bound
by
CFS-‐ME,
there
is
a
useful
caveat:
44
…it
seems
that
we
can
afford
to
be
a
little
more
experimental
in
what
some
prisoners
are
able
to
do
during
their
sentences.
We
can
afford
to
rethink
what
they
might
contribute
to
society
while
they
are
still
in
prison.
We
can
afford
to
keep
thinking
about
how
prisoners
might
be
able
to
re-‐integrate
into
society
upon
release.
(ibid)
3.
The
Ayrshire
Lion
Tamer
Having
ME
may
force
the
sufferer
to
mine
previously
unseen
cultural
riches
of
an
immediate
environment
as
a
primary
resource.
Given
that
sufferers
have
to
make
do
with
what
is
at
hand
whether
they
like
their
environment
or
not,
this
can
throw
up
what
our
American
friends
would
call
‘a
curveball’.
At
Christmas,
as
a
family,
we
invited
everyone
on
the
street
round
for
wine
and
mince
pies.
To
our
surprise,
nearly
everyone
turned
up.
One
of
our
guests,
we
found
out
that
day,
used
to
be
a
lion-‐
tamer.
Not
an
everyday
occurrence
in
suburbia,
but
one
in
which
has
inspired
me
to
dig
below
the
surface
of
any
so-‐called
‘average’
street
and
become
a
kind
of
anthropologist
or
artist
at
home.
45
4.
Three
Artists
in
Extremis;
Cancer,
Sickle
Cell
Anaemia
and
ME
Moving
away
from
the
street
to
the
body,
perhaps
one
should
look
very
closely
at
what
artists
do
when
assailed
by
different
forms
of
limitation
within
chronic
illness.
I
have
chosen
three
artists
in
this
section,
all
in
extremis,
two
of
whom
were
so
ill
that
they
died
-‐
and
one
remains
alive
but
bed-‐bound.
All
three
of
these
artists
adapted
their
practice
to
partner
their
illness
along
the
way.
I
have,
in
this
section,
flagged
artists
with
two
other
illnesses
that
have
much
chronicity
(and
often
grave
consequences);
Cancer
and
Sickle-‐Cell
Anaemia.
These
artist-‐sufferers
had
some
public
recognition.
We
will
then
conclude
this
section
by
looking
at
an
‘undiscovered’
artist
who
has
CFS-‐ME
and
who
has
served
as
a
kind
of
case
study
or
fieldwork
for
me.
This
research
project
would
be
the
first
to
profile
her
work.
Locating
/
identifying
artists
that
have
CFS-‐ME
is
not
easy
because
broadly
speaking,
ME
sufferers
do
not
have
the
‘acute/remission’
pattern
to
their
illnesses
to
carry
out
much
work,
or
fundamentally
any
laboratory
diagnoses.
As
a
result
and
because
they
lack
the
energy
to
promote
themselves,
they
become
‘invisible’
artists
and
patients.
And
the
paradox
is
that
those
who
are
often
making
interesting
work
are
so
ill
they
can
barely
lift
a
camera
or
hold
a
brush,
let
alone
leave
the
house.
So
instead
of
‘remission’
these
individuals
are
almost
always
ill
across
all
aspects
of
their
lives.
One
can
say
for
ME
sufferers
that
their
exhaustion
is
reliable
in
its
unreliability.
So
artist-‐sufferers
tend
not
to
be
able
to
have
art-‐shows
in
places
outside
of
their
living
spaces
or
online.
Or
put
another
way,
they
are
left
only
with
the
process
of
making
art.
This
is
an
interesting
point,
because
it
implies
that
there
must
be
something
in
their
process
that
is
meaningful
when
there
is
little
chance
of
being
fit
46
enough
to
get
the
work
exhibited,
or
apply
for
a
grant.
One
might
assume
that
they
are
doing
it
for
themselves
and
that
there
is
an
element
of
self-‐medicating
their
condition
through
art.
Diversity
and
adaptation
are
the
key
themes
of
the
following
artists.
Their
backgrounds
and
unique
(and
sometimes
existential)
circumstances
influence
the
work
they
produce,
made
in
frequently
uncomfortable
situations.
Sometimes
their
illness
prevented
a
body
of
work
from
expanding.
But
if
one
thing
unites
these
artists
–
it
is
that
they
are
seriously
limited
in
their
health,
and
moreover,
may
have
had
to
develop
highly
economical
strategies
to
produce
work
at
all.
This
also
may
allow
their
work
to
be
very
inclusive.
To
keep
a
theme,
I’ve
chosen
photography
as
the
medium
here.
Firstly,
I’d
like
to
turn
to
a
name
familiar
to
some
in
exploring
artists
and
illness,
and
in
particular,
the
chronic
degenerative
illness
of
cancer
with
the
artist
Jo
Spence,
overleaf.
47
5.
Jo
Spence:
Cancer
and
‘Phototherapy’
fig
1.
Exiled
fig
2.
Industrialisation
Images
from
Beyond
the
Perfect
Image
Photography,
Subjectivity,
Antagonism
(Spence,
et
al
2005)
and
also
the
artist’s
archival
site
www.jospence.org
British
photographer
Jo
Spence
(1934-‐1992),
when
diagnosed
with
breast
cancer,
began
to
develop
an
autobiographical
form
of
camera
work
that
she
titled
‘phototherapy’
–
a
form
of
reflective
self-‐portraiture
alongside
manifestos,
text
works,
and
publications,
such
as
her
autobiographical
mid-‐period
work
Putting
Myself
in
the
Picture:
A
Political,
Personal
and
Photographic
Autobiography
(Spence,
1986)
a
practice
which
she
saw
as
sanctioning
first-‐person
photography
not
only
for
herself
but
for
other
groups
of
women.
Aimed
at
arming
herself
from
the
illness
that
eventually
claimed
her,
it
is
clear
that
her
practice
and
naming
of
this
technique
‘phototherapy’
can
be
viewed
as
an
artist’s
intervention.
The
basis
of
this
work
had
built
on
previous
experiences
within
co-‐counselling
and
community
projects
with
women’s
groups.
Outside
of
these
facets
48
of
life,
Spence
had
been
an
accomplished
photographer
and
had
worked
in
the
meditative
space
of
the
studio
before
studying
photography
formally
at
university,
at
which
point
she
received
both
a
first
class
honours
degree,
but
also,
around
the
same
time,
a
cancer
diagnosis.
It
was
the
fusion
of
her
photographic
background,
her
previous
community
work
around
the
health
of
working
class
women,
alongside
documenting
the
effects
of
the
surgical
interventions
on
her
body
that
subsequently
coalesced
to
form
this
‘phototherapy’.
As
well
as
using
it
herself,
Phototherapy
became
a
practice
and
philosophy
she
encouraged
others
to
undertake,
often
with
small
compact
cameras
and
with
minimal
technical
complexity.
Spence
argued
that
the
main
hurdle
of
phototherapy
was
not
technical,
it
was
one
of
having
enough
courage
to
turn
the
camera
on
oneself.
Publicly
articulating
her
process
in
talks
and
magazines,
some
of
which
she
co-‐
founded,
she
spoke
of
democratising
photography
in
as
simple
and
economical
means
as
possible,
(initially
from
a
feminist
perspective).
One
gets
the
sense
that
whilst
her
phototherapy
images
are
autobiographical,
they
seem
to
be
taken
and
arranged
in
such
a
simple
and
democratic
a
way
that
they
appear
to
be
deliberately
accessible,
as
if
she
always
had
an
eye
on
her
idiosyncratic
practice
being
adopted
as
a
model.
Her
various
self-‐portraits
are
arresting,
even
within
today’s
oversaturated
image
culture.
Spence’s
dramatic
photographs
of
lumpectomy
scars,
of
contorted
facial
expressions
and
uncomfortable
autobiographical
re-‐enactments
of
her
life
appear
to
reveal
a
practice
of
constant
confrontation
and
questioning.
This
questioning
not
only
examined
authority,
but
specifically
tackled
illness,
of
British
medical
protocols
and
the
49
question
of
who
controls
and
‘owns’
one’s
illness.
For
the
sick
practitioner
today
who
wishes
to
lean
towards
such
a
defiant
model,
Spence
has
bequeathed
a
lasting
template
that
is
simple,
workable
and
confrontational.
Facing
her
illness
head-‐on,
she
saw
her
art
practice
as
one
of
survival,
not
merely
as
occupational
therapy.
Spence’s
studio
images,
viewed
as
a
body
of
work,
remind
me
of
a
form
of
autobiographical
reportage,
clearly
showing
a
progressive
investigation
of
an
internal
war
that
she
chose
to
externalise,
understand
and
disseminate.
I
resonate
with
Spence’s
work
as
she
emphasised
an
egalitarian
approach
whilst
maintaining
first-‐person
views,
and
in
regard
to
her
illness
she
merged
it
with
a
kind
of
‘holism’.
For
Spence,
an
art
practice
formed
part
of
a
range
of
approaches
to
fight
cancer,
accompanying
a
journey
into
Traditional
Chinese
Medicine
alongside
other
counter-‐cultural
approaches
(which
in
the
1980s
were
seen
as
very
esoteric
in
the
UK,
especially
outside
of
middle-‐class
culture,
which
is
perhaps
ironic,
because
in
China,
this
was
‘common-‐person’s
medicine’).
It
is
this
multi-‐barrelled
approach
and
breadth
of
vision
that
makes
Spence’s
work
relevant
to
this
project.
Spence’s
artistic
process
was
the
engine
of
change
when
she
was
facing
her
biggest
obstacles.
Her
approach
was
broad
and
integrative.
It
touched
on
manifestos,
on
‘authoring’
one’s
own
illness
and
attempting
to
maximise
her
chances
of
interrupting
the
onset
of
aggressive
illness
through
placing
an
art
practice
on
an
equally
important
level
as
medical
interventions,
which
were
failing
her
anyway,
and
perhaps
even
defining
these
practices
as
a
kind
of
medicine.
50
I
find
the
latter
point
stirring
and
inspiring.
Spence’s
work
is
relevant
to
this
project
in
the
naming
and
development
of
a
methodology
partly
directed
by
the
illness.
In
developing
‘phototherapy’,
although
primarily
autoethnographic,
Spence
forged
a
clear,
adoptable
methodology
as
a
brave
and
confrontational
process
during
illness.
We
know
Spence
practiced
what
she
preached
by
continuing
the
process
through
all
stages
of
her
illness
including
her
final
days.
Her
books
outline
simple
exercises
that
yield
insightful
results.
She
was
autoethnographic
by
stepping
in
and
out
of
the
field
via
the
primary
tool
of
an
art
practice.15
15
Another
cancer-‐based
narrative
emerges
in
the
autoethnographic
work
of
Ian
Breakwell.
“In
2004
Breakwell
was
awarded
an
AHRC-‐funded
Fellowship
at
Central
St
Martins
College
of
Art
&
Design
to
explore
new
ways
of
presenting
his
Diary,
entitled
The
Diary
Re-‐invented.
Later
in
2004
he
was
diagnosed
with
inoperable
lung
cancer.
The
next
fourteen
months
saw
a
frenetic
pace
of
work,
collating
forty
years
of
Diary
material
for
future
publication
and
a
new
audio-‐visual
installation
BC/AD
[Before
Cancer/After
Diagnosis],
based
on
his
Final
Diary.
Breakwell
died
in
October
2005;
he
left
instructions
for
his
colleagues
to
complete
his
work."
Source:
http://www.anthonyreynolds.com/breakwell/diary/diaries/decade/the_2000s
51
6.
Donald
Rodney:
Sickle-‐Cell
Anaemia
Fig
1.
In
the
House
of
my
Father
(Rodney,
D
1995,
Tate.org)
Next,
we
will
examine
an
autobiographical
work
about
the
hereditary
disease
Sickle-‐Cell
Anaemia
which,
despite
medical
advances,
almost
always
reduces
the
lifespan
of
the
sufferer.
I’d
like
to
describe
a
single
photograph
(above)
I
remember
from
The
British
Art
Show
5,
in
the
late
nineties,
which
has
had
a
lasting
effect
on
me
because
of
the
depth
of
information
one
could
glean
from
a
simple
yet
charged
singular
image
set
alongside
a
few
lines
of
text.
Dried
animal
skin
has
been
used
historically
to
form
parchment,
and
unlike
leather
it
remains
porous
and
more
delicate.
The
thought
of
using
human
skin
for
anything
recreational
or
utilitarian
evokes
images
of
Nazi
abominations,
of
skin
for
lampshades
and
of
deep
horrors
explored
in
the
book
The
Lampshade:
A
Holocaust
Detective
Story
from
Buchenwald
to
New
Orleans
by
Mark
Jacobson
(Jacobson,
2011).
The
practical
use
of
human
skin
is
therefore,
already
a
deeply
loaded
idea,
one
in
52
which
artist
Donald
Rodney
(1961-‐1998)
gracefully
usurps,
to
form
an
origami-‐like
object
sitting
in
the
palm
of
his
hand.
Made
from
his
own
skin.
When
encountering
the
work,
the
viewer
senses
it
is
an
object
of
some
reverence
and
extremely
fragile,
but
perhaps
wouldn’t
guess
it
was
skin.
It
appears
to
be
something
like
a
reassembled
banknote,
rescued
from
the
back
pocket
of
a
pair
of
jeans
after
a
washing
machine
cycle.
And
because
it
is
an
experience
that
many
people
have
encountered,
(ruining
a
banknote
in
the
washing),
one
may
assume
this
was
some
kind
of
satirical
work
about
poverty.
As
a
photographic
artwork
it
works
on
several
levels.
At
first
glance,
there
is
little
to
see
of
context
and
history,
but
it
snares
the
viewer
because
it
is
a
beguiling
image.
Perhaps
one
would
associate
it
with
African-‐Caribbean
culture
because
of
the
skin
colour
of
both
the
hand
and
what
is
placed
on
it.
The
paper
sculpture
looks
like
some
kind
of
shack,
and
so
perhaps
this
is
a
piece
about
origins,
maybe
poverty,
lineages
and
family.
It
turns
out
it
is
about
family
but
for
fatalistic
and
genetic
reasons.
On
closer
inspection,
when
we
examine
this
large,
black,
open
male
palm
upon
which
rests
a
gossamer-‐thin
object
–
we
see
it
is
a
‘paper’
house,
crudely
held
together
with
two
tiny
pins.
It
looks
as
if
it
would
collapse
at
any
moment.
There
is
a
doorway
visible,
neatly
cut
–
perhaps
with
a
scalpel.
The
image
is
displayed
with
an
accompanying
text
nearby
such
as
in
the
example
below.
As
you
read
the
explanation
you
become
aware
that
the
house
is
made
from
human
skin,
removed
neatly
from
Rodney’s
body.
Here’s
how
the
Tate
Gallery
describes
the
work:
53
Donald
Rodney's
highly
personal
piece,
"In
the
House
of
My
Father"
is
dedicated
to
his
father
who
had
died
two
years
earlier.
Donald
Rodney
himself
was
suffering
from
sickle-‐cell
anaemia,
an
inherited
disease
of
the
blood,
which
caused
his
death
in
1998.
The
photograph
comprises
his
open
hand,
with
a
small,
papery
looking
house
construction
placed
in
his
palm.
The
house
is
loosely
pinned
together
with
two,
enormous
pins
(nails?)
which
makes
for
poignant
viewing
when
we
consider
the
personal
history
of
the
artist,
the
knowledge
that
the
house
is
actually
made
of
Rodney's
skin,
and
for
Christians,
the
impact
of
the
possible
biblical
imagery
and
title.
(Barson,
2014,
n.p.)
I
reiterate
that
the
house
doesn’t
look
like
skin.
It
has
blue
staining,
possibly
from
the
medical
removal
process.
We
could
term
this
kind
of
photograph
a
‘radial’
one,
because
despite
the
economy
of
the
image,
the
title
and
subsequent
back-‐story
of
the
object
‘radiates’
out
-‐
touching
areas
such
genetics
and
hereditary
issues,
black
cultures,
and
a
kind
of
‘memoriality’.
Given
that
Rodney’s
father
died
from
the
disease
as
did
Rodney
himself
only
a
few
years
after
this
image
was
taken,
it
becomes
a
charged
and
considered
photograph
on
illness.
His
work
is
useful
to
this
research
project
because
of
it’s
depth,
simplicity,
and
whilst
it
still
serves
as
reminder
or
signpost
for
the
tragedy
of
sickle-‐cell
anaemia,
it
makes
an
excellent
case
for
photography
as
a
both
conceptual
and
poetic
conduit
in
which
to
process
mortality
and
loss
through
extremely
economical
means.
54
The
work
is:
a)
Autoethnographic
–
i.e.
the
artist
is
looking
at
a
societal
problem
in
a
visually
autobiographical
way,
he
is
both
the
field
and
the
researcher.
But
at
no
point
does
this
become
self-‐indulgent.
b)
It
uses
metaphor
through
a
body
politic
line
of
enquiry
and
a
technical
photographic
methodology.
It
is
a
highly
loaded
image
connoting
black
history,
mortality,
evil,
care,
heritage
and
hereditary
issues.
All
this
within
one
photograph
and
as
a
result
it
is
a
sleek
and
economical
work.
It
could,
by
itself
be
the
source
of
a
lengthy
discourse.
c)…and
as
a
consequence
it
provides
an
efficient
encapsulation
of
multiple
issues
in
a
single
picture
making
a
strong
argument
for
the
validity
of
an
artist’s
response
as
part
of
cultural
discourse.
55
7.
CFS-‐ME
-‐
The
Half-‐Light
Studies
of
Penny
Clare
Fig
1.
A
nebula
bursts
out
of
the
pillow
Fig
2.
I
appear
from
another
realm
to
comfort
myself
(Images
sourced
from
the
artist’s
personal
archive)
I
once
co-‐edited
a
self-‐help
newsletter
for
sufferers
of
CFS-‐ME
who
were
interested
in
adopting
meditation
practices
to
help
cope
with
the
illness.
My
co-‐editor
and
I
would
hunt
out
quotes
and
articles
from
other
magazines
and
write
pieces
ourselves,
producing
a
kind
of
compilation
newsletter
that
we
mailed
around
the
world.
We
were
interested
in
short-‐form
content,
which
was
easily
understood
but
had
some
depth
to
it.
During
this
time,
two
things
occurred
to
us
that
formed
a
kind
of
accidental
research:
1.
Many
sufferers
with
the
illness
turned
to
Buddhism
or
Eastern
mysticism.
Why
were
so
many
CFS-‐ME
sufferers
drawn
to
these
practices?
I
was
a
Buddhist,
and
so
was
my
co-‐editor
and
it
turned
out
than
many
many
other
people
with
the
illness
56
shared
this
interest.
Was
this
because
people
who
had
exhausted
or
confounded
NHS
services
in
the
UK
were
turning
to
alternative
therapies
and
practices
like
Buddhism?
I
think
of
Jo
Spence
here
with
her
interest
in
traditional
Chinese
medicine.
2.
Another
anomaly
was
the
proportion
of
overtly
creative
people
who
the
illness
had
claimed
–
bucking
the
‘careerist’
stereotype
of
an
ME
sufferer
offered
by
the
media
in
the
80s
-‐
of
insensitive
city
bankers
who
had
burned
out
from
cocaine,
excess
and
greed.
Instead,
here,
I
noticed
a
subtle
link
between
creative
sensitivity
and
sensitivity
in
general,
to
light,
noise,
food,
and
so
on
–
the
illness
that
became
CFS-‐ME.
It
was
here
I
discovered
a
seriously
ill
woman
who
was
within
the
25%16
group
of
sufferers.
Her
name
is
Penny
Clare.
Penny
Clare
is
a
writer
and
photographer
who
is
mostly
confined
to
her
bed
by
CFS-‐ME,
enduring
a
continuous
and
isolated
existence.
Her
art
practice
is
directly
informed
and
intrinsically
related
to
an
unarguably
dire
and
unbroken
experience
as
a
bed-‐bound
sufferer
during
the
last
two
decades.
All
her
work
emerges
from
living
incapacitated
in
a
darkened
room.
Penny
Clare
and
I
communicated
frequently
and
I
eventually
went
to
visit
her.
She
was
surprisingly
composed
in
her
small
bed
and
able
to
talk
for
a
few
minutes
at
a
time.
After
the
visit,
years
passed
and
our
communication
became
less
frequent
until
I
lost
contact
with
her.
One
day,
I
heard
from
her
-‐
she
had
started
to
take
photographs.
I
had
a
look.
I’d
never
seen
anything
like
them.
16
My
source
here
is
Shepard
and
Chaudhuri,
2001
-‐
Action
for
ME
and
The
ME
Association
also
use
this
figure.
57
Clare’s
art
developed
firstly
by
writing
poetry,
then
articles,
and
then
eventually,
an
autobiography
-‐
all
accomplished
by
torchlight
or
by
working
in
near
absolute
dark.
The
artist's
photographs
were
also
all
taken
in
this
darkened
bedroom,
without
much
preparation.
In
such
a
dark
place
an
automatic
exposure
on
a
small
digital
camera
can
easily
take
up
to
ten
seconds.
Although
this
wasn’t
the
artist’s
intention
in
the
first
instance,
Clare
grew
to
find
a
sense
of
kinship
in
both
this
working
method
and
the
aesthetics
of
the
finished
images,
which
were/are
very
delicate
and
foggy.
Upon
seeing
the
results,
she
continued
to
take
photographs
in
this
way,
using
her
strongest
but
unsteady
arm
as
a
kind
of
monopod,
her
wobbling
weak
arms
causing
much
blurring
of
her
auto-‐portraits
during
the
exposure.
As
a
consequence
a
kind
of
authentic
movement,
or
physicality
of
her
illness
is
traced
on
the
camera’s
sensor.
This
‘wobble’
literally
becomes
a
signature.
When
I
saw
the
images
for
the
first
time
-‐
which
were
mainly
the
self-‐portraits
I
describe,
taken
with
this
shaky
limb
over
several
seconds,
I
said
to
Penny
“these
are
like
life-‐studies,
but
of
your
‘half-‐life’”
–
I
asked
her
if
she
agreed
that
these
images
might
be
termed
‘half-‐life
studies’.
She
didn’t,
she
saw
the
imagery
as
emergent
and
promising,
of
light
arising
from
the
darkness
-‐
and
preferred
half-‐light
studies
as
the
methodological
term.
The
vast
majority
of
the
photos
are
shot
with
little
artificial
or
natural
daylight,
although
daylight
is
occasionally
gleaned
from
a
small
opening
or
a
crack
between
the
curtains.
The
artist's
illness
has
made
her
eyes
very
sensitive
to
light,
directly
impacting
and
informing
both
her
process
and
outcome.
Over
time,
Clare
has
started
to
perceive
different
nuances
and
subtleties
of
light
depending
on
the
time
of
day,
the
season,
local
weather
and
so
on.
Despite
having
endured
such
a
long
incarceration
in
the
58
room,
she
told
me
that
this
awareness
of
life,
through
her
work
creates
a
paradox,
that
despite
being
physically
contained
by
the
condition
she
feels
as
if
she
is
still
integrated
with
the
universe
(she
told
me
“I
feel
like
I’m
on
the
Starship
Enterprise,
I’m
travelling
at
warp-‐speed
through
the
universe
but
the
view
out
the
window
is
always
the
same”
(Clare/Dooks,
2011,
Field-‐notes).
Like
Jo
Spence,
although
her
method
is
very
different,
no
attempt
is
made
in
her
images
to
‘prettify’
her
experience
or
personal
appearance,
or
her
room,
for
the
benefit
of
the
camera.
In
this
way,
the
images
straddle
an
interesting
space
between
fine
art
photography
and
a
kind
of
auto-‐photojournalism.
And
again,
it
is
kind
of
a
‘collaboration’
with
the
limits
of
the
illness.
The
illness
here
is
an
editor
-‐
by
limiting
choice.
The
images
genuinely
expose
the
artist
and
her
room
in
all
senses
of
the
word,
and
once
taken,
are
not
altered
aside
from
using
basic
online
techniques
of
cloud
photo
storage,
mainly
the
adjustment
of
brightness
and
contrast.
In
preparing
this
document
I
spoke
to
Clare
about
memorable
or
significant
experiences
during
these
last
20
years.
She
spoke
about
one
day
in
particular.
Fortuitous
circumstances
came
together
so
that
on
that
particular
day
the
light
shone
in
her
bedroom
as
usual,
from
the
tiny
gap
in
the
curtains.
But
without
realising
it,
she
noticed
that
the
room
had
become
a
camera-‐obscura.
Images
of
the
outside
world
were
suddenly
projected
on
her
wall,
upside
down
and
back
to
front;
cars,
people,
trees,
children
playing
and
so
on.
To
me,
it
seems
conceptually
fitting
that
the
outside
world
appears
upside
down
and
back
to
front.
This
was
her
view
of
the
world,
scrambled
and
fractured,
with
shifting
perspectives
and
surreal
views
of
reality.
The
people
outside
were
like
ghosts
to
her
now,
the
traffic
moved
across
the
wall
and
the
59
whole
scene
was
projected
around
her,
like
a
thought
bubble,
with
people
arriving
and
departing
as
phantasms.
She
said
she
was
never
able
to
recreate
it
again.
I
think
of
her
being
‘inside’
a
camera
when
she
tells
me
this
and
because
of
the
long,
wobbly
exposures,
the
images
themselves
feel
viscerally
fused
with
her.
In
2011,
Clare’s
images
very
nearly
made
it
to
a
major
public
exhibition,
but
in
an
experience
common
to
artists
with
exhaustion-‐related
illnesses,
she
could
not
complete
both
the
work
and
application
process,
and
as
a
result
only
a
few
online
examples
are
available
(Clare,
2013,
n.p.).
If
the
art-‐world
helped
Penny
Clare
put
these
images
together
for
a
publication
or
such
an
exhibition,
it
would
be
one
of
the
most
authentic
visual
essays
of
CFS-‐ME
ever
produced.
But
for
now,
Clare
remains
for
me
an
inventive
and
visually
articulate
artist,
working
in
and
attempting
to
explode
the
slough
of
her
everyday
life.
8.
Other
narratives
of
art
making
in
CFS-‐ME
A
relevant
academic
paper
about
creative
responses
to
CFS-‐ME
is
one
aimed
(in
part),
at
art
therapists
working
with
clients
with
CFS-‐ME
published
in
2006
titled
Narratives
of
art-‐making
in
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
/
Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis:
three
case
studies
(Reynolds,
&
Vivat
2003).
In
it,
the
authors
map
the
terrain
of
an
‘occupational’
view
of
art
practice
from
sufferers
who
wouldn’t
describe
themselves
as
professional
artists.
60
Firstly,
the
abstract
outlines
the
exploration
of
the
narratives
of
three
women
who
had
lived
with
the
illness
for
many
years,
and
who
engaged
in
art-‐making
as
a
leisure
activity
rather
than
for
psychotherapy
or
professional
reasons.
“Sharon”
took
only
limited
pleasure
in
her
artwork.
For
her,
it
stood
as
a
testament
to
a
path
not
taken,
since
it
reminded
her
of
all
the
alternative
activities
that
had
been
closed
to
her
since
the
onset
of
ME:
‘I
sometimes
look
around
at
all
these
things
(textile
items)
I’ve
got
and
so
many
years
ill
health
and
it’s
not
something
I
probably
would
ever
have
done
if
I
hadn’t
been
ill,
because
I’d
much
rather
be
more
active
...
I
wouldn’t
say
it
reminds
me
of
failure,
but
it
does
remind
me
of
the
fact
that
I
was
unable
to
do
anything
myself...They
remind
me
of
bad
times
rather
than
good’.
(Reynolds
&
Vivat,
2006,
p.1117)
“Julia”
continued
with
the
theme
of
metaphorical
movement
through
the
illness
experience,
using
the
image
of
a
door
opening:
‘It
(art-‐making)
has
made
a
difference
to
my
life.
It
was
as
though
someone,
the
door
was
ajar
and
suddenly
someone
flung
it
open
and
said
‘this
is
it’
...
that’s
the
way
forward...
I’ve
got
something
else
to
turn
to,
rather
than
just
looking
at
the
things
that
I
can’t
do’.
(ibid,
p.15)
17
My
page
numbers
are
from
a
pdf
emailed
to
me
from
the
author
and
may
differ
from
other
versions
available
in
print
or
online.
The
text
is
identical.
61
“Grace”
also
showed
another
painting
that
was
rich
in
symbolism,
expressing
her
feelings
of
isolation
and
abandonment.
‘I
think
the
one
that
expressed
my
feelings
when
I
was
at
rock
bottom
is
the
one
[painting]
with
the
black
on
the
left,
with
the
cross
...There’s
a
lot
of
little
figures
clinging
onto
it
and
I
think
that
was
at
my
lowest
point
of
despair
really.
There’s
the
world
on
the
right
hand
side
and
it’s
got
a
little
solar
system
and
how
I
felt
was
that
I
was
completely
outside
of
the
world
and
even
outside
of
the
Solar
System
in
this
sort
of
black
nothingness...It
took
me
back,
it
made
me
realize
how
much
better
I
do
feel
now,
you
know.
More
connected
even
though
I
am
really
still
very
isolated’.
(ibid,
p.18)
The
authors
conclude
in
part,
thus:
Art
therapists
who
work
with
individuals
who
have
lived
with
CFS-‐ME
for
many
years
probably
should
not
assume
that
art-‐making
can
be
a
curative
experience.
Rather,
as
Ferris
&
Stein
(2002,
p.47)
suggest,
art-‐
making
may
be
better
regarded
as
helping
those
who
live
with
serious
illness
to
‘unfold
the
cramped
self,
uncover
losses
and
strengths,
and
gain
the
courage
to
begin
a
process
of
reclamation
of
story
and
life’.
Further
research
is
required
into
the
meanings
of
leisure-‐based
and
therapeutic
art-‐making
for
people
living
with
CFS-‐ME
to
guide
sensitive
therapeutic
practice.
62
(ibid,
p.25)
In
the
first
case
“Sharon”
seems
neutral
about
such
benefits,
even
negative
about
the
effect
her
art
practice
has
on
her.
She
is
able
to
look
at
the
objects
she
has
created
as
a
kind
of
diary
within
which
she
can
trace
the
weight
of
the
illness
over
the
passing
years.
“Julia”
sees
art
as
a
kind
of
door
to
directly
help
her,
as
if
resources
she
didn’t
see
before
are
somehow
revealed.
She
is
enthusiastic
/
evangelical
about
the
revelation.
But
in
the
case
of
“Grace”
we
have
a
similar
kind
of
insight
from
her
modest
art
projects;
she
is
able
to
reflect
on
the
projects
and
link
them
to
her
emotional
life.
Like
Julia,
the
resulting
insight
is
a
little
dark
and
hopeless
at
times:
“…More
connected
even
though
I
am
really
still
very
isolated”
(ibid,
p.18)
The
key
point
about
the
route
I
have
taken
which
is,
to
an
extent
in
common
with
these
women,
is
that
art
may
not
cure
ME,
but
involvement
in
a
reflective
art
practice
may
improve
the
capacity
to
cope.
It
does
not
stop
the
illness
but
it
may
improve
one’s
relationship
to
it.
None
of
Reynolds
&
Vivat’s
case
studies
saw
their
participation
in
art
making
as
a
negative
process,
with
the
possible
exception
of
Sharon
who
seemed
generally
overwhelmed
by
the
illness.
63
9.
Usurping
the
second
suffering:
How
may
an
artist
respond
to
CFS-‐ME?
In
this
section,
I
outline
and
question
what
practices
which
may
lead
to
research
methodologies
are
sympathetic
to
the
illness,
before
I
outline
my
own
initial
responses
to
it,
and
end
with
a
personal
account
of
some
of
the
obstacles
one
has
with
learning
with
CFS-‐ME.
The
‘Second
Dart’
In
the
introduction
(p.2),
the
research
question
was
presented
thus:
Q:
If
three
idiosyncratic
contemporary
art
projects
were
developed
by
an
averagely
affected
sufferer
of
CFS-‐ME,
across
three
different,
even
divergent
subject
areas,
what
shape
would
such
projects
need
to
take
in
order
to
foster
the
practitioner
with
a
more
satisfyingly
engaged
existence?
In
Chapter
2
(Section
6),
despite
taking
issue
with
Reverse
Therapy,
I
suggested
that
perhaps
there
is
some
value
in
the
idea
that
sufferers
could
be
‘re-‐calibrated’
somewhat,
regarding
at
least
how
one
reacts
to
an
illnesses,
especially
if
the
illnesses
cannot
be
eradicated.
My
background
in
Buddhist
practice
reminded
me
of
‘the
second
arrow
of
suffering’
or
the
‘second
dart’
parable
from
the
Sallatha
Sutta:
When
an
untaught
worldling
is
touched
by
a
painful
(bodily)
feeling,
he
worries
and
grieves,
he
laments,
beats
his
breast,
weeps
and
is
distraught.
He
thus
experiences
two
kinds
of
feelings,
a
bodily
and
a
64
mental
feeling.
It
is
as
if
a
man
were
pierced
by
a
dart
and,
following
the
first
piercing,
he
is
hit
by
a
second
dart.
So
that
person
will
experience
feelings
caused
by
two
darts.
It
is
similar
with
an
untaught
worldling:
when
touched
by
a
painful
(bodily)
feeling,
he
worries
and
grieves,
he
laments,
beats
his
breast,
weeps
and
is
distraught.
So
he
experiences
two
kinds
of
feeling:
a
bodily
and
a
mental
feeling.
(Feniger,
199818)
(Repetition
of
phrase
is
typical
of
many
Buddhist
texts)
The
parable
suggests
that
some
suffering
is
avoidable,
that
there
need
not
be
a
‘second
dart’:
i.e.
here,
there
is
an
element
of
my
suffering
I
have
some
control
over.
In
terms
of
my
Buddhist
practice,
I
had
strayed
from
the
path
somewhat,
far
from
a
formal
Buddhist
life.
But
I
comforted
myself
with
the
fact
I
have
never
missed
a
day
without
my
other
daily
practice,
that
of
art,
creating
something,
even
if
for
only
a
few
minutes.
Perhaps
there
were
teachings
in
this
side
of
my
life
that
helped
me
avoid
this
‘second
dart.’
I
do
have
an
obsessive
art
practice
that
has
led
to
reviews
of
myself
as
being
somewhat
hypocritical
–
such
as
in
the
following
example
from
The
Wire
in
2013
from
Clive
Bell:
“The
irony
is
that
someone
describing
himself
as
an
exhausted
artist
should
still
be
producing
so
much”
(Bell,
2013
–
talking
about
this
research
project).
As
I
continued
with
my
daily
art
practice
of
small,
‘do-‐able’
projects,
whether
funded
or
not,
a
kind
of
practical
philosophy
seemed
to
slowly
materialise
through
practice-‐led
methods;
photographic,
musical
and
audiovisual
fragments
of
life
I
18
There
is
a
difficulty
in
academically
citing
Buddhist
authors
of
certain
traditions,
I
have
used
the
author’s
birth
name
here,
before
ordination.
This
is
not
out
of
disrespect
for
the
author
in
regard
to
his
ordained
name,
more
because
in
academic
referencing
there
is
a
requirement
for
a
first
and
second
name.
If
I
used
the
‘dhamma’
or
Buddhist
name
here,
it
would
lead
to
confusion
–
because
the
names
reflect
the
lineage
and
tradition
rather
than
the
individual
person
and
make
identifying
the
individual
person
difficult.
65
continually
made
since
I
was
a
young
man.
I
was
also
attempting
to
‘re-‐imagine’
the
space
around
me
in
a
way
I
had
done
before
the
research
project
(in
online
projects
such
as
Polyfaith
(Dooks,
2004),
Surreal
Steyning
(Dooks,
2009)
and
Select
Avocados
(Dooks,
2008).)
At
the
time,
when
I
was
concocting
some
of
these
early
experiments,
(such
as
reinterpreting
street
names,
bus
routes
and
other
nearby
resources)
I
had
no
idea
I
was
researching
at
all.
But
as
it
happened,
I
was
building
up
an
arsenal
of
‘coping
strategies’
through
an
art
practice.
I’d
authored
these
projects
under
the
limits
of
CFS-‐
ME
initially
in
order
to
simply
leave
the
house.
Short,
Sensory
and
Resourceful
I’d
given
up
on
large-‐scale
films
since
being
ill.
And
at
first
I
didn’t
consciously
realise
I
was
working
on
these
‘re-‐calibrations’
that
needed
to
touch
on
the
full
stratum
of
my
life.
I
felt
I
had
drifted
into
a
sensory
art
practice.
In
retrospect,
there
was
a
logical
process.
Over
ten
years
I
made
perhaps
thirty
or
forty
art
projects
during
this
period
of
my
life
which
were
all
projects
that
were:
1. Short
2. Sensory
based
3. Resourceful,
in
the
sense
of
making
them
about
whatever
was
‘to
hand’
I
discovered
I
was
accidentally
using
the
toolkits
of
conceptual
art
practices
like
psychogeography
to
expand
on
other
ways
of
enjoying
my
living
space
and
the
street
I
lived
on,
and
re-‐appropriation
–
like
Duchamp’s
upturned
urinal.
I
wasn’t
even
aware
66
of
the
word
‘psychogeography’
until
London
arts
collective
Furtherfield.org
commissioned
me
to
make
a
short
video
exploring
my
ideas
around
this
time.
They
said
one
of
my
projects
‘The
Erica
Tetralix
Polyfaith
Map
of
Edinburgh’
(Dooks,
2004)
was
classic
psychogeography.
I
had
to
look
up
the
term.
Alongside
this,
I
would
assign
objects
as
art
that
would
enable
me
to
‘author’
such
works
crucially
without
physical
effort.
A
special
effort
was
made
to
‘learn
by
the
senses’,
as
‘brain-‐fog’
often
prevented
that
critical
acuity
essential
to
working
in
broadcast
television
–
but
television
work
did
leave
me
at
least,
with
a
wide
skill-‐set
which
would
serve
me
well
during
illness.
Three
Responses
-‐
A
Triage,
A
Portal
and
An
Enhancer
Music
making.
Sound
Art.
Photography,
all
pursued
in
tiny
bursts.
Works
completed
within
one
hour.
BBC
Radio
Three
played
some
of
my
low-‐energy
musical
interventions.
The
(then)
Scottish
Arts
Council
funded
some
of
my
psychogeographical
interventions
and
reviewed
them
very
positively.
In
2010
I
continued
to
formally
refine
these
ideas
into
the
start
of
a
doctorate,
by
concentrating
the
practice
down
to
three
very
different,
‘do-‐able’
projects
under
a
unified
banner.
The
idea
that
these
three
projects
may
reside
in
different
enough
parts
of
my
psyche
became
the
art-‐hypothesis,
which
eventually
became
three
vinyl
records
in
primary
colours.
These
were
three
projects
that
I
felt
would
make
me
feel
a
little
67
more
engaged
with
my
life
and
life
outside
my
body
and
mind,
without
making
me
desperately
ill.
This
process
evolved
to
become
the
‘triangulation’
of
the
records.
As
I
outlined
in
Chapter
1,
I
discovered
that
three
was,
for
me,
the
minimum
number
of
themes
or
projects
that
improved
wellbeing
across
just
enough
of
one’s
ill
life
to
make
a
substantial
contribution
to
it.
I
gave
myself
three
meaningful
assignments.
What
I
was
trying
to
foster
was
a
good
combination
of
breadth
and
depth:
a
kind
of
self
initiated
art
foundation
course,
aimed
at,
but
not
exclusively
for,
sufferers
of
CFS-‐ME
with
myself
as
my
own
‘embodied’
case-‐study.
Instead
of
using
the
headings
of
mind
/
body
/
soul
(terms
prevalent
in
holistic
health
care),
I
decided
to
author
my
own
version
of
headings:
1. Art
as
‘Immediate
Triage’
2. Art
as
‘Cosmological
Portal’
3. Art
as
‘Perceptual
Enhancer
and
Appropriator’
In
other
words,
I
felt,
firstly
I
should
attempt
to
address
the
needs
of
a
painful
and
exhausted
body
(‘Triage’)
and
make
peace
with
the
lack
of
societal
contact
and
instead
explore
the
stars
and
the
origin
of
life
(‘Cosmological
Portal’)
then
before
finally
attempting
to
improve
everyday
life
by
re-‐reading
and
re-‐imaging
one’s
surroundings
(‘Perceptual
Enhancing’).
These
approaches
translated
directly
into
three
LP
records,
made
on
vinyl
under
each
heading:
68
1. Art
as
Immediate
‘Triage’
became
the
LP
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
(Dooks
and
Zuydervelt,
2011):
The
art
practice
[literally]
as
a
medicine.
Sick
artist
makes
pilgrimages
to
visit,
record
and
reflect
on
a
decaying
Harmonium
in
the
Scottish
Borders.
It
is
‘triage’
in
a
slightly
dramatized
sense.
The
(harmonium)
machine
makes
noises
that
calm
the
nervous
system
through
my
physical
engagement
with
it.
I
also
become
emotionally
attuned
to
it
-‐
but
at
the
same
time,
these
noises
it
makes
are
symptoms
of
decay.
I
wanted
to
learn
from
this.
‘Triage’
is
borrowed
medical
term19,
identifying
how
to
prioritise
someone
dying
in
an
ER,
or
how
a
baby
is
born.
Here,
my
use
of
triage
is
more
to
infer
that
this
art
practice
gives
me
immediate
physical
benefits
and
generates
a
kind
of
reciprocal
care
between
the
broken
instrument
and
myself.
2. Art
as
‘Cosmological
Portal’
became
the
LP
300
SQUARE
MILES
OF
UPWARDS
(Dooks,
2012):
Sick
artist
realises
that
a
great
deal
of
society
is
out
of
bounds
for
the
ill.
Why
not
bypass
society
altogether
and
use
this
isolation
as
a
basis
for
investigating
the
universe?
This
LP
was
inspired
by
how
close
I
live
to
Galloway
Forest
Park
Dark
Sky
Park,
one
of
the
darkest
places
in
the
UK.
I
was
also
doing
a
lot
of
daytime
astronomy
by
looking
at
the
sun
with
cheap
astronomy
tin-‐film.
This
is
primarily
a
spoken
word
LP.
19
http://www.merriam-‐webster.com/dictionary/triage
“a:
the
sorting
of
and
allocation
of
treatment
to
patients
and
especially
battle
and
disaster
victims
according
to
a
system
of
priorities
designed
to
maximize
the
number
of
survivors
b:
the
sorting
of
patients
(as
in
an
emergency
room)
according
to
the
urgency
of
their
need
for
care”
69
3. Art
as
‘Perceptual
Enhancer
and
Appropriator’
became
the
LP
CIGA{R}LES
(Dooks,
2014):
Sick
artist
investigates
how
to
bring
the
outside
world
into
the
room
of
the
incarcerated
by
using
a
field
recorder
on
a
windowsill,
recording
eight
hour
sessions
from
it
(plus
other
experiments).
These
included
travelling
to
the
south
of
France
to
record
a
mating
season
of
loud
insects,
cicadas,
but
crucially,
from
one
location.
This
LP
investigates
a
diverse
palette
of
sounds
from
one
place,
whether
it
is
on
the
windowsills
of
my
house,
or
sat
outside
a
café
bar,
surrounded
by
insects.
These
LPs
have
turned
into
collectors’
editions,
very
expensive
bespoke
items,
with
coloured
vinyl,
luxury
printing
stock
and
full
colour
imagery
alongside
the
vinyl
fetishist’s
pièce
de
résistance
–
detailed
sleevenotes.
Add
to
this
that
ten
editions
were
made
in
a
bespoke
wooden
cabinet,
laser-‐cut
in
San
Francisco
and
shipped
to
my
studio
in
Ayr.
Ultimately,
they
have
become
interventions
aimed
to
create
a
highly
individualistic
form
of
holism.
Often,
the
word
holism
is
employed
by
health
care
professionals
(as
well
as
bogus
ones),
or
found
in
socio-‐anthropological
contexts
–
or
debated
as
to
whether
it
even
exists
at
all.
I
expand
on
this
in
Chapters
6
(holism)
and
7
(idioholism).
For
the
sake
of
argument,
I’m
simply
concerned
with
efficacy
within
the
context
of
artist-‐as-‐healer.
I
developed
the
term
idioholism
to
provide
a
banner
for
these
three
records
that
I
have
termed
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy.
70
10.
Learning
with
CFS-‐ME
Learning
anything
with
CFS-‐ME
is
very
difficult,
and
as
a
result,
the
skill-‐set
that
practitioners
use
for
their
‘own
triage’
is
almost
‘locked’
at
the
inception
of
the
illness.
Skills
can
also
disintegrate
or
become
distorted
or
compromised
by
the
illness.
But
because
enquiry
through
practice-‐led
arts
may
use
intuition
and
bypass
traditional
pedagogies,
learning
and
‘growth’
of
an
artist
may
remain
intact
during
illness.
And
by
‘artist’
I
mean
to
be
as
inclusive
as
possible.
I
mean
any
curious
person
with
an
aesthetic
interest
in
any
media.
This
was
my
entry
point
into
learning
via
the
senses,
in
short
bursts.
If
reading,
remembering
and
recalling
are
compromised,
there
is,
in
fact,
no
other
methodology
available
but
to
pursue
sensory
methods.
This
contributes
to
the
final
objects
of
this
research
project
being
primarily
aesthetically
driven,
and
the
process
has
been
driven
by
the
senses.
Nevertheless,
when
moments
of
mental
clarity
have
occurred,
I’ve
tried
to
unpick
the
process,
but
aesthetic
play
and
dozy
curiosity
have
been
my
teachers.
With
this
kind
of
practice,
art
isn’t
something
just
to
occupy
the
mind;
it
has
taught
me
how
to
develop
a
different
kind
of
mind
-‐
one
where
the
intellect
isn’t
exactly
put
on
hold,
more
given
a
place
to
rest
for
a
while.
But
I
would
postulate
that
learning
and
growth
of
the
practitioner
is
still
possible
outside
of
a
purely
theoretical
framework.
Therefore,
it
seems
logical
to
use
the
arts
to
feel
engaged
with
life
when
the
lifeblood
of
the
intellect
is
interrupted
or
retarded
by
illness.
71
Chapter
4:
Bricolage
and
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
1.
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker:
my
story
2.
When
the
filmmaker
falls
apart,
his
films
fall
apart
too
3.
Defining
bricolage
4.
Bricolage
and
autoethnography
5.
The
fractured
film
6.
Benefits
of
cross-‐disciplinary
practices
7.
A
larger
cultural
overview
of
bricolage
7a.
Montage
and
collage
7b.
Film
production
and
bricolage
7c.
Bricolage
in
music
7d.
Musique
Concrete
7e.
Hip
Hop
8.
Bricolage
as
a
methodology
for
the
exhausted
artist
9.
Conclusion
72
Introduction
Bricolage:
A
work
of
art
or
construction
put
together
from
whatever
materials
are
available.
(Kirkpatrick,
E.
And
Schwarz,
C.,
Chambers
Dictionary,
2011,
p.190)
As
with
such
definitions,
bricolage
is
best
explored
by
context.
This
chapter
will
focus
on
the
roots
of
bricolage,
beginning
with
a
personal
view,
before
expanding
on
how
widely
the
practice
infiltrates
contemporary
cultural
works.
As
the
dominant
methodology
of
the
LP
trilogy,
it
serves
to
discuss
bricolage
in
some
depth.
I
will
end
by
contextualising
how
bricolage
may
be
an
apt
methodology
for
‘the
exhausted
artist’.
1.
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker:
My
story
In
1997
I
directed
my
first
(and
currently
only)
UK-‐wide
television
programme
prepared
for
Melvyn
Bragg’s
South
Bank
Show
series,
the
longest
running
arts
programme
in
the
world.
It
was
a
short
fifteen-‐minute
piece,
but
it
was
a
significant
step
into
the
world
of
broadcast
television.
Around
the
same
time,
I
was
awarded
around
£30,000
to
make
my
own
experimental
film
piece
(No
One
Sees
Black20,
Dooks,
1997)
funded
by
the
National
Lottery,
British
Screen
and
the
(then)
Scottish
Film
Council.
This
was
very
different
to
the
documentary
I
made
for
Bragg
that
had
featured
20
Archived
online
at
-‐
https://vimeo.com/33508442
73
the
sound
artist
Scanner
(Scanner,
Dooks,
1997).
No
One
Sees
Black
was
one
of
only
a
few
funded
anti-‐narrative
works
that
the
Scottish
Film
Council
was
involved
in.
In
No
One
Sees
Black,
a
beaten-‐up
man
wanders
through
a
dystopian
environment
where
a
newly
born
lamb
is
dying
in
a
field
(which
really
happened
on
the
shoot)
and
two
children
are
fighting
in
the
background.
A
ten
year-‐old
girl
is
dancing
in
a
bright
green
school
uniform
(made
from
silk)
counterpointed
by
shots
of
a
worm
struggling
to
survive
in
a
patch
of
moss.
When
I
look
at
this
film
now,
it
feels
retrospectively
prophetic
and
existential
regarding
my
health.
It
is
based
on
dreams
and
whims.
It
has
no
discernable
plot.
More
importantly,
it
was
made
in
fairly
disjointed
sections
and
is
cemented
by
an
intense
soundtrack
over
seven
minutes.
My
methodology
around
1997,
the
time
of
my
‘big
break’
in
film
and
TV
(or
‘false
dawn’
as
I
later
referred
to
it)
was
to
think
of
a
broad
theme
and
sketch
out
impulses
in
my
head,
rarely
writing
anything
down.
In
general,
I
took
on
all
the
roles:
I
wrote,
shot
and
composed
nearly
everything
I
made.
Doing
everything
myself
meant
I
had
no
choice
but
to
work
in
tiny,
modular
sections
so
as
not
to
become
overwhelmed
by
the
project,
even
when
my
health
was
good.
It
is
ironic
now
that
I
am
ill,
that
I
still
choose
to
do
everything
as
much
as
possible
in
a
creative
project.
However,
that
may
be
because
I
have
practiced
sensory-‐methods
so
long,
and
in
such
tight
timeframes
and
modules
that
the
method
has
become
second
nature,
(and
specific
to
me).
Furthermore,
my
methods
have
been
refined
and
tightened
as
my
health
declined.
In
No
One
Sees
Black,
without
a
script,
I
built
up
an
impulse-‐driven
palette
of
images
and
sounds.
Fragments
of
colour,
swatches
of
blur
and
texture
and
a
sense
of
74
seizing
the
moment
were
gathered
under
a
loose
filmic
theme
of
trying
to
articulate
the
last
thoughts
of
a
dying
person.
I
would
find
out
much
later
that
my
particular
method
could
be
described
as
a
kind
of
bricolage.
Eventually,
these
elements
would
have
to
join
together
to
become
a
film.
Such
spontaneity
feels
very
good
on
the
shoot,
but
at
some
point,
it
means
that
the
film
has
to
be
‘made’
in
the
edit
suite.
The
key
point
is
that
the
aforementioned
film
was
made
in
controlled
bursts
of
activity
but
it
was
really
forged
in
the
edit,
perhaps
because
as
film
critic
Roger
Ebert
points
out:
“it
is
said
that
editing
is
the
soul
of
the
cinema”
(Ebert,
2004,
n.p.).
For
me
the
edit
was
the
deferred
place
where
I
accounted
for
my
spur
of
the
moment
methods
and
where
the
‘deferred’
aspect
of
work
now
had
to
take
place,
but
in
surroundings
compatible
with
CFS-‐ME.
Most
of
the
learning
and
practice
that
led
up
to
The
South
Bank
Show
and
No
One
Sees
Black
has
not
come
from
the
written
word.
It
has
come
from
an
obsession
with
sensory
methods.
Even
when
I
briefly
made
television
programmes
I
had
already
found
a
way
of
working
in
a
short,
piecemeal
manner
in
order
to
make
something
hopefully
larger
than
the
sum
of
its
parts.
In
early
1998,
I
waited
for
the
next
‘stellar’
commission
to
roll
in.
It
never
did.
My
bright
start
in
broadcast
TV
and
art-‐cinema
crashed
to
the
ground,
as
I
occasionally
did.
The
first
time
I
realised
I
couldn’t
do
something
I
felt
surprise.
It
came
as
an
insult,
an
affirmation
of
my
limited
existence.
(Illness,
Carel,
2009,
p.1)
75
The
next
‘stellar’
commission
could
wait,
and
in
1998
it
had
to;
I
became
seriously
ill
while
working
in
California.
I
had
food
poisoning
and
a
virus
that
overwhelmed
me
in
an
unusually
aggressive
manner.
The
first
six
months
of
activity
with
CFS-‐ME
are
key
to
how
the
illness
plays
out
in
the
rest
of
the
patient’s
life
(or
so
I
was
told
by
the
support
group
I
had
joined
after
my
official
diagnosis
in
Edinburgh
in
2000).
My
first
six
months
didn’t
involve
proper
rest.
I
was
due
to
work
in
a
Californian
desert
completing
a
short
film
for
the
US
Public
Broadcasting
Service
(P.B.S.)
but
when
I
eventually
dragged
myself
to
the
locations,
a
day
of
work
would
result
in
me
becoming
housebound
for
increasingly
prolonged
periods.
Local
doctors
and
hospitals
said
I
had
nervous
exhaustion.
Eventually
I
had
to
leave
the
world
of
television,
and
I
went
into
teaching,
which
I
loved.
For
about
six
months
my
symptoms
were
fairly
manageable,
but
then
I
became
much
worse.
The
exhaustion
became
permanent
and
other
symptoms
began
to
arise
alongside
it
such
as
stomach
pains
and
muscular
cramps
and
the
other
symptoms
I
outlined
in
Chapter
2.
My
life
follows
this
pattern
to
this
day.
The
next
phase
of
my
life
revolved
around
dispensing
with
crews
altogether
and
my
beginning
to
have
dalliances
with
electronic
art.
That
home
computers
became
affordable
and
powerful
was
also
fortuitous.
I
was
happy
with
describing
my
newly
adjusted
work
as
being
lens-‐based
media
or
even
new
media.
I
was
lucky,
in
that
even
during
the
darkest
of
days,
I
could
just
about
fill
in
applications
to
fund
projects,
so
occasional
assignments
still
came
along
and
some
were
high-‐profile
and
satisfying,
if
not
‘stellar’.
I
was
one
of
Art
Council
England’s
“Year
of
The
Artist”
recipients
in
76
2000/2001,
being
an
artist
in
residence
with
the
BBC
and
their
film
archive
in
the
North
of
England.
Here,
I
could
make
films
sitting
down.
I
needed
to
lie
down,
but
I
could
squeeze
an
hour
a
day
for
the
residency.
I
learned
to
use
time
very
efficiently
during
an
editing
session
before
the
inevitable
mental
fog
and
physical
fatigue
forced
me
away
from
my
work.
I
began
to
place
mattresses
very
near
my
work
places.
Despite
these
obstacles,
the
Year
of
The
Artist
residency
resulted
in
publications
(To
Look
North
CD+CD
Rom:
Dooks,
2001)
and
related
commissions.
That
gave
me
a
sense
of
being
‘in’
society.
I
felt
‘verified’
as
a
person
despite
my
failing
health.
Despite
these
successes,
I
was
still
changing
my
lifestyle
radically
and
after
major
projects
I
often
felt
worse
for
a
considerable
time,
often
months.
Moreover,
projects
had
to
be
completed
in
very
particular
circumstances,
i.e.,
to
my
health-‐
specifications.
If
I
gave
a
lecture,
at
a
film
festival
for
example,
I
had
to
pre-‐record
the
lecture
in
case
I
collapsed
on
the
day.
My
‘career’
in
film
and
television
never
happened,
but
I
comforted
myself
with
the
thought
that
the
techniques
that
got
me
noticed
in
the
first
place
were
perhaps
the
techniques
that
could
still
be
employed
in
the
next
chapter
of
my
life.
I
didn’t
realise
that
these
‘bricolage’
techniques
would
be
used
to
help
me
navigate
my
own
illness.
77
2.
When
the
filmmaker
falls
apart,
His
Films
Fall
Apart
Too
Illness
induces
adaptation
and
that
adversity
is
the
source
of
creative
responses
to
it…
(Carel,
2009,
p.16)
My
three
vinyl
LPs
and
this
research
project
have
challenged
the
assumption
that
somehow
I
‘stopped’
being
a
film-‐maker
after
my
TV
work
and
larger
commissions
ended.
I
simply
used
the
term
‘artist’
after
I
had
been
‘diagnosed21’
in
hospital.
After
I
stopped
making
‘formal’
films,
under
my
new
illness,
I
composed
music
projects,
created
site-‐specific
conceptual
art
projects,
micro-‐writing
projects,
photography,
video
installations
and
more.
It
sounds
extremely
prolific
a
life
but
at
this
time
I
had
both
decided
to
make
work
over
the
internet
with
people
whom
I
had
not
met
physically
–
and
develop
an
interest
in
other
labour-‐saving
methodologies.
I
assumed
my
internal
filmmaker
was
long
dead.
From
2009-‐2014,
the
work
carried
out
as
part
of
my
doctorate
lead
me
to
the
conclusion
that
as
I
had
‘fallen
apart’,
my
films
had
‘fallen
apart’
also.
One
could
say
that
this
project
-‐
the
LP
trilogy,
when
viewed
with
the
record
sleeve
artworks,
the
graphics
and
the
sleevenotes
-‐
were
‘fragmented
films’
and
that
I
was
a
‘fragmented
filmmaker’.
I
was
still
making
films,
albeit
in
a
sectional
and
segmented
manner.
This
was
quite
a
revelation
to
me.
Like
melting
icebergs,
the
components
of
my
films
had
drifted
away
from
each
other
as
a
result
of
my
psycho-‐physical
condition.
But
they
were
still
in
the
same
ocean.
21
As
we
have
discussed
in
chapters
1-‐2,
a
hospital
diagnosis
is
still
controversial
–
physicians
would
only
state
‘you
are
chronically
fatigued’
–
whilst
patients
want
a
more
fleshed
out
diagnosis.
It
is
also,
as
I
have
hinted
previously,
a
diagnosis
of
exclusion,
where
biomarkers
within
patients
are
within
‘normal’
tolerances
of
the
body.
78
When
it
came
to
this
research
project,
which
started
in
late
2009,
it
was
no
coincidence
that
I
chose
to
make
works
as
three
vinyl
records
because
they
could
be
produced
to
be
analogous
to
the
kinds
of
films
I
produced:
1. Each
record
is
a
primary
colour
(as
a
traditional
filmic
image
was
historically
constructed
from22).
2. Elements
of
spoken
word
and
texts
are
on
the
vinyl
itself
in
the
works
(a
script,
dialogue,
narration?
My
TV
documentary
work
included
these)
3. Each
record
contains
music
and
sound
art
(original
soundtrack?
Or
perhaps
music
and
foley23)
4. 12”
covers
in
full
colour
and
photographic
essays
are
inside
each
record
sleeve
inside
(principal
photography?)
5. An
emphasis
on
graphic
identity
cemented
all
three
records
together
–
perhaps
one
could
argue
these
may
be
‘titles
and
credits,’
and
not
just
because
close
attention
to
typography
and
design
are
part
of
the
1970s
‘concept
album’
tradition.
The
graphic
identity
helps
the
audience
psychologise
a
unity
of
thought,
perhaps
trusting
that
the
contents
will
chart
a
clear
trajectory.
Choosing
vinyl
records
as
the
vehicle
for
this
project
became
the
ideal
medium
in
which
an
ill
filmmaker
demonstrates
the
un-‐fragmenting
or
re-‐cohering
of
a
life
that
had
fallen
apart.
22
The
colour
motion
picture
for
most
of
its
life
was
constructed
traditionally
from
normally
dominant
colours:
red,
green
and
blue
and
recording
each
region
separately.
Although
green
is
not
a
primary
colour
there
are
still
three
colours
that
made
up
most
16mm
and
35mm
film
prints
of
modern
cinema.
Since
the
millennium,
this
is
moving
more
to
digital
projection
and
less
uses
of
traditional
film
prints.
23
A
sound
effects
technique
for
synchronous
effects
or
live
effects.
http://www.filmsound.org/terminology/foley.htm
79
3.
Defining
Bricolage
What
is
the
primary
methodology
of
this
project?
How
has
the
overall
project
been
constructed?
In
the
process
of
making
three
records
there
have
been
multiple
elements
at
play:
the
music
construction,
the
photographic
essays,
the
sleevenotes,
the
principles
that
underpin
it
-‐
even
these
words
here
–
so
is
there
any
overriding
feature
of
the
methodology?
Three
vinyl
records
are
produced
through
several
short-‐form
or
‘modular’
exercises
that
are
eclectic,
temporally
economical
and
which
make
use
of
highly
limited,
even
opportunistic
resources.
The
central
methodology
is
therefore,
one
of
bricolage.
Bricolage
springs
from
the
French
verb
bricoleur,
which
in
English
translates
as
"to
fiddle
or
tinker.”
Because
this
is
quite
an
open
definition,
it
follows
that
we
find
it
used
in
diverse
contexts,
from
architecture
to
biology
to
computer
programming.
In
this
section,
I
will
further
define
the
term
and
explore
the
validity
of
bricolage
as
a
mode
of
research.
I
will
examine
why
it
is
highly
relevant,
indeed
vital
in
my
case,
and
I
will
show
that
in
fact
'bricolage'
is
an
approach
to
creative
thinking
and
creative
practice
with
a
long
history,
and
with
much
by
way
of
practical
examples
in
film,
music
and
contemporary
art.
80
Bricolage
versus
Brevity:
what
bricolage
is
not
It
may
be
wise
to
negate
something
from
the
outset.
An
inspiration
to
work
via
bricolage
may
arise
from
seeing
so-‐called
‘minimal’
or
economical
artworks
and
perhaps
thinking
that
such
projects
are
possible
with
limited
means.
Perhaps
a
sick
or
busy
practitioner
may
want
to
adopt
bricolage
as
their
modus
operandi
because
they’ve
seen
something
inspiring
which
is
‘short’
or
‘brief’
or
which
appears
to
be
short
or
brief.
And
of
course,
economical
cultural
works
can
be
very
engaging,
like
Ernest
Hemingway’s24
six-‐word
story
reproduced
in
full
here:
For
Sale,
Baby
Shoes,
Never
Worn.
The
problem
with
something
as
brief
but
meaningful
as
those
six
words
is
that
to
forge
them
requires
a
large
amount
of
both
experience
and
insight
to
be
able
to
reduce
what
would
have
taken
others
hundreds
of
words
to
express,
into
this
distillation.
It
is
clear
that
using
brevity
can
have
profound
potential.
Martin
Creed’s
work
Some
blu-‐tack
kneaded,
rolled
into
a
ball,
and
depressed
against
a
wall
(Creed,
1993,
n.p.)
is
literally
the
sculptural
equivalent
of
the
title.
If
that
seems
too
glib
a
statement
there’s
always
a
Japanese
Koan
to
choose
from:
these
tiny
poetic
forms
are
famed
for
thunderously
deep
significance.
I’ve
spent
many
years
trying
to
unpick
Hakuin
Ekaku’s
Koan:
Two
hands
clap
and
there
is
a
sound.
What
is
the
sound
of
one
hand?
Are
‘minimal’
works
simple
to
execute?
The
above
examples
and
their
creators
may
be
able
to
create
such
resourceful
examples
because
they
are
experienced
practitioners
in
their
fields.
What
may
be
more
achievable
is
for
sick
people
to
make
24
The
story
is
attributed
to
Hemmingway,
but
he
died
before
verifiable
sources
were
ascertained.
I
still
include
the
‘story’
here
as
the
piece
works
regardless
of
who
authored
it.
81
anything,
by
bricolage
techniques.
The
key
thing
in
my
view,
is
to
engage
with
a
process,
rather
than
worry
if
one
is
producing
Hemingway-‐standard
results.
Whilst
it
would
be
exciting
to
produce
a
research
project
based
on
a
six-‐word
story
or
a
piece
of
blu-‐tack
pinned
to
the
wall,
this
is
not
my
methodology.
I
have
produced
instead,
something
which
when
viewed
together
is
more
like
a
modest
compendium
or
audio
visual
encyclopaedia
of
the
state
of
my
health
and
desires.
It
is
composed
of
small
units,
but
viewed
as
three
LPs
and
their
different
methodologies,
verges
on
a
labyrinthine
enterprise.
It’s
also
a
kind
of
accidental
diary25
–
or
literal
record(s).
And
so
while
such
statements
like
Hemingway’s
or
Ekaku’s
are
significant
in
emphasising
what
can
be
communicated
through
minimal
means,
my
work
is
closer
to
a
diary-‐like
process
of
testing
small,
discretely
connected
exercises
–
in
a
sense,
coping
strategies
for
being
ill.
Breadth
with
as
much
depth
as
is
possible
is
my
aim.
Moreover,
the
goal
of
access
to
a
varied
life,
in
my
case,
through
art
and
music,
is
a
very
singular
ambition.
Whilst
that
may
seem
a
small
ambition,
for
the
chronically
ill,
it
is
an
emancipating
ideal.
25
Again,
diaries
and
their
sense
of
memoriality
are
common
material
for
those
who
wish
to
take
some
final
ownership
of
their
illness.
In
chapter
three
Artists
in
Extremis
I
cited
cancer
sufferer
Ian
Breakwell
who
died
in
October
2005.
But
I
also
cited
that
“he
left
instructions
for
his
colleagues
to
complete
his
work."
A
position
I
am
not
currently
in.
82
4.
Bricolage
and
Autoethnography
Contextualising
bricolage
across
established
cultural
disciplines
is
important
when
research
stems
from
an
‘autoethnographic’
standpoint,
(perhaps
to
counter
accusations
of
‘navel-‐gazing’)
so,
I
will
explain
the
context
in
which
bricolage
is
used
here,
which
happens
to
be
within
the
field
of
autoethnography.
Autoethnography
was
briefly
introduced
earlier
in
Chapter
1
as
both
a
celebrated
and
contested
research
method;
a
delicate,
reflexive
exercise
of
retrieving
‘insider’
information.
More
conventional
ethnography
might
stress
more
formal
experiential
distance
than
a
primarily
first-‐person
narrative,
common
to
autoethnography.
Reed-‐Danahay
in
Auto/ethnography
(Reed-‐Danahay,
1997,
pp.1-‐16)
suggests
that
autoethnography
has
been
understood
as
either
the
ethnography
of
one’s
group
or
as
autobiographical
writing
that
has
ethnographic
interest.
Reed-‐Danahay
also
suggests
that
autoethnography
is
‘a
form
of
self-‐narrative
that
places
the
self
within
a
social
context’
–
and
it
is
this
definition
that
seems
most
apt
to
myself,
an
Exhausted
Artist.
Through
my
own
experiences
I
have
developed
projects
designed
in
the
first-‐
person,
to
gel
together
ideas
of
the
self,
(i.e.
myself)
within
part
of
that
social
group
or
social
problem
(those
who
are
trying
to
overcome
exhaustion-‐related
illnesses).
The
motivation
for
pursuing
my
modular
enterprises
has
been
in
order
to
evaluate
my
methods
and
these
projects
for
their
potential
efficacy,
perhaps
ultimately
outwith
myself.
For
me,
a
‘personal
bricolage’
has
arisen
out
of
necessity.
A
sick
artist
like
myself
has
to
work
in
bursts
‘at
home’
and
use
personal
insight
as
the
primary
source
83
of
research,
not
just
because
social
interaction
and
conventional
fieldwork
is
so
exhausting.
It
is
more
fundamental
than
that.
For
example
one
doesn’t
know
the
potential
emancipatory
power
of
art
on
CFS-‐ME
(a
central
purpose
of
my
research)
by
studying
it
externally,
any
more
than
one
knows
(for
example)
Buddhism
without
practicing
meditation.
Much
of
the
research
that
has
led
to
this
PhD
has
been
a
form
of
autoethnography
of
my
own
illness,
fused
with
art
interventions
practiced
in
short
but
reflective
bursts.
Since
I
became
unwell,
I
have,
by
this
strict
bricolage
method,
been
amassing
a
body
of
privileged
autobiographically
influenced
work,
which
could
not
have
been
constructed
from
the
outside.
The
proximity
of
my
life
to
the
research
is
not
only
intimate,
but
essential
in
my
case,
because
I
cannot
be
removed
from
my
subjective
experience.
5.
The
fractured
film
A
film-‐maker,
especially
a
lone
film-‐maker,
must
have
broad
experience
of
the
individual
components
of
film;
the
sound,
visual
and
narrative
disciplines,
crucial
if
producing
the
work
alone26.
Film
is
both
a
unified
art
in
and
of
itself,
but
also
a
‘container’
of
these
individual
disciplines.
Moreover,
these
disciplines
do
not
depend
on
film
in
order
to
exist
as
independent
arts.
They
might
behave
more
as
a
group
when
working
inside
a
film,
but
music
and
performance
(to
name
but
two)
have
longer
pedigrees
in
human
civilization.
The
fact
that
film
has
an
interdisciplinary
nature
was
fortuitous.
It
is
because
I
26
This
is
quite
a
common
model
now,
but
less
so
when
I
worked
in
television
and
when
PCs
and
Apple
Macs
were
less
powerful
and
rarely
in
the
hands
of
artists.
I
learned
to
edit
on
Umatic,
S-‐VHS
suites.
84
was
a
filmmaker
before
I
fell
ill,
that
I
am
now
presently
working
between
related
constituents
of
film;
photography,
music
composition,
sound
art,
performance,
design
-‐
even
psychogeography
(a
kind
of
‘real-‐life
film’
-‐
where
one
may
alter
the
‘narratives’
of
accepted
histories
of
real
spaces
by
re-‐appropriating
streets
and
other
places).
These
approaches
that
I
have
been
working
on
since
1999
could
be
termed
“M.E.thodologies”
–
eclectic
methods
of
art
practice,
specific
to
CFS-‐ME
Or
to
reiterate
another
way,
when
I
fell
apart,
my
films
fell
apart
too.
6.
Benefits
of
cross-‐disciplinary
practices
Because
I
liked
to
work
across
filmic
disciplines
prior
to
falling
ill,
I
ended
up
being
reasonably
multiskilled
–
something
that
has
served
me
well
in
illness.
Cross-‐
disciplinary
practices
which
were
initially
about
me
controlling
my
film-‐making
process,
have
now
become
‘accidentally
useful’
in
my
life
as
an
‘exhausted
artist.’
During
this
change
I
renamed
my
job
title
to
a
word
I
authored
which
was
‘Polymash’
–
a
slightly
self-‐deprecating
term
that
aimed
for
the
lofty
heights
of
a
polymath
but
with
clipped
wings
due
to
illness.
I
now
work
within
the
fragments
of
my
past
film
life.
Access
to
my
old
life
is
unlikely
to
rematerialize
because
of
my
condition.
Traditional
film-‐making
requires
skills
that
my
illness
now
chokes.
Adaptation
is
the
only
way
through
such
a
landscape.
Bricolage
is
part
of
that
adaptation
because
it
is
sympathetic
to
many
of
the
(multiple)
symptoms
of
CFS-‐ME
–
including
that
of
impaired
cognitive
function.
85
7.
A
larger
cultural
overview
of
bricolage
Film-‐making
or
storytelling
require
the
practitioner
to
hold
a
lot
of
data
in
the
mind
at
the
same
time.
In
cultural
studies,
one
of
the
most
commonly
cited
works
regarding
the
use
of
the
word
comes
from
The
Savage
Mind
(1962)
by
Claude-‐Levi
Strauss,
a
philosopher
who
sees
the
bricoleur
as
a
kind
of
anti-‐craftsman
and
even
something
of
a
maverick:
…in
our
own
time
the
‘bricoleur’
is
still
someone
who
works
with
his
hands
and
uses
devious
means
compared
to
those
of
a
craftsman
(Levi
Strauss,
1962,
p.16).
He
also
warns
that
art
cannot
be
art
if
it
is
constructed
entirely
from
bricolage
"No
form
of
art
is,
however,
worthy
of
the
name
if
it
allows
itself
to
come
entirely
under
the
sway
of
extraneous
contingencies…
[such
as
bricolage]”
(ibid,
p.29)
Macey,
in
The
Penguin
Dictionary
of
Critical
Theory
entry
on
bricolage
(Macey,
2001,
p.52)
cites
Levi-‐Strauss’s
translators
as
his
main
source,
concluding
that
the
common
translation
of
‘tinkering-‐about’
is
the
most
relevant
one.
It’s
understandable
that
this
definition
is
reached,
because
as
mentioned,
bricolage
springs
from
the
French
verb
bricoleur
–
to
fiddle,
to
tinker.
But
we
are
still
referring
to
the
traditional
view
here
to
an
extent.
What
of
a
more
open
and
creative
definition?
86
The
sense
of
improvisation
that
bricolage
carries
appeals
to
the
postmodern
theorist,
since
it
suggests
an
arbitrary,
undetermined
quality
to
creative
activity
in
which
the
end
is
not
specified
in
advance.
Where
a
modern
thinker
might
see
lack
of
order
or
method,
his
postmodern
counterpart
would
see
a
welcome
exercise
of
spontaneity.
(Sim,
2005,
p.178)
A
postmodern
view
of
bricolage,
such
as
the
one
above
may
clash
in
the
consciousness
of
those
suspicious
of
contemporary
art,
but
this
is
the
usual
inference
regarding
the
word
today.
Indeed,
the
bricoleur
as
a
creative
person
is
part
of
the
art
world
cognoscenti
as
opposed
to
the
view
when
Levi-‐Strauss’s
The
Savage
Mind
was
published.
Also,
Levi-‐Strauss’s
translation
(of
bricoleur)
is
only
relevant
in
the
context
of
wide
contemporary
French
culture,
where
bricolage
basically
means
do
it
yourself.
I
think
this
is
too
outmoded
a
definition
and
even
with
Sim’s
quote
above,
some
clarity
is
needed
to
define
what
bricolage
means
in
cultural
forms.
Bricolage
has
another
key
characteristic,
aside
from
its
‘piecemeal’
approach.
There
is
a
resourcefulness
involved
in
bricolage,
perhaps
of
‘making
do’
of
one’s
resources
not
through
laziness
but
through
(for
example)
a
poverty
of
choice
and
lack
of
opportunities.
An
analogy
in
popular
culture
would
be
baking
a
cake
from
local
ingredients,
perhaps
with
some
ingredients
missing,
and
having
to
adapt,
making
substitutions.
This
analogy
embraces
the
‘D.I.Y.’
element
of
bricolage
(for
example,
in
the
French
cultural
sense).
It
is
this
aspect
that
is
highly
relevant
for
transforming
health
through
maximising
one’s
resources
whilst
constrained
by
illness.
This
is
the
arena
of
the
exhausted
artist,
faced
with
a
failing
physical,
social
and
cognitive
fog.
87
Tiny
steps,
substitutions,
lateral
thinking
and
improvisation
are
parts
of
such
a
methodology
of
bricolage
and
are,
coincidentally,
all
qualities
needed
to
manage
a
chronic
illness.
7a.
Montage
and
Collage
Bricolage
in
the
postmodern
use
of
the
word,
is
both
expansive
and
exciting.
Artists
commonly
work
in
sectional
or
modular
assemblages,
some
of
whom
(but
not
all)
borrow
images
or
sounds
from
popular
culture
and
re-‐appropriate
them.
If
we
look
a
little
deeper
we
find
bricolage
linked
to
two
related
terms,
montage
and
collage,
cousins
of
bricolage
because
they
are
formed
from
an
assemblage
of
multiple
sources.
Montage
is
a
term
associated
with
film
and
film
editing,
and
has
it’s
own
lineage.
Created
via
editing,
a
montage
can
show
(for
example)
the
passage
of
time
or
geographical
movement
via
a
sequence
of
(short)
related
shots.
A
montage
can
be
almost
unnoticeable,
or
deliberately
jarring,
depending
on
the
director’s
needs,
but
it
is
constructed
from
multiple
fragments,
i.e.
individual
shots.
Collage
is
a
visual
art
phenomenon,
now
a
fairly
wide
and
(often
digital)
practice
with
artists,
where
media
may
be
mixed,
glued,
scanned,
borrowed,
torn
and
reassembled
onto
surfaces,
(or
photoshopped)
–
to
form
a
whole.
In
the
book
“Collage”
(Craig,
2008,
p8)
Sally
O’Reilly
writes
how
the
artform
of
collage
has
been
a
been
a
kind
of
prophetic
cultural
phenomenon:
88
Collage’s
rejection
of
singularity,
rationality
and
coherence
is
matched
and,
at
times,
superseded
by
mainstream
media
and
culture
at
large,
where
channel
hopping,
surfing,
streaming,
pieceworking
and
hot-‐
desking
are
fast
becoming
familiar
processes.
(O’Reilly
in
Craig,
2008,
p.8)
So
it
is
reasonable
to
suggest
that
collage
and
montage
are
forms
of
bricolage,
where
multiple
individual
elements
create
a
visual
argument
or
a
story.
89
7b.
Film
production
and
bricolage
Movies
should
be
treated
as
texts
–
works
to
be
analysed
and
interpreted.
They
are
similar
to
any
other
text,
including
a
textbook.
‘Text’
comes
from
the
Latin
‘Textum’
meaning
“that
which
has
been
woven.”
Bernard
F
Dick
(Dick,
2009,
p.2)
And
so
we
return
to
filmmaking.
Much
filmmaking
is
an
interdisciplinary
enterprise
encompassing
dozens
of
specialised
jobs,
with
most
of
the
practitioners
being
specialists
in
their
field.
The
role
of
the
director
is
literally
that,
to
direct
these
constituents
closer
to
a
whole.
The
argument
that
film
is
therefore
a
form
of
(highly
organized)
bricolage
would
certainly
apply
to
the
most
obvious
model
of
the
fictional
or
dramatized
film,
often
made
with
a
respectable
budget.
But
even
the
documentary
and
the
artist’s
film
is
still
created
in
sections
and
modules
–
(and
potentially
still
filmed
out
of
sequence)
despite
being
a
vastly
more
minimal
enterprise.
In
looking
at
the
dramatic
fictional
film,
Steven
D
Katz
in
Film
Directing
Shot
by
Shot
states:
“…the
primary
creative
positions
[in
film]–
screenwriter,
director,
cinematographer
and
editor
–
divide
the
individual
artist’s
vision
into
component
parts…”
He
states
the
reasons
for
this
are
practical:
“The
compartmentalization
of
image,
sound,
language
and
continuity
fulfils
the
needs
of
efficiency,
but
it
is
fundamentally
different
from
the
way
we
visualize.”
Katz
ends
the
statement
with
a
quandary
of
whether
film
is
a
unified
art
form
or
collaborative,
modular,
‘collective’
entity:
“The
question
is,
whether
the
expression
of
this
organic,
unified
experience
is
a
single
craft
or
a
combination
of
individual
skills?”
(Katz,
2001,
p.ix)
90
Whether
or
not
the
director
is
an
auteur,
an
artist,
a
documentarian
and
so
on,
even
the
screening
of
a
film
is
a
complex
assemblage.
The
medium
itself
is
comprised
of
many
separate
individual
components;
frames
with
an
analogue
or
digital
soundtrack,
projector,
light,
electricity,
sound
system
and
so
on.
Even
on
video
there
are
digital
‘frames’
that
are
strobed
to
give
the
illusion
of
movement
and
require
sophisticated
equipment;
lasers
in
DVD
and
Blu-‐Ray
players,
surround
sound,
gold-‐
plated
cables,
a
screen
ratio
which
is
sympathetic
to
that
of
the
original
film
–
this
is
the
tip
of
the
iceberg
in
even
playing
a
film.
Projecting
or
playing
a
film
or
DVD
only
temporarily
‘locks’
all
of
this
teamwork
and
craft
together
for
a
given
time.
Therefore,
film
and
film-‐making,
on
film
or
video,
involves
a
lot
of
grouping
together
of
related
arts
plus
technical
and
aesthetic
requirements.
The
finished
article
is
seen
over
a
period
of
time,
perhaps
forming
a
cohesive
narrative,
which
doesn’t
by
any
means
exclude
the
documentary
or
artist’s
film.
Katz’s
question
as
to
whether
this
is
a
‘single
craft’
or
‘combination
of
individual
skills’
doesn’t
appear
to
be
a
mutually
exclusive
proposition.
It
seems
to
me
that
as
a
‘single
craft’
or
ensemble
creation,
film
is
always
comprised
of
many
components.
The
only
things
that
seem
to
shift
are
job
descriptions.
Derek
Jarman
made
feature
films
and
art
directed
them,
as
does
Peter
Greenaway.
John
Carpenter
writes
his
own
music.
The
question
of
who
does
what
does
not
reduce
the
idea
that
film
is
still
a
bricolage.
As
I
previously
commented,
when
I
have
made
artists
films
or
documentaries
for
television
I
was
obsessed
with
controlling
as
much
as
possible,
from
the
typography
of
the
titles,
to
mixing
the
soundtrack,
to
shooting
much
of
my
own
material.
But
that
doesn’t
negate
the
resulting
works
from
being
modular
enterprises.
Some
writers
and
directors
are
known
for
being
wordsmiths;
others
are
more
concerned
with
the
lens.
But
when
a
vision
is
91
clear,
both
may
work
together.
This
is
the
constant
ambition
of
my
own
practice.
The
unification
of
multiple,
movable
elements.
In
my
practice,
whether
the
work
ends
up
in
a
digitised
video
file
or
on
three
analogue
records,
is
wholly
dependent
on
locating
the
apt
container
for
the
subject.
I
believe
when
a
conventional
dramatic
film
feels
implausible
and
we
are
forced
to
leave
the
womb
of
the
story,
a
bricolage
that
was
previously
lodged
in
our
subconscious
now
becomes
centre-‐stage.
The
spell
is
broken.
We
realise
we
are
watching
a
modular
construct,
of
actors,
of
editing,
or
plot
structure
and
so
on.
Unless
there
is
an
actual
intention
to
jar
the
viewer,
such
as
in
Eisenstein’s
editing
techniques
or
Man
Ray’s
film-‐montages
(interestingly
both
artists
had
backgrounds
in
the
related
art
forms
of
theatre
and
photography
respectively),
a
bricolage
in
the
conventional
and
perhaps
conservative
dramatic
film
is
usually
intended
to
be
hidden.
There
are
many
things
that
could
go
wrong
with
a
film
–
continuity
errors,
technical
problems
such
as
bad
sound
or
out
of
focus
shots,
bad
script
–
and
that’s
just
the
dramatic
fiction
film.
To
reiterate
Katz’
comment
of
a
vision
being
divided
into
screenwriter,
director,
cinematographer
and
editor,
a
poor
application
of
one
of
those
areas
in
the
film-‐ensemble
will
lift
the
lid
off
the
film
and
cause
it
to
unravel.
Such
errors
reveal
the
constituents
of
the
film
by
accident;
the
constituents
emerge
when
the
stitching
comes
undone.
In
my
case,
my
stitching
came
undone
and
so
I
now
wander
through
the
landscape
of
those
constituent
filmic
elements,
unable
to
generate
the
energy
required
to
orchestrate
them
into
a
large-‐scale
film
work.
92
One
might
argue
that
the
components
of
film
are
always
developing;
such
biases
or
emphases
of
a
given
‘brick’
of
this
bricolage
are
moving
or
fluid,
and
have
a
constant
relationship
with
technology,
commerce
and
taste.
Taste
dictates
the
weight
of
individual
elements
within
artforms
made
by
a
collective
process.
One
might
prefer
the
visual
weight
of
Tarkovsky’s
meditative
canvas,
with
very
economical
(spoken)
scripts
where
the
experience
is
one
of
minimal
idiosyncratic
reflection.
Or
one
may
prefer
the
verbal
combat
of
Martin
Scorsese’s
verbally
explosive
theatrics
and
razor
sharp
scripts.
A
large-‐scale
dramatic
film
is
composed
of
actors,
scripts,
technical
crews,
art
departments,
and
a
multitude
of
other
roles
as
long
as
a
Hollywood
film
credits
roll,
from
carpenters
to
caterers.
But
a
film
is
more
than
the
sum
of
its
parts
if
directed.
Otherwise
it
is
just
a
group
of
aggregates
with
nowhere
to
go.
Likewise
in
society.
We
often
talk
about
societal
groups
or
quantifiable
phenomena
as
being
“composed
of”
(implying
the
grouping
or
movement
of
constituents,
as
opposed
to
‘comprised
of’
implying
a
list
of
constituents).
It
is
also
very
common,
for
example,
to
hear
of
a
political
manoeuvre
as
being
“orchestrated
by…”
implying
a
need
to
organise
and
co-‐
ordinate
a
complex
and
shifting
set
of
elements,
principles,
timeframes
and
circumstances.
The
organisation
and
direction
of
sectional
aspects
of
life
is
fundamental
to
cultural
creations,
and
also
across
the
various
strata
of
life.
The
terms
‘composed’
and
‘orchestrated’
are
beginning
to
sound
quite
musical,
so
perhaps
that’s
where
we
should
examine
bricolage
next,
especially
since
my
work
is,
at
its
core,
primarily
musically
and
sonically
orientated.
93
7c.
Bricolage
in
music
Bricolage
and
music
is
an
ever-‐evolving
and
self-‐referencing
phenomenon.
We
could
start
from
several
points
of
reference.
We
could
discuss
fusion
musics
(such
as
jazz
fusion),
soundclashes,
mashups,
remixes
-‐
even
pretty
much
any
form
of
multitracked
digital
recording
which
is
conceived
in
small
parts,
often
using
loops,
and
built
via
bricolage
into
realised
works.
In
commercially
available
compositional
software
such
as
Ableton
Live,
Logic
Audio
or
Garageband,
even
the
visual
layout
of
such
tools
resembles
a
kind
of
wall,
where
sound
files
and
loops
are
collated
and
pasted
on
timelines,
forming
a
song
or
composition
out
of
a
kind
of
assemblage.
If
we
look
especially
to
music
that
has
been
constructed
by
limited
means,
the
use
of
bricolage
is
an
apt
and
explosive
method
-‐
and
we
briefly
examine
Hip-‐Hop
in
a
moment
as
a
relevant
example
of
this.
I
want
to
contrast
Hip
Hop
with
Musique
Concrète. I’ve
chosen
these
two
forms
because
it
is
extremely
easy
to
clearly
locate
the
bricolage
within
the
sounds
of
both
these
sonic
arts.
Bricolage
unites
the
two,
despite
differences
in
social
classes,
racial
groups,
different
manifestos
and
vastly
different
ancestries
(not
to
mention
timelines)
dividing
them.
These
are
not
the
only
forms
of
music
that
employ
the
use
of
bricolage
in
their
construction,
but
they
are
fairly
disparate,
so
it
will
serve
our
argument
to
investigate
these
particularly
distant
cousins.
94
7d.
Musique
Concrète
In
late
1940s
France,
snippets
of
field
recordings
of
‘real
life’
sounds
(such
as
that
of
factories
and
traffic)
were
used
as
raw
compositional
material,
in
small
units,
that
could
be
subsequently
edited
together
to
form
a
new
kind
of
manipulated
sound.
The
development
of
this
“Musique
Concrète”
(literally
‘concrete
music’)
was
facilitated
by
the
emergence
of
new
music
technology
in
post-‐war
Europe.
Access
to
microphones,
phonographs
and
later
magnetic
tape
recorders
had
become
available,
at
least
in
research
laboratories
and
broadcast
centres:
much
of
the
technology
had
been
developed
through
the
war
itself.
The
French
composer
and
theorist
Pierre
Schaeffer
(a
telecommunications
engineer
who
moved
towards
sound
work)
is
credited
with
originating
the
term
Musique
Concrète.
Schaeffer
developed
an
aesthetic
practice
that
was
centred
upon
the
use
of
recorded
sound
as
a
primary
compositional
resource
and
emphasised
the
importance
of
play
(jeu)
in
the
creation
of
music.
Pierre
Schaeffer’s
first
piece
‘written
for
phonograph’
consisted
of
a
short
collage
of
recorded
train
noises
manipulated
into
an
aural
montage.
Tape
loops,
pitchshifting
and
playing
sounds
in
reverse
were
fundamental
to
Schaeffer’s
practice.
Chris
Cutler
in
his
‘Plunderphonics’
essay
(Cutler
2004,
in
Cox
and
Warner
2004,
pp.143-‐144)
outlines
the
birth
of
Musique
Concrète:
[the
mass
reproducible
flat
Berliner
disc]
fed
the
growing
consumer
market
for
music
recordings.
…The
breakthrough
for
the
record
as
a
producing
(as
opposed
to
reproducing)
medium,
didn’t
come
until
1948,
in
the
studios
of
French
Radio,
with
the
birth
of
Musique
Concrète.
The
95
first
concrète
pieces,
performed
at
the
Concert
de
Bruits
in
Paris
by
engineer/composer
Pierre
Schaeffer,
were
made
by
manipulating
gramophone
records
in
real
time,
employing
techniques
embedded
in
their
physical
form:
varying
the
speed,
reversing
the
direction
of
spin,
making
“closed
grooves”
to
create
repeated
ostinati
etc.
(p.143)
Other
composers
began
to
experiment
with
disc
manipulation
around
the
same
time,
including
Tristram
Cary
in
London
and
Mauricio
Kagel
in
Buenos
Aires.
…It
is
curious
that,
in
spite
of
the
intimacy
of
record
and
recording,
the
first
commercially
available
Musique
Concrète
on
disc
was
not
released
until
1956.
(ibid,
p.144)
…Within
two
years
the
radio
station,
in
the
face
of
resistance
from
Schaeffer,
had
re-‐equipped
the
studio
with
tape
recorders;
and
Schaeffer,
now
head
of
the
Groupe
de
Musique
Concrète,
continued
to
develop
the
same
aesthetic
of
sound
organisation
and
to
extend
the
transformational
procedures
learned
through
turntable
manipulations
with
the
vastly
more
flexible
resources
of
magnetic
tape.
(ibid,
p.143)
Tape
then
become
the
mainstay
of
the
‘electroacoustic
studio’;
a
veritable
Aladdin’s
cave
of
tape
recorders,
alongside
existing
variable
speed
record
players
and
mixing
desks
–
these
were
the
exciting
new
tools,
but
the
record
player
as
instrument
was
the
technological
forerunner
in
Musique
Concrète.
It
was
in
Schaeffer’s
studio
that
Shellac
record
players
could
read
a
sound
normally
and
in
reverse
mode,
and
could
change
speed
at
fixed
ratios
thus
permitting
octave
transposition.
This
was
a
means
of
96
further
fragmenting
and
breaking
recorded
sound
apart
to
widen
the
sound
canvas.
One
sound
source
could
become
multiple
sounds.
This
record
player
alone
could
make
one
piece
of
sound
many,
and
be
reconstructed
into
new
forms
-‐
because
it
could
be
manipulated
forming
a
whole
palette
of
sound;
a
bricolage.
This
provides
me
with
a
useful
segue
into
Hip
Hop
which
revolves
(almost
literally)
around
the
turntable.
7e.
Hip
Hop
Two
Turntables
and
a
small
mixing
unit,
‘borrowed’
electricity
and
some
enormous
loudspeakers
created
a
musical
revolution
during
the
late
1970s
in
New
York
City.
It
was
called
Hip
Hop.
Hip
Hop
is
a
form
of
musical
expression
and
artistic
culture
that
originated
in
African-‐American
communities
within
the
city,
most
notably,
Brooklyn.
It
is
worth
noting
that
when
using
the
term
‘Hip
Hop’
we
are
also
referring
to
a
lifestyle
of
fashion,
graffiti
art,
rap
music
and
social
commentary,
a
bricolage
(again)
of
several
connected
subcultures.
But
the
turntable
is
central
to
the
culture,
the
controller
of
which
is
the
source
of
incredibly
resourceful
musical
composition.
I
would
argue
that
Hip
Hop
and
its
younger
brother
Turntablism
has
been
the
most
successful
implementation
of
an
‘overt’
bricolage
in
music:
97
…in
1967,
a
Jamaican
DJ
called
Kool
Herc
moved
his
sound
system
to
New
York,
and
helped
set
in
motion
a
looping
chain
of
events
that
would
change
the
face
of
popular
music
for
good.
…turntablism
is
more
than
dragging
a
record
back
and
forth
across
a
stylus,
or
segueing
two
tracks
together
nice
and
smooth.
(Shapiro
in
Young,
2009,
p103)
Herc
isolated
[the
break]
by
playing
two
copies
of
the
same
record
on
two
turntables:
when
the
break
on
one
turntable
finished,
he
would
repeat
it
on
the
other
turntable
in
order
to
keep
the
beat
going.
(ibid,
pp103-‐
104)
With
his
phonographic
flights
of
fancy,
[Grandmaster]
Flash
made
DJing
into
something
more
than
just
spinning
records,
creating
audio
montages
that
went
way
beyond
the
smart-‐ass
shenanigans
of
the
Dickie
Goodmans27
and
Bill
Buchanans
of
this
world.
(Cutler
2004,
in
Cox
and
Warner
2004,
p.104)
Like
Musique
Concrète,
Hip
Hop
is
an
area
in
which
the
musical
bricolage
is
most
transparent,
with
shrewd
choices
of
‘breaks’
(snippets
of
funk
and
soul
records)
centralising
the
DJ
as
creator
and
re-‐appropriator
of
musical
identity.
Hip
Hop
DJs
were
using
turntables
that
were
designed
to
be
moved
in
one
direction
only,
unlike
Schaeffer’s
Shellac
players,
but
by
the
use
of
a
‘slip-‐mat’
underneath
the
vinyl,
they
could
manipulate
the
sound
back
and
forth
by
such
‘scratching’
the
record.
Furthermore,
when
two
copies
of
the
record
were
used
side
by
side
on
two
turntables,
they
could
rewind
one
chunk
of
sound
back
on
the
first
deck,
whilst
on
the
second
deck
they
played
the
same
chunk
and
thus,
via
the
mixer,
created
a
seamless
27
Creators
of
the
"break-‐in"
novelty
record
and
consequently
partly
innovators
of
a
kind
of
sampling,
which
often
saw
them
involved
in
legal
entanglements
for
copyright
infringement
–
something
that
the
hip-‐hop
artists
of
the
1980s
would
also
also
face.
98
assemblage
of
units.
The
‘Break’
In
Hip
Hop,
that
‘unit’
is
called
‘the
break’
-‐
a
musical
fragment
often
only
seconds
in
length,
which
in
its
original
context
took
the
form
of
an
interlude
of
percussion.
Hip
Hop
DJs
assembled
these
breaks
together,
live,
in
highly
skilled
curatorial
displays
and
live
performances
often
accompanied
by
spontaneous
choreography
of
(mainly)
b(reak)-‐boys
and
b-‐girls
dancing
to
‘the
breaks’,
creating
breakdancing.
Breakdancing
itself
is
a
bricolage
choreography
combining
urban
gymnastics,
physical
prowess,
occasionally
a
kind
of
mime
and
physical
theatrics
and
it
is
performed
in
very
definite
sections
and
bursts.
There
is
a
kind
of
audacity
involved
with
Hop
Hop
DJ-‐ing.
Maybe
Levi-‐Strauss
had
been
prophetic
in
calling
the
bricoleur
devious?
For
example,
there
have
been
many
legal
battles
with
DJs
trying
to
make
a
living
from
an
artform
that
relied
heavily
on
sampling
other
people’s
music.
This
‘deviousness’
could
be
seen
as
a
positive
thing.
These
artists
often
came
from
conditions
of
poverty
and
used
bricolage
as
an
emancipator.
This
approach
resonates
with
my
practice,
illustrating
resourcefulness,
in
modular
methods,
from
limited
means.
Moreover,
an
experienced
Hip
Hop
DJ
is
a
consummate
craftsman.
S/he
knows
the
material,
has
an
innate
understanding
of
mixing
records
made
with
different
tempos,
live,
by
ear,
and
is
a
curator-‐composer.
Early
Hip-‐Hop
DJs
were
exemplars
of
resourcefulness
and
it
is
in
Hip
Hop
where
we
find
the
musical
bricolage
artform
par
excellence.
99
8.
Bricolage
as
a
methodology
for
the
exhausted
artist
The
examples
I
have
outlined
have
drawn
on
diverse
worlds,
but
I
have
aimed
in
this
section
to
outline
a
tradition
of
displaying
cultural
artforms
that
are
either
unified
or
disparate
in
regard
to
what
degree
a
bricolage
is
transparent
in
the
work.
This
project
is
about
raising
the
quality
of
life
of
CFS-‐ME
sufferers
through
interventions
across
several
disciplines
of
art
practice,
but
initially
practiced
by
myself,
in
the
first
person.
Without
claiming
that
such
art
interventions
are
a
panacea,
hopefully
the
project
has
refined
a
modular
series
of
works
into
a
fairly
ambitious
and
cohesive
series
of
art
objects
–
crucially
forged
by
achievable,
liveable
sets
of
practical
philosophies
–
a
potential
future
goal
of
the
project.
If
by
bricolage,
these
interventions
have
been
able
to
have
been
made
by
an
exhausted
practitioner,
and
if
the
interventions
are
different
from
each
other,
they
will
be
useful
to
more
sufferers
and
spill
into
the
different
parts
of
other
sufferers’
lives,
hopefully
finding
common
ground
somewhere
in
someone.
Who
or
what
is
the
exhausted
artist?
Having
talked
about
how
bricolage
has
appeared
through
the
arts,
I’d
like
to
attempt
to
define
who
‘the
exhausted
artist’
actually
is.
In
the
first
sense
the
exhausted
artist
is
myself.
I
have
stated
that
CFS-‐ME
affects
around
250,000
people
in
the
UK.
Naturally,
of
that
figure,
a
proportion
are
artists
or
people
who
enjoy
or
support
the
arts
and
would
gain
some
benefit
from
an
arts/philosophy
approach
to
their
condition.
I
count
this
sub-‐group
of
sufferers
as
‘the
exhausted
artists’
and
in
most
cases,
like
me,
they
have
also
reached
the
‘end
of
the
line’
within
their
local
NHS
100
services.
Even
if
only
10%
of
that
figure
of
250,000
are
cultural
practitioners
or
craftspeople
or
simply
creatively
inclined
people,
we
could
be
implementing
bricolage-‐
based
techniques
with
25,000
CFS-‐ME
sufferers.
I
reiterate
that
CFS-‐ME
is
a
chronic,
vague,
and
generally
consistently
painful
and
exhausting
illness.
Therefore,
in
terms
of
bricolage,
exhaustion
dictates
my
methodology
in
creating
the
projects
-‐
and
bricolage
makes
allowances
for
the
tolerances
of
a
chronically
exhausted
audience
(and
her/himself).
9.
Conclusion
In
this
chapter
I
have
looked
at
how
bricolage
is
rooted
within
cultural
practices
and
that
definitions
of
bricolage
(in
the
classical
sense)
are
perhaps
due
for
some
kind
of
updating
or
revision.
By
way
of
examples
we
have
seen
that
to
be
a
bricoleur
is
not
to
be
a
cheat
or
be
‘devious’
–
but
it
may
be
a
shrewd
inventive
response
to
a
life-‐
changing
imperative.
On
a
personal
level,
I
saw
how
as
my
life
fell
apart,
my
films
followed
this
pattern.
Prior
to
exploring
the
idea
of
bricolage,
I
had
not
considered
that
I
am
still
a
filmmaker.
I
presumed
I
didn’t
make
films
any
more.
But
by
realising
film
is
like
a
kind
of
text
that
can
be
unwoven
into
modules,
I
now
know
that
I
am
still
working
within
the
landscape
of
film
by
bricolage.
I
have
tried
to
examine
film
as
both
a
‘holistic’
(or
unified)
art
form
and
also
as
a
container
of
individual
disciplines.
So
despite
my
film
101
career
ending
many
years
ago,
it
seems
I
have
still
been
making
films,
but
perhaps
in
slower
motion.
I
may
lay
out
the
final
products
I
have
made
for
this
project:
a
blue
record,
a
red
record
and
a
yellow
record,
and
remove
the
blue
sleeve,
the
red
sleeve
and
the
yellow
sleeve.
In
doing
so,
I
reveal
the
coloured
vinyls
themselves,
and
can
look
at
the
sleevenotes
before,
after
or
during
playing
these
discs
-‐
before
flipping
the
sleeve
over
to
examine
the
photographic
montage
on
each
sleeve.
Then,
it
is
clear
to
see
how
a
filmmaker
may
have
constructed
these
items.
They
are
‘fragmented
films.’
Made
in
a
modular
fashion
across
text,
image
and
sound
the
vinyl
LP
format,
12”
in
size
is
a
logical
format
for
a
filmmaker
to
employ
when
assailed
by
an
illness
that
prevents
formal
location-‐based
filmmaking.
102
Chapter
5:
The
Sonic
Contexts
of
the
Project
1.
Introduction
2.
Nomenclature
and
niches
of
vinyl
records
3.
Is
sound-‐art
the
dominant
field?
4.
Is
music
the
dominant
field?
5.
Is
radio-‐art
the
dominant
field?
6.
Therefore,
the
analogue
record
as
an
art
is
the
dominant
field
6b.
The
Recording
Angel
i)
The
need
to
make
beauty
and
pleasure
permanent
ii)
The
need
to
comprehend
beauty
iii)
The
need
to
distinguish
oneself
as
a
consumer
iv)
The
need
to
belong
v)
The
need
to
impress
others,
or
oneself.
7.
Audio,
music
and
interdisciplinary
artists
8.
The
re-‐rise,
risks
and
rewards
of
vinyl
records
103
1.
Introduction
a)
…THE
PRESENT
DAY
METHODS
OF
WRITING
MUSIC,
PRINCIPALLY
THOSE
WHICH
EMPLOY
HARMONY
AND
ITS
REFERENCE
TO
PARTICULAR
STEPS
IN
THE
FIELD
OF
SOUND,
WILL
BE
INADEQUATE
FOR
THE
COMPOSER,
WHO
WILL
BE
FACED
WITH
THE
ENTIRE
FIELD
OF
SOUND…
b)
Wherever
we
are,
what
we
hear
is
mostly
noise.
When
we
ignore
it,
it
disturbs
us.
When
we
listen
to
it,
we
find
it
fascinating.
The
sound
of
a
truck
at
50
miles
per
hour.
Static
between
the
stations.
Rain.
We
want
to
capture
and
control
these
sounds,
to
use
them
not
as
sound
effects
but
as
musical
instruments.
Every
film
studio
has
a
library
of
‘sound
effects’
recorded
on
film.
With
a
film
phonograph
it
is
now
possible
to
control
the
amplification
and
frequency
of
any
one
of
these
sounds
and
to
give
to
it
rhythms
within
or
beyond
the
reach
of
the
imagination.
Given
four
film
phonographs,
we
can
compose
and
perform
a
quartet
for
explosive
motor,
wind,
heartbeat
and
landslide.
John
Cage,
193728
(Lander
and
Lexier
2013,
p.15)
Many
purveyors
of
cultural
works
consider
bespoke
vinyl
records
to
be
an
artform
outside
music
alone.
This
is
not
an
unusual
view;
the
interplay
between
the
28
Both
quotes
originate
from
a
talk
given
by
John
Cage
titled
“The
Future
of
Music:
Credo”
delivered
for
a
Seattle
arts
society
organised
by
Bonnie
Bird
in
1937.
Source:
p15
of
the
anthology
Sound
by
Artists
(Edited
by
Lander,
Lexier
–
pub.
Blackwood
Gallery
University
of
Toronto,
Mississauga
2013
–
facsimile
reprint
of
1990
edition)
104
vinyl
record
and
the
cultural
world
has
a
strong
heritage,
as
we
can
see
from
the
introductory
quote
from
1937
where
John
Cage
is
placing
an
image
of
four
record
players
(or
‘phonographs’)
in
one’s
mind,
which
impressively,
in
2014,
would
pass
as
a
viable
sonic
art
installation
in
any
major
city
in
the
world
–
and
indeed,
has
done
in
recent
memory.
One
example
is
Janek
Schaefer’s
Extended
Play
[Triptych
for
the
child
survivors
of
war
and
conflict]
(Schaefer,
2008).
Commissioned
for
the
Huddersfield
Contemporary
Music
Festival
in
2007,
nine
interactive,
multispeed
record
players,
grouped
in
threes,
fitted
with
motion
sensors,
play
bespoke
vinyl
records
asynchronously,
in
a
work
that
reminds
us
both
of
Cage’s
prophetic
statements
and
that
also
represents
how
relevant
vinyl
records
still
are,
in
both
cultural
and
personal
terms.
When
Cage
writes
in
1937,
about
composing
for
‘explosive
motor,
wind,
heartbeat
and
landslide’
he
could
be
describing
elements
of
this
research
project.
It
is
clear
that
the
sonic
worlds
of
this
research
project
are
also
part
of
a
wider
phonographic
lineage
and
with
a
recorded
technology
heritage.
The
purpose
of
this
chapter
is
to
explore
in
further
detail
the
aspects
of
the
work
that
are
culturally
situated
in
relation
to
sonic
art
and
the
record-‐as-‐art-‐object.
So
far,
the
project
has
been
described
as
an
art
project
and
process.
Thus,
I
have
assumed
the
reader
would
accept
the
physical
aspect
of
the
project
as
a
piece
of
art.
However,
to
state
that
these
records
are
art
may
be
surprising
for
some
audiences
who
associate
records
only
with
the
music/sounds
stored
on
them
or
associate
the
word
‘art’
with
only
painterly
or
sculptural
qualities.
For
such
a
hypothetical
audience,
music
may
be
one
of
the
arts,
but
defining
a
record
‘as
an
artwork’
may
perhaps
be
perplexing.
105
This
project
has
taken
the
form
of
vinyl
records
containing
music
and
sound-‐
art,
texts
and
visual
artwork
connected
by
colour-‐coded
graphic
design,
emphasising
linked
themes
throughout.
The
audio,
texts
and
imagery
were
designed
to
be
co-‐
dependent
on
each
other,
both
to
mirror
the
‘holistic29’
ideals
of
the
project
and
also
because
each
of
these
pieces
are
‘fragmented
films’
in
the
sense
I
outlined
in
Chapter
4.
However,
some
further
investigation
and
contextualisation
is
needed
to
specify
the
artistic/sonic
field
within
which
this
project
is
situated.
By
negating
those
terms
of
reference
that
do
not
fit
the
process
embarked
upon,
we
will,
by
a
process
of
elimination
find
the
closest
cultural
niche
within
which
these
bespoke
sonic
objects
reside.
2.
Nomenclature
and
niches
of
vinyl
records
Many
people
completely
jettisoned
vinyl
records
years
ago,
perhaps
even
decades
ago,
and
are
now
more
familiar
with
listening
to
CDs
or
other
digital
files
with
little
physical
artwork.
Some
may
reasonably
question
the
producing
of
a
work
via
a
‘redundant
technology’
such
as
vinyl
at
all,
let
alone
calling
it
art.
Ironically,
young
adults
may
have
no
problem
embracing
vinyl
records,
as
they
now
serve
as
a
kind
of
entry
to
a
subculture
which
was
previously
a
wholly
popular
and
mass
produced
phenomenon.
Indeed,
today’s
young
adults,
perhaps
born
in
the
late
1990s,
may
play
a
part
in
spearheading
the
current
vinyl
resurgence,
often
to
the
surprise
of
their
parents
(and
this
wouldn’t
be
the
first
time
vinyl
records
have
been
part
of
a
rebellion).
29
Holism
has
been
defined
and
explored
in
its
own
chapter
In
this
text.
106
A
2013
article
in
the
New
York
Times
profiles
Josh
Bizar,
a
sales
director
of
a
cluster
of
plants
that
produce
vinyl
turntables
and
which
also
holds
vinyl
stock.
Bizar
states
that
his
company
Music
Direct
sold
500,000
LPs
and
thousands
of
turntables
during
2012:
…you’re
seeing
young
kids
collecting
records
like
we
did
when
we
were
young…
We
never
expected
the
vinyl
resurgence
to
become
as
crazy
as
it
is…
But
it’s
come
full
circle.
We
get
kids
calling
us
up
and
telling
us
why
they
listen
to
vinyl,
and
when
we
ask
them
why
they
don’t
listen
to
CDs,
they
say,
‘CDs?
My
dad
listens
to
CDs
—
why
would
I
do
that?”
(Koznin,
2013,
n.p.)
How
LP
records
are
named,
categorised
and
digested
is
not
only
important
for
the
librarian
and
commercial
vendors
of
records
but
also
for
purveyors
of
such
‘niche’
artefacts;
the
latter
are
apocryphally
notorious
for
strongly
identifying
and
aligning
themselves
alongside
their
hard-‐sought
collections,
perhaps
thus
gaining
entry
to
a
vinyl
collecting
subculture.
Therefore,
what
category
this
project
sits
in
will
have
implications
for
a
potential
audience
and
where
the
record
is
found
(i.e.
record
shop
or
gallery?
‘mainstream’
or
‘niche’?)
and
the
implications
of
the
traditions
in
which
the
work
is
situated,
e.g.
my
sense
of
being
part
of
a
contemporary
vinyl
record
movement.
Let
us
thus
attempt
to
discard
or
retain
any
potential
headings
of
what
this
project
is
or
isn’t.
One
might
ask
what
is
the
dominant
sonic
context
or
field
for
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy?
107
3.
Is
sound-‐art
the
dominant
field?
Sonically,
this
project
finds
itself
between
two
goalposts.
On
the
one
hand,
the
project
is
perhaps
too
experimental
to
be
considered
‘formal’
music
as
such,
and
yet
too
broad
an
enterprise
to
isolate
the
sound
from
the
package
and
call
it
a
purely
sound-‐art
work.
Moreover,
sound-‐art
projects
often
require
an
installation
or
space
of
some
kind.
There
is
only
the
merest
hint
of
this
in
the
project.
Rather,
the
intention
is
to
make
objects
that
may
be
flexibly
translated
to
a
number
of
(usually
personal
or
private)
spaces.
It
could
be
argued
that
these
objects
may
have
potential
as
installation
pieces,
and
could
be
adapted
as
such.
However,
in
my
case,
the
imagery
and
sleevenotes
on
the
records
serve
more
as
directions
and
suggestions
for
how
to
listen
to
the
work,
even
if
they
are
texts
or
visual
montages
in
their
own
right.
Perhaps
the
kind
of
detailed
text
on
the
sleevenotes
wouldn’t
translate
well
for
an
installation.
The
images
too,
are
inextricably
linked
to
the
sound,
but
serve
the
role
of
priming
the
listener
also.
They
were
designed
a
little
like
‘storyboards’:
they
help
unify
the
experience
and
are
best
looked
at
before
or
during
playing.
Therefore,
because
of
these
other
elements,
the
trilogy
lies
only
partly
within
sound-‐art,
but
it
is
definitely
related
to
that
discipline,
so
perhaps
it
is
better
not
to
dispense
with
the
term
just
yet.
Sometimes
sound
art
and
music
are
related.
LP1’s
main
body
of
audio
may
be
termed
‘broken
music’
–
that
of
a
‘ruined’
harmonium
-‐
and
in
LP2
and
LP3,
any
musical
qualities
are
integrated
into
local
cultural
phenomena
and
field
recordings:
Provençal
cicadas
and
Scottish
bagpipes
are
used
here
not
for
a
love
of
the
music
or
sound
they
produce
but
because
they
are
presented
on
the
LP
as
a
kind
of
methodology
of
the
exhausted
artist
-‐
i.e.
one
of
‘traveling
without
moving’
so
to
108
speak,
my
working
on
whatever
doorstep
I
find.
In
addition,
these
records
have
seen
the
creator
pursue
some
direct
methodologies
of
the
sound
artist:
i.e.
using
highly
specialised
equipment
such
as
hydrophones
(underwater
microphones),
contact
mics
(where
one
can
slot
mics
inside
tree
bark
for
example)
and
induction
coil
pick-‐up
microphones
(which
can
pick
up
electrical
buzzes
and
hums
around
a
suburban
space
for
example,
scanning
electrical
circuits
and
pulses
such
as
a
microwave
or
internet
router).
Whilst
these
techniques
may
also
be
employed
in
science,
these
pieces
of
equipment
have
been
sourced
from
Jez
Riley
French,
a
sound
artist
who
also
makes
microphones
for
field
recordists
and
fellow
artists.
The
statement
below
illustrates
his
approach:
My
work
involves
elements
of
intuitive
composition,
field
recording
(using
conventional
&
extended
methods),
photographic
images
/
photographic
scores
and
improvisation.
(French,
2014,
n.p.)
Moreover,
in
this
project,
the
methodologies
and
processes
are
as
important
as
the
product,
something
we
frequently
find
in
art
practice
and
art
therapy
and
sound-‐
art.
The
techniques
I
have
used
and
the
methodologies
I
have
pursued
have
become
quite
integrated,
certainly
in
the
soundtracks.
I
have
tended
to
amalgamate
the
music
and
spoken
words,
the
buzzes
and
natural
sounds;
all
of
these
elements
are
merged
into
composed
soundscapes,
as
opposed
to
many
sound
artists,
particularly
those
working
in
the
field
of
‘acoustic
ecology’
or
‘soundscapes’,
many
of
whom
leave
such
sound
sources
unedited
or
frequently
untreated.
But
overall,
my
works
are
also
109
influenced
by
my
days
working
in
documentary
media
(in
the
1990s)
and
as
a
result
are
probably
closer
to
a
radio-‐soundscape
model.
If
this
project
can
be
defined
as
sound-‐art,
it
is
of
a
relatively
accessible
type.
There
is
spoken
word
here,
and
field
recording,
piano
music,
insects,
broken
instruments;
and
that
makes
for
a
compelling
case
for
contextualising
the
work
as
a
sound
art
project.
But
I
have
no
control
as
to
how
the
listener
may
listen
to
it
and
on
what
it
will
be
listened
on.
So
my
emphasis
must
be
on
the
records
themselves.
It
is
about
objects
that
are
related
to
sound:
the
records.
If
I
located
the
project
purely
in
sound-‐art
there
would
remain
the
nagging
idea
that
it
is
too
wide
reaching
to
be
focused
simply
in
this
arena.
These
are
records
that
encompass
the
multiple
media
and
layers
I
have
spoken
about.
And
12”
vinyl
LPs
are
rarely
just
about
the
sounds
that
they
contain
(whilst
the
sound
has
its
ardent
fans),
which
has
probably
helped
them
survive
–
they
are
intended
as
a
‘conceptual
package’
perhaps
akin
to
the
‘concept
album’
of
the
1970s.
4.
Is
music
the
dominant
field?
Artists’
records
are
still
sold
in
record
shops,
usually
under
‘experimental’
or
‘other’
sections
of
the
store.
These
records,
as
I’ve
previously
hinted,
are
like
fragments
of
films;
all
made
to
‘prime’
the
sonic
contents
and
also
to
work
with
each
other
as
a
unified
package.
But
what
of
these
sonic
contents?
And
what
of
the
music
on
the
records?
110
Aesthetically,
the
sonic
work
is
more
soundscape-‐like
than
a
set
of
isolated
musical
tracks,
resembling
more
the
‘radio-‐ballad’
(expanded
in
the
next
section)-‐
a
documentary
format
created
by
Ewan
MacColl,
Peggy
Seeger,
and
Charles
Parker
in
1958.
Perhaps
its
no
surprise
that
because
of
my
documentary
background
that
this
element
in
my
training
bleeds
over
into
this
project.
Music
on
the
records
blends
with
environmental
recordings
of
neighbourhoods,
nature,
spoken
word,
and
unspecific
tones.
In
the
project,
across
the
three
records,
music
is
at
least
an
equal
bedfellow
with
field-‐recordings
and
the
noises
listed
above,
alongside
photography
and
graphic
design.
So
let
us
leave
music,
but
stay
within
the
grooves
and
look
at
soundscapes
–
specifically
one
example
that
may
be
termed
‘radio-‐art’.
5.
Is
radio-‐art
the
dominant
field?
The
work
isn’t
on
the
radio
as
such,
but
the
sound
component
was
made
with
an
ear
for
potential
radio
broadcast,
so
it’s
worth
looking
a
little
more
at
the
‘radio-‐
ballads’
that
have
been
influential
to
this
project
and
to
documentary
radio
as
an
entity.
They
effectively
changed
how
British
radio
approached
the
long-‐form
radio
documentary.
The
BBC’s
Radio
Ballad
project
outlines
the
first
radio
ballad
commissioned
by
the
institution:
111
[In
1957],
folksinger
and
activist
Ewan
MacColl
[was
asked
to]
write
the
script
for
a
radio
feature
about
the
steam-‐locomotive
driver
John
Axon,
whose
act
of
railway
heroism
earlier
that
year
had
cost
him
his
life
and
earned
him
the
posthumous
award
of
the
George
Cross.
Returning
from
the
field
with
over
forty
hours
of
recorded
material
from
Axon's
widow
and
workmates
about
his
life
and
death,
MacColl
saw
the
strength
of
the
material
and
persuaded
[The
BBC]
to
use
the
real
voices
rather
than
actors,
an
unheard-‐of
practice
at
the
time.
Then
-‐
and
this
is
what
really
sets
the
Ballads
apart
-‐
MacColl
wrote
songs
inspired
by
the
stories,
with
music
directed
by
Peggy
Seeger
performed
by
orchestral
and
folk
musicians.
A
new,
hybrid
format
emerged,
in
which
the
original
voices,
carefully
edited
and
interwoven
with
the
music,
could
tell
the
story
without
the
need
for
actors
or
additional
script.
(bbc.co.uk
n.d.30)
To
a
degree,
a
form
with
such
hybridity
is
very
similar
to
how
I
have
made
these
three
records,
except
I
am
carrying
out
all
the
jobs
of
composing,
researching,
art
directing
and
so
on.
My
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
(LP1
–
Dooks/Zuyderveldt,
2011)
contained
a
specially
recorded
five-‐minute
‘radio’
documentary
commemorating
an
eccentric
Tuba-‐playing
Texan
who
bought
harmoniums
and
likely
brought
them
to
Scotland,
had
died,
and
his
daughter
recounts
his
life.
So
one
might
argue
that
the
project
includes
forms
of
radio
art,
like
the
Axon
example
above,
because
it
combines
narration,
field
recordings
and
music
together,
and
it
is
within
progressive
radio
documentary
that
we
find
the
nearest
form
that
combines
these
aggregates.
30
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/radioballads/original/orig_history.shtml
112
A
contemporary
example
could
be
the
kinds
of
works
that
are
often
made
for
BBC
Radio
3’s
“Between
the
Ears”
programme
(BBC,
1993-‐2014).
But
two
factors
negate
this.
Crucially
–
the
works
have
not
been
broadcast,
although
the
definition
of
what
defines
‘the
airwaves’
is
becoming
complex,
with
FM,
DAB,
4G
and
WIFI
all
enabling
a
transmission
of
some
kind
with
a
transmitter
and
receiver
being
employed.
The
second
reason
this
is
not
radio
art
is
that
radio
art
requires
little
need
for
packaging
and
this
research
project
could
have
taken
the
form
of
three
sound
files.
Moreover,
the
issue
of
why
make
three
expensive
coloured
vinyl
records
comes
up.
There
is
a
strong
emphasis
on
pictures
and
design
concepts.
This
rarely
happens
in
radio,
where
most
of
the
time,
the
listener
is
asked
to
make
their
own
pictures
up
from
the
sounds,
whereas
in
this
project,
on
the
sleeves,
images
are
displayed
giving
a
sense
of
direction
on
how
to
experience
the
contents.
So
we
perhaps
we
may
need
to
shelve
the
radio
art
tag
for
now.
6.
Therefore,
the
analogue
record
as
an
art
is
the
dominant
field
Given
the
logic
of
negating
sound-‐art,
music
and
radio
art
as
the
dominant
vehicle
or
format
of
the
project,
the
principal
sonic
context
that
this
project
can
be
contained
best
under
is
‘the
analogue
record’
and
‘the
analogue
record
as
art’.
The
12”
vinyl
record
is
a
unique
and
well-‐trodden
artform
currently
enjoying
a
resurgence.
It
is
a
phonographic
artform.
The
term
‘phonography’
neatly
describes
the
cultural
location
of
this
project,
being
used
to
describe
practitioners
where
the
phonograph,
record
or
113
record
player
is
crucial
to
their
practice,
-‐
but
the
word
is
also
used
in
other
critical
lineages31.
Douglas
Kahn’s
essay
Audio
Art
in
The
Deaf
Century
lays
out
the
terrain
for
the
term:
…the
phonographic
arts
are
retarded
because
there
hasn’t
been
a
phonographic
art.
This
is
not
necessarily
an
undesirable
state.
Just
the
opposite.
It
signals
an
expanse
of
artistic
opportunity
where
other
arts
battle
exhaustion.
Elsewhere
there
may
be
talk
of
an
endgame.
Here,
it
is
a
season
opener.
(Lander
and
Lexier
2013,
p.302)
However
in
the
context
of
this
project,
the
word
‘phonography’
is
a
logical,
straightforward
and
apt
word
to
describe
the
actual
artform
and
practice
of
the
phonograph
or
record
turntable
–
or
simply
the
vinyl
record.
Not
to
be
confused
with
phonology
(a
branch
of
linguistics
concerned
with
the
systematic
organization
of
sounds
in
languages),
phonography
used
here
is
referring
to
the
analogue
record
as
an
artform.
Audio-‐wise,
Phonography
has
also
been
used
to
describe
the
study
of
(in
many
cases)
another
acoustic
phenomenon
-‐
that
of
field
recording.
In
recent
times
the
word
phonography
has
also
been
used
in
relation
to
the
increasing
re-‐emergence
and
critical
enquiry
of
vinyl
record
art,
and/or
rather,
in
the
vinyl
record
as
art.
31
http://www.merriam-‐webster.com/dictionary/phonography
alternative
meanings
-‐
‘spelling
based
on
pronunciation’
and
‘a
system
of
shorthand
writing
based
on
sound’.
It
also
may
refer
to
the
study
of
field
recording,
which
may
have
originally
been
completed
with
a
portable
phonograph
such
as
used
by
Pierre
Schaeffer
–
see
http://homepage.smc.edu/tobey_christine/varese/schaef.html
also
in
the
next
section
we
will
look
at
how
Evan
Eisenberg
most
significantly
re-‐introduced
this
word
in
the
mid
1980s
referring
to
the
practice
of
recording
vinyl
records.
114
6b.
The
Recording
Angel
A
key
text,
or
even
the
key
‘phonographic’
text
is
The
Recording
Angel
by
Evan
Eisenberg
(1987
/
200532).
The
Eisenberg
text
is
so
important
in
this
field
because
it
orientates
itself
around
the
word
‘record’
with
both
inclusive
and
esoteric
reference
points.
Instead
of
taking
a
purely
technological
or
historical
stance
with
the
recorded
medium
by
and
large,
this
is
a
book
that
meditates
expansively
on
[primarily
vinyl]
records
as
a
serious
artform.
The
tagline
of
the
first
edition
includes
the
term
as
‘Explorations
in
Phonography’,
which
was
dropped
for
the
tagline
of
the
second
edition
to:
‘Music,
Records
and
Culture
from
Aristotle
to
Zappa’.
But
Eisenberg’s
text
never
loses
sight
of
the
object
itself,
the
record
-‐
in
either
a
conceptual
nor
practical
object-‐orientated
sense.
Other
books
on
vinyl
records
tend
to
be
either
about
record
collecting
or
have
evolved
from
further
niches
plucked
from
a
given
zeitgeist
such
as
turntablism,
hip-‐hop
niches
–
or
exhibitions
about
record
sleeves
and
using
records
in
installations.
Eisenberg
is
a
vinyl
record
philosopher.
Throughout
the
20th
Century,
like
vinyl,
16mm
or
35mm
film
was,
more
or
less
an
example
of
the
last
great
universal
format.
A
12”
LP
bought
in
Delhi
in
1967
would
play
on
all
the
most
expensive
boutique
‘audiophile’
players
today.
I
own
records
that
are
over
one
hundred
years
old
and
play
them
with
a
dedicated
needle
in
my
studio
on
the
same
turntable
I
play
the
records
made
for
this
project.
Outside
of
the
printed
word,
it’s
hard
to
argue
for
a
longer-‐lasting
cultural
form
reliant
on
a
technology.
Record
players
predate
our
more
recent
‘format
wars’
-‐
our
current
divergence
of
digital
formats.
There
are
a
bewildering
array
of
audio
and
video
digital
formats
and
32
Second
edition
with
an
afterward
on
digital
media
was
published
by
Yale
University
Press
2005
–
I
cite
both
texts
due
to
the
second
edition
feeling
markedly
different
to
the
first
–
updated
as
it
is
with
a
chapter
on
digital
media.
115
devices,
connectors
and
protocols;
wired
or
wireless
playback
used
to
program,
personalise
and
order
our
media
‘experience’
(which
I
shall
not
list
exhaustively
here).
Instead,
The
Recording
Angel
can
be
seen
as
a
‘call
of
the
arcane’
and
it’s
not
necessarily
a
nostalgic
one.
Eisenberg
is
a
well-‐read
surveyor.
He
reminds
us
that
a
record
is
a
simple
and
pure
a
format
as
it
gets.
It
is
a
circle.
On
the
turntable,
it
revolves
like
a
simple
orrery.33
It
stands
alone
somewhat
and
paradoxically
becomes
modern
by
us
rediscovering
it
(and
the
book
being
given
a
second
wind
via
vinyl’s
newest
wave,
forced
Eisenberg
to
at
least
revise
it
in
2005
with
a
few
hundred
words
on
mp3
files).
In
the
following
section
I
comment
on
a
particular
chapter
in
Eisenberg’s
The
Recording
Angel
as
to
why
one
might
collect
vinyl
records.
I
do
this
because
I
think
the
same
issues
are
relevant
for
the
artists
who
now
make
collector’s
editions
of
vinyl,
such
as
myself
in
this
research
project.
In
both
instances,
the
collector
and
creator
of
vinyl
records
could
also
be
called
a
‘phonographer’.
Eisenberg
begins
his
book
with
a
chapter
on
a
man
who
has
social
and
health
problems
whose
house
(which
is
falling
apart)
on
every
floor
is
crammed
with,
in
the
main,
78rpm
records
(p1-‐8).
There
are
tens
of
thousands
of
them
stacked,
shoved
and
littered
everywhere.
The
collector’s
name
is
Clarence.
Affected
by
his
visit
to
Clarence,
in
the
following
piece,
Eisenberg
reflects
on
five
ideas
on
why
we
collect
cultural
objects,
often
to
extreme
lengths:
33
Mechanical
model
of
the
solar
system
showing
the
planets
relative
distance
from
the
sun,
often
clockwork.
116
The
collecting
of
cultural
objects
can
satisfy
any
number
of
needs,
among
which
snobbery
may
not
be
the
most
important.
Here
is
a
tentative
list.
i)
The
need
to
make
beauty
and
pleasure
permanent.
As
beautiful
sights
and
sounds
go
by
one
tries
to
grab
them
rather
than
trust
[that]
others
as
beautiful,
to
come
around
again.
This
indicates
a
mistrust
of
the
world,
a
mistrust
that
goes
back
to
the
Greeks
(at
least)
and
helps
explain
why
they
made
and
preserved
so
much
art…
…The
paradox
was
seen
most
clearly
by
Blake:
“He
who
binds
to
himself
to
a
joy,
Does
the
winged
life
destroy;
But
he
who
kisses
the
joy
as
it
flies,
Lives
in
eternity’s
sun
rise.”
(Eisenberg
2005,
p.14)
So
there
are
two
themes
here.
One
is
‘mistrust’
of
the
world,
that
beauty
is
incredibly
rare
and
will
not
be
seen
ever
again.
I
have
sometimes
tried
to
snare
this
beauty
in
my
record
collecting
and
making.
We
see
this
all
the
time
in
popular
media
with
endless
checklists
such
as
“The
Ten
Records
You
Have
to
Own”
as
if
ten
more
records
as
beautiful
will
never
be
made
in
the
future.
But
secondly,
and
paradoxically,
there
is
a
constant
debate
around
the
idea
of
permanence
and
the
lack
of
it,
at
the
heart
of
many
record
collectors
and
artists
who
117
make
the
objects
themselves.
Given
that
nothing
is
truly
permanent
anyway,
we
are,
at
best
talking
about
the
right
sort
of
container
as
a
temporary
vessel
for
ideas.
To
some
extent
LPs
are
more
vulnerable
than
CDs
or
hard
drives
containing
mp3
files,
but
they
take
up
more
space
on
the
earth
and
are
by
their
sheer
size
and
fragility
alone,
examples
of,
at
best,
snapshots
of
creative
and
aesthetic
enquiry.
Eisenberg
continues…
ii)
The
need
to
comprehend
beauty
Beauty
has
its
intellectual
side,
which
is
the
more
beautiful
the
better
it’s
understood.
When
the
mind
exercises
its
prehensility,
it
is
natural
for
the
fingers
to
take
part,
if
only
to
keep
the
object
in
striking
distance
of
the
mind.
Certainly
owning
a
book
or
record
permits
one
to
study
the
work
repeatedly
and
at
one’s
convenience.
The
danger
lies
in
mistaking
ownership
for
mastery.
(ibid,
p.14)
Obviously
this
is
a
very
subjective
point
of
view.
But
this
quote
almost
predicts
and
permits
a
praxis:
“Beauty
has
its
intellectual
side”,
as
if
the
senses
can
be
the
gateway
for
enquiry.
Earlier
I
stated
that
records
and
filmmaking
can
be
aesthetically
driven,
intellectually
driven,
neither
or
both.
Here
though,
Eisenberg
is
warning
that
without
proper
care
and
curiosity,
one
will
not
benefit
from
the
objects
and
he
infers
one
would
be
a
kind
of
empty
person
that
buys
records
for
all
the
wrong
reasons:
118
“The
danger
lies
in
mistaking
ownership
for
mastery.”
Most
music
fans
do
not
suddenly
wake
up
and
decide
that
they
need
to
buy
a
record
that
particular
day.
Moreover,
all
the
records
I
have
made
for
this
research
project
are
for
sale,
so
there
is
a
commercial
aspect
to
the
work,
and
seducing
an
audience
through
appropriate
packaging
touches
slightly
on
a
marketing
strategy.
Of
the
Idioholism
Trilogy,
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium,
which
is
sold
through
a
Canadian
record
label,
was
released
internationally
in
an
edition
of
500,
and
LP2
and
LP3
are
also
produced
in
runs
of
500,
taking
up
half
a
room
in
my
house.
Eisenberg
comments
on
this
obtuse
need
below.
iii)
The
need
to
distinguish
oneself
as
a
consumer
In
capitalism
there
are
first
heroes
of
production
and
then
(as
Riesman
has
shown)
heroes
of
consumption.
These
are
people
who
spend
on
a
heroic
scale,
perhaps,
or
with
heroic
discrimination.
(ibid,
p.15)
It
is
this
‘heroic
discrimination’
that
Eisenberg
also
flags
when
talking
about
Clarence.
I
have
fallen
prey
to
some
of
these
tendencies
also
by
purchasing
a
record
that
cost
nearly
£100
to
obtain,
something
I
am
unlikely
to
do
again
for
an
awfully
long
time.
Eisenberg
sees
this
kind
of
behaviour,
as
anti-‐consumerist
perhaps
because
of
the
discipline
-‐
and
not
ease
-‐
in
which
one
isolates,
pursues
and
finally
owns
such
objects
in
this
highly
discriminatory
manner.
119
The
true
hero
of
consumption
is
a
rebel
against
consumption.
By
taking
acquisition
to
an
ascetic
extreme
he
repudiates
it,
and
so
transplants
himself
to
an
older
and
nobler
world…
(ibid
p.15)
How
may
one
interpret
this
poetic
description
of
the
vinyl
purist?
Of
those
record
collectors
who
are
not
just
investing
in
records
for
financial
worth?
Although
Eisenberg
here
is
placing
the
vinyl
collector
on
a
pedestal
with
a
sense
of
‘religiosity’,
he
then
places
the
caveat
that
“the
prodigal
son
is
not
just
a
show-‐off”
before
a
sense
of
melancholy
descends,
describing
the
collector
as
wedded
to
a
kind
of
loneliness,
or
quest
for
empathy.
iv)
The
need
to
belong
Considered
as
a
feeling,
this
need
might
be
called
nostalgia.
When
one
feels
nostalgia
for
a
time
one
has
lived
in
or
wishes
one
had
lived
in,
cultural
objects
are
a
fairly
dignified
tonic.
What
is
really
a
wallowing
in
atavism
can
pass
for
the
appreciation
of
timeless
beauty…
(ibid,
p.15)
Here,
in
my
view,
‘phonography’
and
the
large
resurgence
in
record
buying
has
been
a
call
for
both
a
‘sense
of
communion’
among
certain
audiences,
and
also
a
quiet
form
of
people
power
on
some
level
coming
from
a
feeling
of
disempowerment
of
a
world
that
continues
to
alienate.
Vinyl
record
buying
is
seen
as
anti-‐corporation
and
more
bespoke,
even
perhaps
‘local.’
Records
are
expensive
to
post,
and
so
perhaps
120
force
more
emphasis
on
locality,
as
are
pilgrimages
to
cities
based
on
their
record
shops.
Moreover,
because
record
players
are
what
would
be
termed
‘backwards
compatible’
(i.e.
they
play
old
records
which
can
be
bought
from
charity
shops
as
well
as
the
latest
vinyl)
–
this
format
could
act
as
a
kind
of
social
ouijaboard,
helping
to
historically
orientate
both
young
and
old
alike
in
our
world
with
its
bewildering
and
fast
moving
modernity.
A
fifteen-‐year-‐old
girl
may
now
raid
her
grandfather’s
LPs
and
hear
them,
more
or
less
as
he
did.
That
it
may
skip
a
generation
is
interesting.
Earlier
I
cited
Josh
Bizar,
owner
of
pressing
plants
in
the
US,
talking
about
a
teenager
who
does
not
want
to
consume
music
like
her
father,
who
may
listen
to
CDs
and
mp3s
on
his
iPhone.
That
the
father
might
not
‘get’
the
‘record
thing’
but
the
grandfather
might
could
trigger
interesting
family
conversations
where
mementos
of
the
past
can
form
bridges
with
a
family’s
newest
generation.
In
terms
of
Clarence’s
story,
the
lack
of
any
noticeable
family
in
the
house
forces
us
to
look
at
this
phenomena
as
the
beginning
of
an
attachment
that
Eisenberg
warns
is
an
addictive
one
(and
a
more
alienating
force).
…The
cultural
objects,
whatever
their
nature,
are
mementos
that
somehow
remain
unhumanised
by
the
force
of
a
genuinely
fetishistic
attachment…
…When
relating
to
the
group
becomes
too
difficult
-‐
because
its
standards
are
unjust,
because
it
is
unfaithful,
or
because
it
cannot
be
found
-‐
fetishism
is
the
sensible
alternative.
121
This
is
where
Clarence
seems
to
have
arrived,
by
a
fairly
circuitous
route…
(Eisenberg,
2005,
p.16)
Ultimately,
with
Clarence,
instead
as
records
for
family
use,
he
sees
records
as
family.
In
the
fifth
subheading
about
the
needs
of
collecting
(and
perhaps
aligning
oneself
with)
vinyl
records,
there
is
the
following
aspect
of
collecting
which
is
concerned
with
belonging
to
a
kind
of
in-‐crowd,
even
an
elite
–
and
questioning
why
one
would
do
this:
v)
The
need
to
impress
others,
or
oneself
This
can
be
simple
philistine
snobbery
or
something
subtler...
(ibid,
p.16)
Eisenberg
seems
to
validate
the
sensory
aspects
of
collecting
cultural
objects
without
knowing
everything
about
them,
perhaps
warning
that
there
can
be
a
kind
of
gluttony
here,
of
simply
buying
records
blindly.
…Hillel
the
Elder
warned
against
using
scripture
as
a
worldly
crown.
I
think
this
was
directed
not
only
at
show-‐offs,
but
also
at
all
intellectuals
who
like
to
feel
the
sweet
weight
of
culture
on
their
heads.
The
Aramaic
word
for
crown,
taga,
also
describes
the
calligraphic
filigree
with
which
scribes
adorn
certain
letters
in
a
biblical
scroll.
How
many
book
collectors
really
go
for
the
words
and
ideas
and
not
rather
the
typeface,
the
odour
of
fresh
ink
or
ageing
paper,
the
satisfying
shape
of
a
name
-‐
122
‘Hillel
the
Elder’,
for
example?
The
point
is
that
one
can
have
a
sincere
love
of
culture
without
having
any
interest
in
it.
That
kind
of
love
is
almost
as
well
satisfied
by
owning
records
as
by
listening
to
them
(ibid
pp.16-‐17)
In
this
section,
we
have
flagged,
via
Eisenberg,
some
of
the
social
arguments
about
the
value(s)
of
record
collecting.
This
is
part
of
the
culture
of
‘phonography’
-‐
where
this
project
is
partly
located.
Whoever
makes
vinyl
records,
especially
those
of
sound-‐art
and
specialist
music,
(which
are
released
in
editions
of
typically
100,
300
or
500)
–
the
makers
can
also
be
the
audience
and
consumers
of
similar
products.
Up
to
half
of
the
consumers
in
my
sales
have
also
been
producers
of
similar
work.
They
form
dialogues
between
small
enclaves
of
artists.
This
is
not
dissimilar
to
a
PhD
being
read,
or
experienced,
by
other
academics
–
in
small,
relatively
specialised
clusters:
perhaps
cited
a
few
dozen
times,
and
then
stored
for
future
reference.
The
phonographic
artist’
who
is
also
trying
to
sell
their
records
needs
the
respect
of
their
peers,
yet
at
the
same
time
they
may
desire
to
evangelise
their
‘insights’
to
new
audiences
or
customers.
Personal
communication,
email
and
dialogues
with
individual
buyers
are
part
of
making
and
selling
such
niche
media.
Therefore
the
link
between
maker
and
listener
in
boutique-‐style
recorded
media
such
as
the
12”
LP,
can
often
be
experienced
as
a
reciprocal
and
intimate
relationship.
All
of
this
suggests
that
we
can
now,
reasonably
comfortably,
locate
the
project
in
phonography
and
make
a
case
for
a
vinyl
trilogy
as
a
relevant
and
practical
format
for
the
exhausted
artist.
But
the
truth
is,
alongside
Phonography
my
work
is
located
in
123
probably
all
of
the
contexts
above
in
and
in
a
smaller
niche
we
may
term
them
‘fragmented
films’.
Before
we
leave
Eisenberg,
I’d
like
to
acknowledge
that
since
The
Recording
Angel
was
initially
published
in
the
mid-‐eighties
there
has
been
a
strong
tide
of
texts
published
about
sound
arts
in
the
wider
sense
–
of
which
post-‐vinyl
culture
may
be
considered
a
part
.
One
text
which
explores
that
culture
of
what
defines
a
record
in
the
near-‐present
sense
of
the
word
is
Greg
Milner’s
Perfecting
Sound
Forever
(Milner,
2009)
–
the
nearest
I
have
come
to
a
modern
‘sequel’
of
Eisenberg’s
philosophical
and
meditative
text.
However,
in
the
main,
texts
specifically
on
vinyl
cultures
tend
to
be
focused
on
collecting
records
or
the
fetishisation
of
vinyl
–
or,
are
individual
essays
and
interviews
in
journals
or
magazines.
Further
still,
they
are
frequently
multimedia
artefacts
such
as
the
documentary
Vinylmania.
As
a
result,
The
Recording
Angel
is
still
seen
by
many
as
a
key,
if
not
the
key
text
of
the
‘phonographic
arts’
–
in
the
footnote
I
also
acknowledge
the
debt
this
project
owes
to
contemporary
texts
about
field
recording,
which
is
best
explored
in
the
sleevenotes
section.
In
this
chapter,
I’ve
chosen
to
emphasise
the
vinyl
record
over
the
process
of
field
recording,
which
is
explored
in
the
sleevenotes.
One
could
argue
field
recording
is
a
key
component
of
this
project
so
it
is
worthwhile
to
similarly
acknowledge
the
recent
work
by
CRiSAP
(Creative
Research
into
Sound
Arts
Practice)
which
is
part
of
the
collection
of
institutions
working
together
as
the
University
of
The
Arts
London.
One
text
in
particular
which
orientates
itself
around
field
recording
was
associated
with
a
CRiSAP
symposium
at
The
British
Library
is
In
The
Field
(Lane
and
Carlyle,
2013);
it
is
an
ambitious
anthology
and
survey
of
the
current
field
of
field
recording:
124
Field
recordings
are
composed
with,
performed
in
concert
venues,
installed
in
galleries,
released
as
CDs,
worked
into
an
audio-‐visual
matrix
with
film
and
other
media
and
made
available
in
sound
maps
and
other
online
forms
of
distribution.
(Lane/Carlyle,
In
The
Field,
p.11,
2013)
The
text
is
comprised
chiefly
of
an
expansive
series
of
interviews
which
builds
on
a
sister
publication
by
CRiSAP
Autumn
Leaves:
Sound
and
Environment
in
Artistic
Practice
(ed:
Angus
Carlyle,
2007)
where
a
wider
context
of
sonic
art
practice
sits.
Given
that
this
project
places
sound
in
a
multi-‐or
inter-‐disciplinary
practice
in
something
I
have
termed
‘the
fragmented
film’
I
felt
it
useful
to
weight
further
enquiry
on
this
‘intertextuality’
where
music
and
sound
is
becoming
an
increasingly
equal
bedfellow
with
new
media
artists
who
may
have
once
described
themselves
(as
I
did)
being
part
of
filmmaking.
7.
Audio,
music
and
interdisciplinary
artists
Perhaps
we
should
not
be
too
concerned
with
the
perceived
difference
between
visual
artists,
sound
artists,
musicians
and
those
who
describe
themselves
as
working
as
working
in
new
media,
or
defining
themselves
as
'intertextual'
artists,
'cross-‐disciplinary'
artists,
'interdisciplinary'
artists
and
so
on.
Certainly
what
matters
to
me
before
I
attend
any
cultural
event
is
the
project
itself,
not
just
the
contextual
positioning
of
it.
It
is
no
longer
a
novelty
to
learn
that
a
visual
artist
is
making
a
record.
For
example,
in
2013,
artist
Dinos
Chapman
quietly
released
an
electronica
album
125
Luftbobler
to
a
fair
amount
of
acclaim,
but
not
open-‐jawed
shock
that
a
prominent
visual
artist
had
made
a
record.
In
David
Ryan's
essay,
'We
have
Eyes
as
well
as
Ears...
Experimental
Music
and
the
Visual
Arts',
which
appears
in
the
Ashgate
Research
Companion
to
Experimental
Music
(p193,
2009),
the
author
flags
the
breadth
of
both
recent
volleys
between
cultural
forms
and
artists,
alongside
a
suggested
origin
of
such
cross-‐pollinated
practices.
Martin
Creed
conducting
an
'orchestra'
playing
one
note;
Hayley
Newman
staging
a
choir
that
smokes
cigarettes;
and
Anri
Sala,
so
captivated
by
the
detuned
clash
of
two
contrasting
musical
pieces
on
a
radio,
that
he
recreates
it
as
a
video
performance
in
a
gallery.
Each
of
these
pieces
by
contemporary
artists
not
only
reference
sound
as
their
basic
material,
but
also
question
the
social
context,
collective
activity,
and
assumptions
that
surround
the
performance
of
those
sounds…
(Ryan,
2009
in
Saunders,
2009
(ed.)
p.193)
Anri
Sala's
piece34
cited
in
the
previous
quote
might
have
some
connection
with
the
first
track
on
my
final
LP
for
this
project
CIGA{R}LES,
where
I
place
myself
between
two
competing
pipe-‐bands
who
carve
'authorship'
on
the
soundclash
between
them.
Certainly,
chance,
serendipity,
appropriation
and
authorship
would
be
key
themes
of
Sala's
piece,
which
I
wasn't
aware
of
when
I
made
mine.
The
piece
of
Sala's
that
Ryan
34
Whilst
being
unaware
of
this
piece
when
making
my
own
records
(being
involved
in
a
near-‐hermit-‐like
sense
of
isolation
for
several
years
with
them)
I
am
influenced
by
Steve
Reich’s
‘phase
patterns’
series
of
works
where
two
sound
sources
falling
in
and
out
of
synch
is
gripping
enough
to
be
interesting
and
wide
enough
a
phenomena
to
pursue
original
works
in.
126
cites
is
Spurious
Emission,
where
radio
signals
that
overlapped
on
a
car
journey
became
his
source
of
re-‐creating
the
soundclash
with
live
performers.
This
level
of
recreation
might
be
off
the
radar
for
the
exhausted
artist,
but
it
is
a
good
example
of
noticing
something
accidental,
of
being
free
as
to
what
media
it
would
require,
and
sometimes
changing
the
context
of
how
it
is
performed.
Ryan
rightly
suggests
this
interplay
is
nothing
particularly
new,
and
moreover
the
artists
that
originated
and
pioneered
these
sort
of
techniques
are
being
championed
again,
as
the
wider
cultural
audience
slowly
catches
up:
Many
practitioners
of
the
1960s
and
1970s,
directly
affected
by
the
first
generation
of
experimental
composers,
are
still
active.
Increased
traffic
has
occurred
between
disciplines:
Max
Neuhaus
migrated
in
the
late
1960s
from
virtuoso
percussionist
to
installation
artist,
while
Phill
Niblock,
on
the
other
hand,
began
his
career
as
a
filmmaker
and
began
developing
music
by
composing
from
taped
sounds,
in
a
manner
similar
to
re-‐editing
visual
material.
Often
Niblock’s
drone
pieces
are
simultaneously
accompanied
by
his
films
of
people
engaged
in
manual
work
from
footage
shot
across
the
world,
each
in
their
own
way
hypnotic.
(ibid,
p.212)
Ryan's
point
is
that
the
recent
taste
for
interdisciplinary
art/music
practice
is
in
fact
recent
heritage.
Whether
or
not
Dinos
Chapman
continues
to
make
electronic
music
for
the
rest
of
his
career
or
not,
some
artists
continue
to
remain
multi-‐
disciplinary
as
they
progress
through
their
lives:
127
Other
artists
have
maintained
multi-‐disciplinary
approaches
to
their
work,
such
as
Charlemagne
Palestine
who
from
the
early
1970s
on
has
straddled
installation,
video,
performance
and
music
in
his
activities.
Trained
as
a
Cantor
in
New
York,
Palestine,
whose
works
make
use
of
either
the
voice
or
extended
interference
patterns
on
the
piano,
sees
his
work
as
an
extension
of
the
expressive
depth
of
Rothko’s
or
Newman’s
paintings.
Atmosphere
certainly
prevails
in
his
ritualistic
approach,
with
low
coloured
lighting
or
ambience,
and
often
with
the
appearance
of
fetishized
stuffed
toys
embodying
transitional
objects
in
his
performances.
(ibid,
p.216)
128
8.
The
re-‐rise,
risks
and
rewards
of
vinyl
records
Vinyl
is
growing
out
of
its
niche.
There
were
always
record
collectors
who
disdained
the
compact
disc,
arguing
that
an
LP’s
grooves
yielded
warmth
and
depth
that
the
CD’s
digital
code
could
not
match.
But
the
market
largely
ignored
them.
(Koznin,
2013,
n.p.)
I
am
in
my
small
office-‐studio
surrounded
by
crates
of
12”
LP
records.
There
are
picture
discs,
coloured
vinyl,
audiophile
180gram
collectors
editions,
pull
out
posters,
download
codes
or
CD
versions
gifted
with
current
vinyl.
Near
to
this
are
rows
of
specialist
music
journals
and
many
copies
of
The
Wire,
arguably
the
world’s
most
influential
‘niche
music’
publication.
But
as
the
Koznin
continues
to
flag,
this
vinyl
niche
isn’t
quite
so
niche
presently:
These
days,
every
major
label
and
many
smaller
ones
are
releasing
vinyl,
and
most
major
new
releases
have
a
vinyl
version,
leading
to
a
spate
of
new
pressing
plants.
When
the
French
electronica
duo
Daft
Punk
released
“Random
Access
Memories”
in
mid-‐May,
6
per
cent
of
its
first-‐week
sales
—
19,000
out
of
339,000
—
were
on
vinyl,
according
to
Nielsen
SoundScan,
which
measures
music
sales.
(ibid.
n.p.)
It’s
clear
from
placing
a
doctorate
in
this
area
that
I
am
a
vinyl
record
enthusiast
as
a
producer
–
but
perhaps
less
apparent
that
I
am
also
as
a
collector.
As
129
well
as
occasionally
falling
prey
to
greedily
obtaining
new
vinyl
like
the
example
above,
I
have
a
strong
record
(no
pun
intended)
of
‘rescuing’
vinyl
LPs
from
rubbish
bins,
or
records
that
are
every
collector’s
dream
–
true
charity
shop
trophies,
where
a
treasured
edition
can
be
scooped
as
a
bargain
for
a
small
donation.
This
is
the
practice
of
crate
digging.
Then
there’s
my
‘78
collection
primarily
sourced
from
eBay,
where
I
collect
records
about
morse
code,
theatre
sound
effects
(my
personal
highlight
is
‘band
tuning
up’)
and
spoken
word
pieces,
such
as
an
aural
survey
of
London
Zoo.
Ebay
is
the
biggest
crate
of
all.
There,
I
collect
‘private
press’
records,
one-‐off
novelty
recordings
that
were
recorded
in
booths
in
the
United
States
(but
also
here
in
the
UK)
where
a
few
decades
ago,
for
a
small
fee
you
could
record
two
minutes
of
personal
audio
on
a
one-‐off
piece
of
vinyl.
These
booths
did
good
business
in
show-‐grounds
of
the
1950s
and
1960s
but
by
the
1980s
when
tapes
and
the
CD
had
dominated,
even
large
scale
pressing
plants
struggled
to
cope
with
the
rise
of
the
CD…
Record
labels
shuttered
their
LP
pressing
plants,
except
for
a
few
that
pressed
mostly
dance
music,
since
vinyl
remained
the
medium
of
choice
for
DJs.
As
it
turned
out,
that
early
resistance
was
not
futile,
thanks
largely
to
an
audience
of
record
collectors,
many
born
after
CDs
were
introduced
in
the
1980s.
(Koznin,
2013,
n.p.)
However,
this
vinyl
phenomenon
doesn’t
stop
the
emergence
of
a
‘prophet
of
doom’
on
the
horizon:
a
recent
edition
of
The
Wire
had
this
to
say
about
the
current
resurgence
in
vinyl:
130
Vinyl’s
violent
sales
spike
has
been
a
lonely
bright
spot
in
what
has
been
a
14
year
deterioration
in
sales
of
recorded
music;
retailers
now
celebrate
their
very
own
Record
Store
Day
every
April.
And
record
stores
–
those
that
made
it
through
the
2000s
gauntlet
and
those
that,
by
the
sheer
force
of
a
newborn
paradigm,
have
sprung
forth
–
are
bursting
at
the
browser
bins
with
special
45s,
exclusive
10"s,
replica
LPs
and
multi-‐album
sets.
(Sevier
and
Shipley,
The
Wire
353,
2013,
p.16)
Perhaps
the
above
warning
that
the
bubble
may
burst
may
come
true
soon
(the
article
above
subsequently
warns
of
unsustainability
and
of
faddism).
Although
it
is
a
primarily
academic
enterprise,
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Series
is
still
for
sale,
there
is
a
slight
commercial
aspect
to
it.
Vinyl
records
are
very
expensive
to
produce.
It
is
unlikely
that
most
vinyl
records
do
more
than
break-‐even
financially
unless
they
are
from
very
successful
artists.
The
Wire
continues
to
warn
that
the
shape
of
this
sales
spike
is
unusual
in
the
current
understanding
of
the
music
industry
Goodwill
abounds,
but
among
the
racks,
crowded
with
product
and
punters,
there’s
more
than
a
whiff
of
irrational
exuberance.
This
fully
emerged
market,
though,
is
distinct
from
what’s
been
generally
termed
‘the
music
business’.
That
business
is,
and
has
been,
fundamentally
131
about
manufacturing
hits,
a
volume
game
with
cycles
of
busts
paid
for
by
booms
few
and
far
between.
(ibid,
p.16)
Earlier
I
flagged
my
reasons
for
wanting
to
pursue
phonography
as
a
home
for
the
‘fragmented
filmmaker’
and
I
also
explored
the
five
reasons
Evan
Eisenberg
cites
in
The
Recording
Angel
as
to
why
records
are
desirable.
Lets
look
briefly
at
his
reasons
again:
1.
The
need
to
make
beauty
and
pleasure
permanent
2.
The
need
to
comprehend
beauty
3.
The
need
to
distinguish
oneself
as
a
consumer
4.
The
need
to
belong
5.
The
need
to
impress
others,
or
oneself
I
never
fully
agreed
with
all
of
these
points
and
I
wanted
to
personalise
others.
Point
one
is
immediately
debatable,
as
playing
a
record
always
destroys
it
a
little
with
the
needle.
Of
course
that
doesn’t
negate
the
overriding
need
to
make
beauty
and
pleasure
permanent.
But
there
are
a
few
more
I
would
now
add,
with
a
bias
for
the
exhausted
artist
working
with
records
–
and
with
regard
to
this
project:
132
1.
The
need
for
an
‘holistic
approach’
in
presenting
music
or
to
present
a
version
of
making
a
soundtrack-‐heavy
‘film’
2.
The
need
to
perpetuate
a
universal
format
–
records
bought
today
can
play
on
players
made
seventy
five
years
ago.
Earlier
I
stressed
that
they
are
‘backwards
compatible’
and
despite
new
records
being
expensive,
there
is
an
exciting
element
of
recycling,
by
buying
second
hand
records.
3.
The
need
to
be
obtuse.
Records
are
way
less
‘convenient’
than
iPods
and
digital
media.
Choosing
to
work
with
vinyl
could
be
regarded
as
a
kind
of
protest
in
part,
at
the
digital
age
and
of
a
lack
of
control
if
one
isn’t
a
member
of
the
‘digiterati.’
And
most
importantly
from
the
perspective
of
the
Exhausted
Artist
or
the
Fragmented
Filmmaker…
4.
…the
need
to
self-‐medicate
through
the
phonographic
arts…
133
Chapter
6
A
survey
of
holism
as
a
basis
for
an
artist’s
intervention
Preface:
from
Aristotle’s
Metaphysics
1.
On
defining
holism
2.
CFS-‐ME
as
an
‘holistic’
illness
3.
The
birth
of
the
term
‘holism’
4.
Holism
and
the
encounter
between
western
health
and
complementary
health
5.
Criticising
holism
within
the
complementary
health
encounter
6.
John
Clark’s
Social
Ecology
and
investigation
of
holism
7a.
Gideon
Kossoff’s
‘Radical
Holism’
7b.
Gideon
Kossoff
-‐
interview
responses,
early
2012
8.
Tarnass
and
The
Passion
of
The
Western
Mind
9.
Making
the
world
strange
10.
The
radical
cosmologies
of
artists
11.
The
new
testaments
of
artists?
Concluding
thoughts
134
To
return
to
the
difficulty
which
has
been
stated
with
respect
both
to
definitions
and
to
numbers,
what
is
the
cause
of
their
unity?
In
the
case
of
all
things
which
have
several
parts
and
in
which
the
totality
is
not,
as
it
were,
a
mere
heap,
but
the
whole
is
something
beside
the
parts,
there
is
a
cause;
for
even
in
bodies
contact
is
the
cause
of
unity
in
some
cases,
and
in
others
viscosity
or
some
other
such
quality.
And
a
definition
is
a
set
of
words
which
is
one
not
by
being
connected
together,
like
the
Iliad,
but
by
dealing
with
one
object.
What
then,
is
it
that
makes
man
one;
why
is
he
one
and
not
many,
e.g.
animal
+
biped,
especially
if
there
are,
as
some
say,
an
animal-‐itself
and
a
biped-‐itself?
Why
are
not
those
Forms
themselves
the
man,
so
that
men
would
exist
by
participation
not
in
man,
nor
in-‐one
Form,
but
in
two,
animal
and
biped,
and
in
general
man
would
be
not
one
but
more
than
one
thing,
animal
and
biped?
Aristotle’s
Metaphysics,
Book
VIII
Pt.
6
(Translation:
Ross,
2014)
135
1.
On
defining
holism
Today,
we
hear
much
about
living
‘a
holistic
life’.
This
project
includes
holism
in
the
title,
but
what
is
holism?
The
Oxford
Dictionary
of
Philosophy
definition
Holism:
Any
doctrine
emphasising
the
priority
of
a
whole
over
its
parts.
In
the
philosophy
of
language,
this
becomes
the
claim
that
the
meaning
of
an
individual
word
or
sentence
can
only
be
understood
in
terms
of
its
relations
to
an
indefinitely
larger
body
of
language,
such
as
a
whole
theory,
or
even
a
whole
language
or
form
of
life.
In
the
philosophy
of
mind,
a
mental
state
similarly
may
be
identified
only
in
terms
of
its
relations
with
others.
Moderate
holism
may
allow
that
other
things
besides
these
relationships
also
count;
extreme
holism
would
hold
that
the
network
of
relationships
is
all
we
have.
A
holistic
view
of
science
holds
that
experience
only
confirms
large
bodies
of
doctrine,
impinging
at
the
edges,
and
leaving
some
leeway
over
the
adjustments
it
requires.
(Blackburn,
2008,
p170)
Definitions
of
holism
are
multifarious
and
context-‐derived.
To
contextualise
use
of
the
word
holism
in
this
study,
it
is
important
to
signify
the
school
of
thought
aligned
closest
to
the
so-‐called
‘holistic’
enterprise
undertaken.
Social
anthropologists,
philosophers,
and
both
mainstream
and
complementary
health
practitioners
are
some
of
the
professionals
that
regularly
employ
the
word
in
diverse
ways.
Because
this
project
involves
experimenting
with
the
term
holism
in
order
to
part-‐title
the
process
136
(by
forging
a
portmanteau
with
it),
the
context
becomes
pertinent.
This
chapter
explores
the
implications
of
labelling
the
project
in
relation
to
a
particular
kind
of
holism,
where
art
practice
and
health
care
meet.
In
the
health
care
context,
firstly
let
us
revisit
the
NHS
Scottish
Good
Practice
Statement
on
ME-‐CFS,
2010,
which
I
flagged
early
on
in
Chapter
2:
ME-‐CFS
causes
a
range
of
symptoms
and
it
is
necessary
to
adopt
a
holistic
approach
(Purdie,
2010).35
Despite
originating
from
a
UK
governmental
body,
the
above
statement
does
not
really
define
what
“holistic”
means.
This
kind
of
all-‐encompassing
inference
is
not
atypical
of
the
ways
in
which
the
term
‘holism’
is
sometimes
deployed
in
healthcare.
Additionally,
in
the
statement
above,
the
word
‘spiritual’
also
appears
(see
footnote).
Some
may
find
‘spiritual’
to
be
a
word
as
equally
ambiguous
as
holism.
Like
‘holism’
or
‘holistic’,
in
both
complementary
and
mainstream
healthcare
contexts,
it
is
common
also
to
encounter
these
words
packaged
in
‘trinities36’
such
as
‘mind,
body
and
spiritual’
(care).
The
effect
implied
by
the
unifying
of
such
trinities
seems
to
be
a
kind
of
holistic
manoeuvre:
put
another
way,
it
is
the
inference
that
a
multipronged
approach
might
be
an
effective
methodology
for
someone
with
a
35
In
the
Good
Practice
Statement,
holism
is
defined
as:
“comprehensive
patient
care
that
considers
the
physical,
psychological,
social,
economic
and
spiritual
needs
of
the
patient
and
his
or
her
response
to
the
illness”
p4
36
Although
the
Good
Practice
Statement
involves
five
qualities
in
defining
a
holistic
life,
it
is
interesting
to
observe
how
common
the
phrase
“mind
body
spirit”
has
been
used
in
holistic
health
since
the
1980s.
It
is
almost
as
if,
those
who
have
lost
their
primarily
(UK
Christian)
religious
faith
(as
church
numbers
dwindled
in
the
1980s
dramatically)
have
had
any
religious
alternative
re-‐packaged
but
the
trinity
remains
or
reappears
with
more
ambiguous
sounding
terms.
The
‘packaging’
of
the
way
holistic
health
has
been
disseminated
during
this
time
and
the
experiences
I
have
had
in
centres
with
floatation
tanks,
with
acupuncturists
has
been
analogous
to
church
going,
of
replacing
the
taking
of
Eucharist
and
baptism
or
confession
with
a
secular
but
religious-‐like
experience
(my
inference).
137
multifaceted
problem.
In
more
practical
terms,
that
approach
is
frequently
shorthanded
to
this
‘trinity’
of
three
zones
or
regions
of
human
life,
presumably
suggesting
that
a
system
of
integration
or
interconnectedness
is
how
we
should
treat
those
health
problems
which
are
idiopathic37
–
i.e.
those
which
have
no
known
causality,
such
as
CFS-‐ME.
My
work
could
be
regarded
as
an
offshoot
of
this
kind
of
‘holistic
manoeuvre’,
that
involves
utilising
a
kind
of
secular
trinity;
in
other
words
an
interconnected
‘triple-‐
pronged’
approach.
In
doing
so
I
attempt
to
subtly
reference
this
tradition,
but
with
my
own
headings.
It
is
worth
remembering
that
the
symptoms
of
CFS-‐ME
I
laid
out
in
Chapter
2
(pp.31-‐33)
are
extremely
wide-‐ranging
and
even
vague.
There
may
perhaps
be
a
refreshing
comfort
to
be
had
as
an
ME
sufferer
to
see
that
within
the
NHS
Good
Practice
Statement,
there
is
a
least
a
sense
that
the
patient
is
not
being
dismissed;
holism
here
may
imply
an
instruction
to
‘be
as
thorough
as
is
possible’
in
the
absence
of
a
panacea.
But,
perhaps
unsurprisingly,
we
tend
not
to
see
lengthy
ontological
definitions
of
holism
in
such
documents
like
the
example
above,
perhaps
because
the
motivation
behind
this
kind
of
holism
is
purely
practical,
or
possibly
even
desperate.
Whilst
one
sees
criticisms
of
unspecific
or
hyperbolic
definitions
of
holism,
especially
in
complementary
health
care,
it
is
worth
remembering
that
it
is
not
necessarily
a
bad
thing
to
want
to
treat
someone
with
an
all-‐encompassing
disease
by
37
adj.
denoting
a
disease
or
condition
the
cause
of
which
is
not
known
or
that
arises
spontaneously.
Oxford
Medical
Dictionary
http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780199557141.001.0001/acref-‐
9780199557141-‐e-‐4863?rskey=EVJW8h&result=5297
138
trying
all
potential
solutions
-‐
especially
when
a
more
readily
locatable
lung,
heart
or
brain
malfunction
cannot
be
found.
This
has
been
a
motivation
for
my
own
first-‐person
work
and
the
development
of
an
artist’s
‘holistic’
model.
We
have
to
use
those
terms
and
culture
that
already
exist,
but
we
can
augment
and
redefine
such
words
to
our
own
ends
as
the
ever-‐changing
nature
of
language
branches
outwards
along
epistemological
junctures.
Here,
from
Healey
(1999)
are
a
couple
of
examples
of
the
transferability
of
the
term,
or
examples
of
the
‘prefixing’
of
holism
as
a
concept:
i)
‘Methodological’
Holism:
an
understanding
of
a
certain
kind
of
complex
system
is
best
sought
at
the
level
of
principles
governing
the
behaviour
of
the
whole
system,
and
not
at
the
level
of
the
structure
and
behaviour
of
its
component
parts.
ii)
‘Metaphysical’
Holism:
The
metaphysical
holist
believes
that
the
nature
of
some
wholes
is
not
determined
by
that
of
their
parts.
One
may
distinguish
three
varieties
of
metaphysical
holism:
ontological,
property
and
nomological
holism.
(Healey,
1999,
n.p.)
As
we
can
see,
holism
as
a
concept
can
be
minutely
categorised
also
as
authors
re-‐appropriate
the
term
within
their
given
niches.
Healy
continues:
Ontological
Holism:
Some
objects
are
not
wholly
composed
of
basic
physical
parts.
139
Property
Holism:
Some
objects
have
properties
that
are
not
determined
by
physical
properties
of
their
basic
physical
parts.
Nomological
Holism:
Some
objects
obey
laws
that
are
not
determined
by
fundamental
physical
laws
governing
the
structure
and
behaviour
of
their
basic
physical
parts.
(ibid,
1999)
What
are
we
to
conclude
of
these
definitions?
The
examples
above
primarily
emanate
from
ontological
enquiry
in
academic
philosophy
and
speak
to
that
audience.
It
is
common
that
any
definition
of
holism
seems
to
be
accompanied
with
highly
specific
caveats
or
even
full
treatises
of
how
that
particular
holism
may
be
utilised
by
a
particular
enquiry
and
a
particular
audience.
As
we
look
towards
a
first-‐person
discourse
into
improving
one’s
life
through
practical
holistic
methods,
the
critical
discourse
around
holism
helps
to
give
continuity
and
gravitas
to
what
may
be
an
occasionally
contentious
word.
But
perhaps
there
lies
opportunities
for
creative
practitioners
when
the
word
holism
or
holistic
appears
to
be
so
flexible.
Perhaps
it
will
be
in
the
contexts
of
real-‐world
health
care,
kinds
of
ecology
or
artist-‐led
discourse
that
more
creative
or
‘applied’
holism
–
or
for
want
of
a
better
phrase,
‘engaged
holism’
can
be
explored:
that
which
affects
policy
and
is
flexible
enough
to
be
applied
to
(individualistic)
art
practice
in
this
project.
Therefore
soon,
we
will
hear
terms
such
as
‘radical
holism’
and
my
own
‘idioholism’
(in
Chapter
7).
140
2.
CFS-‐ME
as
an
‘holistic’
illness
As
described
in
Chapter
2,
the
illness
affects
all
the
strata
–
physical,
mental,
even
‘spiritual38’
-‐
of
the
sufferer:
it
does
not
confine
itself
to
a
knee
or
an
eye.
Every
system
in
the
body
requires
energy,
and
one
might
say
this
includes
the
psyche.
Life
itself
requires
energy.
An
illness
where
a
consistent
dip
in
energy
is
a
primary
symptom
affects
the
‘whole’
entity
of
what
makes
up
a
person
going
through
it.
This
is
why
CFS-‐
ME
is
more
serious
than
initially
seems.
In
some
acute
models
of
illness,
the
person
may
be
able
to
function
in
life
(albeit
under
the
threat
of
their
illness
reappearing,
e.g.
post
heart
operation,
post
cancer-‐intervention).
A
friend
of
mine
broke
his
back
a
decade
ago.
He
was
briefly
paralysed.
I
was
worried
for
him,
but
now,
he
can
barely
remember
the
event
and
is
a
prolific
hill
walker.
At
the
same
time
another
friend
became
bed-‐ridden
with
CFS-‐ME.
Her
‘less
serious’
bedridden
existence
continues,
held
captive
by
the
condition
across
all
of
her
body.
Not
only
does
she
remember
the
experience,
she
is
still
living
it,
in
every
way.
With
CFS-‐ME,
some
are
reliably
ill
over
the
whole
of
their
existence,
which
does
not
always
threaten
their
life
expectancy
(it
is
an
illness
with
extended
chronicity)
but
does
affect
the
physical,
mental
and
social
strata
of
the
individual
going
through
it.
Of
course,
few
people
get
through
their
entire
lifespan
without
at
least
a
hint
of
an
extreme
bug,
accident,
or
more
acutely,
a
hospital
intervention
that
saves
their
life.
But
for
these
patients,
this
‘acute’
spike
of
illness
becomes
a
life-‐changing
incident
in
38
Whilst
not
entirely
comfortable
with
this
term,
it
is
perhaps
safest
to
state
that
spiritual
here
is
that
which
gives
life
purpose
and
meaning.
We
must
include
the
term
because
it
appears
in
reference
to
holism
within
complementary
health
care
culture.
141
an
otherwise
recoverable
life.
ME
sufferers
have
a
constant
life-‐retarding
illness
for
as
long
as
the
condition
persists.
ME/CFS
(Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis/Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome)
is
a
serious
illness
affecting
several
hundred
thousand
British
people.
Some
25%
of
people
with
ME/CFS
may
be
severely
ill
(housebound
or
bedbound),
sometimes
for
decades.
(Pheby
and
Saffron,
2009,
n.p.)
For
this
25%
of
CFS-‐ME
sufferers,
life
is
confined
to
a
bed,
or
a
room
where
a
clear,
focused
thought
can
be
as
difficult
as
the
physical
problems
of
raising
a
limp
arm
or
leg.
In
this
situation,
there
can
be
no
doubt
that
the
quality
of
life
for
these
sufferers
is
abysmal.
This
is
the
terrain
of
the
suicidal
CFS-‐ME
sufferer,
where
body,
mind
and
psyche
are
flattened.
For
a
person
in
this
situation,
CFS-‐ME
can
be
seen
as
an
(w)holistic
illness
in
regard
to
the
life-‐strata
it
retards.
Any
creative
response
to
CFS-‐
ME
is
therefore
likely
to
encounter
the
word
‘holism’
at
some
point
and
will
need
to
be
extremely
adaptable
and
wide-‐ranging
–
yet
energetically
minimal.
3.
The
birth
of
the
term
‘holism’
Although
examples
like
the
Aristotelian
reference
at
the
start
of
this
chapter
have
indicated
that
the
historical
hunger
to
unify
parts
and
wholes
has
been
a
philosophical
preoccupation
for
centuries,
it
was
not
until
the
1920s
that
the
word
holism
directly
appeared
in
a
text.
Jan
Christian
Smuts
(24
May
1870
–
11
September
1950)
coined
the
term
in
1925
(Holism
and
Evolution,
Smuts,
1925).
He
used
it
to
142
describe
a
philosophical
position
that
was
directed
towards
an
understanding
of
whole
systems,
rather
than
particular
events
or
phenomena.
It
is
with
some
trepidation
that
the
following
quotes
from
Smuts
are
included
due
to
an
unpleasant
aspect
of
Smuts’
life.
He
held
variable
racist
views,
but
he
also
coined
the
term,
so
there
is
little
point
omitting
Smuts’
contribution
to
the
field.
Smuts
was
a
South
African
and
British
Commonwealth
statesman
and
as
well
as
being
a
military
leader,
he
was
also
a
philosopher.
He
was
twice
Prime
Minister
of
the
Union
of
South
Africa
from
1919-‐24
and
from
1939-‐48.
He
was
a
supporter
of
racial
segregation
based
on
separate
territory
for
blacks
and
whites39
a
view
that
was
certainly
mainstream
at
the
time
of
his
publication,
but
still
raises
ethical
questions
about
separating
the
writing
from
the
writer.
If
we
can
isolate
the
text
from
the
author
(see
footnote
below)
we
can
at
least
see
observe
the
‘academic
dawn’
of
twentieth
century
holism,
at
least
etymologically.
Overleaf,
the
following
excerpt
appears
in
the
preface
to
the
first
edition
Holism
and
Evolution,
1926:
39
Evolution
and
Philosophy,
whilst
not
quite
in
Hitler’s
Mein
Kampf
territory,
or
even
explicitly
racist
is
difficult
to
divorce
from
the
context
of
Smuts’
background.
It
is
worth
noting
that
ideas
of
purity
and
universality
have
not
been
excluded
from
the
history
of
philosophy
either.
Philosopher
Dr
Michael
Bakaoukas
at
The
University
of
Piraeus,
Greece
wrote
the
paper
Were
The
Ancient
Greeks
Racists?
(http://www.erces.com/journal/articles/archives/v04/v04_03.htm
-‐
Bakaoukas,
n.d.,
n.p.)
In
it,
he
attempts
to
forge
a
difficult
trajectory
through
context
in
which
philosophers
forged
their
views
–
and
both
questions
and
contextualizes
the
degree
that
the
ancient
Greeks
were
‘proto-‐racists’
143
An
attempt
is
made
to
show
that
this
whole-‐making
or
holistic
tendency
is
fundamental
in
nature,
that
it
has
a
well-‐marked
ascertainable
character,
and
that
Evolution
is
nothing
but
the
gradual
development
and
stratification
of
progressive
series
of
wholes,
stretching
from
the
inorganic
beginnings
to
the
highest
levels
of
spiritual
creation.
(Smuts,
1926,
preface)
Within
two
years,
this
new
term
had
made
its
appearance
in
the
Encyclopaedia
Britannica
and
was
therein
described
as
“a
viewpoint
additional
and
complementary
to
that
of
science”
(Encyclopaedia
Britannica
1927,
Holism
and
Science).
The
first
pertinent
element
in
citing
Smuts’
holism
is
that
he
sees
holism
not
entirely
as
a
thought-‐experiment,
but
as
something
more
tangible:
Wholes
are
not
mere
artificial
constructions
of
thought;
they
actually
exist;
they
point
to
something
real
in
the
universe,
and
Holism
is
a
real
operative
factor,
a
versa
causa…
(Smuts,
1926
p.88)
But
he
does
not
negate
holism
being
part
of
cultural
or
conceptual
ideas
either:
The
idea
of
wholes
and
wholeness
should
[therefore]
not
be
confined
to
the
biological
domain;
it
covers
both
inorganic
substances
and
mental
structures
as
well
as
the
highest
manifestations
of
the
human
spirit.
(ibid)
144
In
the
following
excerpt,
we
observe
the
first
signs
that
holism
could
be
a
transferrable
concept.
Smuts
talks
of
synthesising
holism
to
our
own
ends
–
perhaps
here
lies
one
of
the
earliest
clues
that
there
will
never
be
one
clear
holism
but
a
series
of
them
in
different
fields
–
whether
we
talk
of
the
‘radical
cosmologies’
of
artists
(a
useful
term
which
I
will
elucidate
towards
the
end
of
this
chapter)
or
other
self
contained
systems
of
thought,
Smuts
here
really
broadens
the
scope
and
potential
of
holism
into
creative
territory:
Holism
is
not
only
creative
but
self-‐creative,
and
its
final
structures
are
far
more
holistic
than
its
initial
structures.
Natural
wholes
are
always
composed
of
parts;
in
fact
the
whole
is
not
something
additional
to
the
parts,
but
is
just
the
parts
in
their
synthesis,
which
may
be
physico-‐
chemical
or
organic
or
psychical
or
personal.
As
Holism
is
a
process
of
creative
synthesis,
the
resulting
wholes
are
not
static
but
dynamic,
evolutionary,
creative.
(Smuts,
1926
p.89)
A
natural
whole
has
its
"field,"
and
the
concept
of
fields
will
be
found
most
important
in
this
connection
also.
Just
as
a
"thing"
is
really
a
synthesised
'event'
in
the
system
of
relativity,
so
an
organism
is
really
a
unified,
synthesised
section
of
history,
which
includes
not
only
its
present
but
much
of
its
past
and
even
some
of
its
future…
…the
conception
of
the
field
therefore
becomes
necessary
and
will
be
found
fruitful
in
biology
and
psychology
no
less
than
in
physics.
(ibid)
145
Had
Smuts
been
working
today,
(outside
of
his
debatable
shortcomings
as
a
kind
person),
he
may
well
have
found
some
of
his
ideas
within
the
field
of
social
anthropology,
or
sociology
–
or
even
the
fringes
of
Western
healthcare,
which
is
where
I
will
next
turn
my
attention.
But
as
we
leave
Smuts,
we
begin
our
journey
of
contextualising
the
research
with
some
clear
opening
concepts
of
the
field.
4.
Holism
and
the
encounter
between
western
health
and
complementary
health
Biomedicine
is
founded
upon
an
historical
pragmatism
that
has
enabled
the
separation
of
fact
from
fancy,
of
the
tangible
from
the
tenuous.
Acute
care
in
hospital
casualty
wards
requires
immediate
and
skilled
interventions,
and
not
a
reflective
querying
regarding
the
hidden
causes
or
subtle
meanings
of
a
traumatic
event.
The
flow
of
blood
must
be
staunched.
Broken
tissues
must
be
tended.
Vital
signs
must
be
monitored.
This
is
good
and
necessary.
But
the
art
of
the
healer
extends
beyond
the
casualty
ward.
And
it
is
in
such
domains
that
less
pressing
realities
such
as
the
meaning
and
consequence
of
sickness
episodes,
a
knowledge
of
the
hidden
dimensions
of
life,
and
a
sensitivity
to
the
subtle
influences
that
condition
our
health
become
important.
And
this
is
why
philosophy
is
inseparable
from
medicine.
(Di
Stefano,
2006,
p
740)
40
Citation
is
from
the
sample
chapter
pdf
of
the
printed
edition.
Both
references
of
print
and
pdf
are
in
the
bibliography.
The
page
number
here
is
derived
from
the
pdf
version.
146
One
might
term
this
viewpoint
as
hierarchical,
or
as
a
hierarchical
set
of
needs.
Abraham
Maslow
(1908
–
1970)
proposed
that
human
desires
are
innately
given
and
exist
in
an
ascending
hierarchy.
Basic
physiological
needs
–
food,
sleep,
and
protection
from
extreme
hazards
of
the
environment
–
must
first
be
met.
Then
the
needs
for
safety
become
paramount.
Self
esteem,
love,
self-‐respect
can
then
be
addressed.
Following
this
comes
a
desire
for
order
and
a
need
for
a
kind
of
certainty
and
structure
in
our
lives.
Only
then,
can
the
more
subtle
needs
of
purpose
and
‘self
actualisation’
be
met.
One
may
look
at
Maslow’s
model
of
needs
and
see
them
as
a
kind
of
‘holistic
triangle’
with
the
bottom
as
primal
needs
of
survival
being
attended
to
–
and
the
higher
reaches
being
the
pinnacle
of
one
being
true
to
one’s
nature41.
Maslow’s
(frequently
contested)
model
is
not
‘complementary’
as
such;
rather,
it
appears
to
address
more
the
order
of
urgency
across
one’s
(whole)
life.
Maslow
termed
this
holistic
quest
as
‘metamotivation’
(Goble,
1970,
p.62).
From
the
1960s
onwards,
the
rise
of
‘complementary
health’
clinics
began
to
pervade
culture
at
large,
often
calling
themselves
‘holistic
centres’.
One
may
link
this
phenomenon
to
the
rise
of
a
counter-‐culture
and
interest
in
non-‐Western
forms
of
healthcare
and
the
beginning
of
a
questioning
of
authority,
including
that
of
the
medical
profession.
Dissatisfaction
with
an
industrial-‐scientific
medical
model,
as
illustrated
for
example
in
the
work
of
artist
Jo
Spence
(see
Chapter
3
Artists
in
Extremis)
is
a
good
example
of
a
patient
taking
matters
into
their
own
hands,
eschewing
the
medical
establishment,
and
rejecting
the
conventionally
‘passive’
role
assigned
to
the
patient.
41
Citation
is
based
on
page
506
of
The
Oxford
Dictionary
of
Sociology
(Scott,
J
&
Marshall,
G)
Third
edition
revised
2009,
Oxford
147
One
clinic
I
visit
in
Edinburgh
is
called
‘The
Whole
Works’.
Given
that
‘holistic’
has
now
become
part
of
common
healthcare
parlance,
it
is
still
fair
to
say
that
there
is
surprising
variability
(and
some
might
say
liberal
abandon)
in
the
ways
in
which
the
word
is
used.
The
complementary
healthcare
movement
is
where
many
of
us
first
encounter
the
term
‘holistic’,
‘wholism’
or
‘the
whole
person’.
These
encounters
can
often
occur
during
desperate
times
when
conventional
health
care
fails
us,
so
we
may
sample
massage,
acupuncture,
meditation,
homeopathy,
and
other
market
forces
hoping
to
influence
the
sick,
from
floatation
tank
therapy
right
though
to
(the
slightly
commercial)
end
of
Buddhism.
In
the
context
of
healthcare,
the
term
‘holistic’
is
often
used
as
a
counter
to
more
‘scientific/technical’
models
of
health
care.
In
the
sympathetic
side
of
complementary
health
care,
there
is
much
talk
about
‘caring
for
the
whole
person’
that
may
be
seen
in
opposition
to
western
medical
protocols.
Those
practising
in
western
medicine
may
see
themselves
as
part
of
professionals
working
together
as
an
interdisciplinary
team.
Examples
would
be
nurses,
emergency
medical
technicians
and
paramedics,
laboratory
scientists,
pharmacists,
podiatrists,
physiotherapists,
respiratory
therapists,
speech
therapists,
occupational
therapists,
radiographers,
dieticians,
and
bioengineers.
But
what
we
see
in
the
list
above
is
not,
in
my
opinion,
a
team,
let
alone
an
example
of
interdisciplinarity;
it
is
a
list
of
specialists.
What
would
be
needed
is
someone
to
co-‐ordinate
that
team.
We
have
that
in
place,
in
the
shape
of
one’s
148
General
Practitioner
or
G.P.
(or
primary
specialist
in
hospital)
–
but
there
is
little
time
for
interdisciplinarity
in
meetings
that
last
four
to
five
minutes
in
the
G.P.’s
office
or
in
a
hospital
conference
room.
Both
the
pressures
of
western
medicine
and
that
the
budgetary
concerns
of
NHS
healthcare
are
rising
which
has
resulted
in
G.P.s
referring
to
straight
to
specialists,
whom
themselves
do
not
know
the
patient
outside
of
the
notes,
and
even
the
notes
only
give
a
partial
view.
A
primary
carer
is
normally
expected
to
relate
and
unite
the
degree
of
interdisciplinarity
between
specialists,
but
in
the
real
world
what
would
happen
is
that
the
primary
carer
has
an
idea
as
to
the
origin
of
the
problem
and
refers
instead
to
the
specialist
(who
may
see
the
‘whole’
world
as
related
to
their
specialism).
There
isn’t
a
formal
mechanism
for
British
healthcare
in
which
a
‘holist’
‘directs’
this
team.
Each
specialist
has
an
understanding
of
the
basic
principles
of
medicine
outside
their
specialism.
So
instead
of
one
director
of
the
patient,
who
evaluates
the
specialists,
we
experience
a
series
of
encounters
with
specialists
who
see
if
they
can
find
the
root
of
the
problem,
and
if
not,
they
refer
oneself
back
to
the
G.P.
and
the
process
begins
again
-‐
then
the
G.P.
may
try
a
different
tactic.
In
my
own
health
this
has
meant
there
a)
is
little
continuity
of
care
and
b)
I
myself
end
up
as
being
the
informed
co-‐ordinator
of
these
encounters.
I
end
up
giving
an
oral
history
of
my
illness.
That
itself
causes
further
problems
with
some
specialists
suspecting
hypochondria,
because
I
seem
to
have
made
the
daring
decision
of
attempting
to
address
my
problems
where
the
medical
system
has
failed.
So
although
there
exists
a
healthy
list
of
disciplinary
areas
practitioners
may
be
working
within,
this
is
in
no
way
holistic.
Just
because
there
exists
the
departments,
149
one
cannot
infer
there
is
a
healthy
dialogue
between
them.
Moreover,
the
compartmentalisation
of
western
healthcare
results
in
the
elevation
of
the
specialist
as
the
primary
carer
of
someone
with
a
given
perhaps
hospitalised
condition.
Within
my
community
of
CFS-‐ME
patients,
I
see
little
true
interdisciplinary
cross
over.
If
I
may
dip
back
into
an
autoethnographic
account
I’ve
not
yet
written
about
to
illustrate
this,
in
March
2014
my
wife
gave
birth
to
our
second
child
who
was
born
with
several
problems,
two
club
feet,
hip
dislocation,
and
crucially
a
small
oral
cavity
and
recessed
chin.
She
stopped
breathing
once
and
was
hospitalized
for
nearly
three
months.
She
also
had
stiff
muscles
and
could
not
move
her
legs.
In
treating
her,
there
seemed
little
evidence
of
a
true
interdisciplinary
dialogue;
she
was
routed
‘around’
the
hospital
(with,
I
concede,
the
occasional
group
meeting).
One
might
say
there
was
a
never
a
‘whole
person’
approach
here.
We
were
rarely
allowed
to
these
meetings,
and
we
would
often
talk
to
the
nurses
in
terms
of
‘who
is
in
charge
of
her
today?’.
This
extended
and
protracted
lack
of
holism
resulted
in
a
stay
in
hospital
which
lasted
over
two
months,
much
of
which
we
feel
could
have
been
avoided.
In
addition,
we
felt
that
because
the
doctors
couldn’t
find
the
root
of
her
problem,
we
saw
them
frequently
painting
worst-‐case
scenarios
when
there
was
no
evidence
to
back
any
of
this
up.
Ivan
Illich’s
Limits
to
Medicine
-‐
Medical
Nemesis
–
The
Expropriation
of
Health
(Illich,
1976)
describes
and
analyses
the
tensions
not
only
between
patients
and
doctors,
but
also
between
complementary
health
practitioners
and
healthcare
professionals
from
mainstream
western
medicine.
The
following
passage
is
particularly
150
pertinent
to
this,
and
includes
a
term
which
is
particularly
resonant
with
this
research
project,
that
‘medicalisation’
negates
‘an
art
of
suffering’
that
was
previously
present
in
some
societies.
Illich
writes
about
the
removal
of
systems
of
coping
with
the
inevitabilities
of
life
in
indigenous
cultures
by
westernized
medicine.
Wherever
in
the
world
a
culture
is
medicalised,
the
traditional
framework
for
habits
that
can
be
become
conscious
in
the
personal
practice
of
the
virtue
of
hygiene
is
progressively
trammelled
by
a
mechanical
system,
a
medical
code
by
which
individuals
submit
to
the
instructions
emanating
from
hygienic
custodians.
Medicalisation
constitutes
a
prolific
bureaucratic
program
based
on
the
denial
of
each
man’s
need
to
deal
with
pain,
sickness,
and
death.
The
modern
medical
enterprise
represents
an
endeavour
to
do
for
people
what
their
genetic
and
cultural
heritage
formerly
equipped
them
to
do
for
themselves.
Medical
civilization
is
planned
and
organized
to
kill
pain,
to
eliminate
sickness,
and
to
abolish
the
need
for
an
art
of
suffering
and
of
dying.
This
performance
flattening
out
of
personal,
virtuous
performance
constitutes
a
new
goal
which
has
never
before
been
guidance
for
social
life.
Suffering,
healing,
and
dying
which
are
essentially
intransitive
activities
that
culture
taught
each
man,
are
now
claimed
by
technocracy
as
new
areas
of
policy
making
and
are
treated
as
malfunctions
from
which
populations
ought
to
be
institutionally
relieved.
The
goals
of
metropolitan
medical
civilization
are
thus
in
opposition
to
every
single
151
cultural
health
program
the
encounter
in
the
process
of
progressive
colonization.
(Illich,
1976,
pp.131-‐132)
In
the
light
of
Illich’s
critique,
one
may
stop
for
a
moment
and
question
what
is
being
lost
in
medicine.
Advances
in
medical
technology
are
collectively
seen
as
a
creative
aspect
of
human
endeavour
par
excellence:
but
are
we
losing
the
ability
to
be
creative
in
the
first-‐person?
Are
we
losing
our
innate
philosophical
strategies
because
medical
technology
is
advancing
at
a
rapid
pace?
Whilst
few
would
suggest
we
retard
such
technological
advances,
nor
suggest
either
that
we
flush
our
medications
down
the
toilet,
Illich
is
arguing
that
the
wider
medical
framework
is
displacing
cultures
that
promote
wellbeing
from
the
clutches
of
society,
especially
in
regard
to
diseases
for
which
there
is
not
‘part’
available
(or
terminal
illnesses).
Instead,
medicalisation
defers
this
control
to
an
increasingly
compartmentalised
and
poorly
integrated
system
of
healthcare.
Illich
highlights
a
critical
discourse
that
revolves
around
poor
communication
in
healthcare
contexts:
the
lost
arts
of
collaboration,
of
neighbourliness
and
crucially,
the
loss
of
creativity
to
cope
in
extremis.
With
this
in
mind
should
we
not
be
arguing
for
a
complementary
and
integrated
culture,
even
as
Illich
frames
it,
an
‘art
of
suffering’
to
help
us
cope
with
such
cataclysms?
One
may
risk
romanticising
societies
without
funded
health
care
programmes
and
excuse
the
slashing
of
our
healthcare
budgets
to
permit
this
point
of
view,
but
what
of
our
own
ancestral
tradition
of
coping?
One
does
not
have
to
go
far
back
to
find
a
day
when
common
illnesses
wiped
out
huge
numbers
of
the
populace.
Surely
the
combination
of
our
medical
technology
alongside
an
152
equally
progressive
listening
ear
for
such
strategies
outside
the
hospital
could
be
a
definition
of
holistic
health
care.
5.
Criticising
holism
within
the
complementary
health
encounter
The
current
interest
in
holistic
medicine
and
alternative
healing
systems
seems
best
explained
as
a
historically
derived
populist
movement
that
is
perhaps
rightly
viewed
by
the
medical
establishment
as
anti-‐
professional.
(Salmon
1984,
p.156)
Holism
as
experienced
in
complementary
health
care
alongside
the
term
‘holistic’
is
a
contested
term
and/or
field.
Some
argue
it
is
not
a
field
at
all.
In
the
journal
Skeptical
Enquirer
from
2002,
John
Ruscio
(Professor
of
Psychology,
the
College
of
New
Jersey)
warns
us
of
the
‘emptiness’
of
holism:
An
old
psychological
controversy
concerning
the
relative
merits
of
clinical
and
statistical
prediction
has
direct
implications
for
modern-‐day
beliefs
in
"holism."
The
notion
that
one
should
not
consider
individual
factors,
but
rather
a
complex
whole
is
frustratingly
vague
and
incompatible
with
all
that
we
have
learned
about
human
cognitive
limitations
and
judgmental
biases.
Despite
its
seeming
compassion,
the
mantra
of
holism
may
constitute
empty
rhetoric
that
shields
its
153
proponents
from
the
hard
work
of
discovering,
assessing,
and
validly
integrating
meaningful
information.
(Ruscio,
2002,
p.46)
Specifically,
he
highlights
holistic
health:
Holism
has
achieved
a
considerable
following
among
some
health
care
professions
(we
now
have
self-‐styled
holistic
healers,
holistic
veterinarians,
holistic
nurses,
and
others)
and
believers
in
paranormal
phenomena
(witness
modern
astrology's
insistence
on
the
use
of
the
"whole
chart")
despite
a
highly
questionable
rationale
and
virtually
no
empirical
support.
Proponents
of
holism
espouse
vague,
ill-‐defined
practices
that
require
psychologically
impossible
feats
of
judgment.
In
this
sense,
holism
provides
a
facade
of
compassion
behind
which
the
idiosyncratic,
free-‐for-‐all
approaches
of
its
practitioners
are
shielded
from
sceptical
scrutiny.
(ibid,
p.47)
One
may
agree
that
of
the
opportunistic
nature
of
anyone
calling
himself
or
herself
a
holistic
healer
needs
to
be
criticised.
However,
I
would
take
issue
with
some
of
the
slightly
inappropriate
attacks
on
‘holistic
nurses’
being
used
in
the
same
sentence
as
paranormal
phenomena.
It
may
be
that
these
nurses
are
practising
‘patient-‐centred
care’
which
simply
means
they
do
not
just
treat
the
body
like
an
engine,
evaluating
instead
other
aspects
of
the
patient’s
life.
Murdoch
and
Denz-‐
154
Penhey
in
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome,
a
Patient-‐Centred
Approach,
describe
CFS-‐ME
thus
in
the
chapter
‘Understanding
the
whole
person’:
CFS
has
been
described
as
an
“equal-‐opportunity
disorder”…
here,
…[if
people
are]
characterised
more
by
symptoms,
suffering
and
disability
than
by
consistently
demonstrable
tissue
abnormality,
then
the
way
forward
is
individual
care
with
particular
emphasis
on
understanding
the
whole
person
and
helping
to
prevent
further
disability.
(Murdoch
and
Denz-‐Penhey,
2002,
p.95)
Reading
Ruscio’s
views
in
this
light,
one
may
not
care
whether
one’s
physician
is
espousing
‘empty
rhetoric’
if
they
are
effectively
treating
the
‘whole’
person.
Moreover
this
‘patient-‐centeredness’
is
a
widespread
healthcare
orthodoxy
these
days,
but
of
course
is
experienced
extremely
variably
by
service
users.
There
have
been,
however,
attempts
to
unify
the
needs
of
the
self
and
institutions,
in,
for
example,
the
writings
of
philosopher
and
musician
Donald
Schön
who
introduced
and
popularised
the
term
‘reflective
practice’:
Donald
Schön
made
a
remarkable
contribution
to
our
understanding
of
the
theory
and
practice
of
learning.
His
innovative
thinking
around
notions
such
as
‘the
learning
society’,
‘double-‐loop
learning’
and
‘reflection-‐in-‐action’
has
become
part
of
the
language
of
education.”
(Smith,
2013,
n.p.)
155
Here
Schön
speaks
about
of
how
orthodoxies
must
be
flexible
or
dynamic
to
function:
A
learning
system…
must
be
one
in
which
dynamic
conservatism
operates
at
such
a
level
and
in
such
a
way
as
to
permit
change
of
state
without
intolerable
threat
to
the
essential
functions
the
system
fulfils
for
the
self.
Our
systems
need
to
maintain
their
identity,
and
their
ability
to
support
the
self-‐identity
of
those
who
belong
to
them,
but
they
must
at
the
same
time
be
capable
of
transforming
themselves.
(Schön
1973,
p.57)
We
can
infer
from
this
approach
that
medicine
and
healthcare
is
at
least
as
much
a
philosophical
enterprise
as
it
is
a
scientific
system,
although
one
may
hazard
a
guess
that
many
western
industrial-‐scientific
practitioners
might
strongly
argue
for
the
separation
of
philosophy
from
medicine.
In
Holism
and
Complementary
Medicine,
(Di
Stefano,
2006)
-‐
an
examination
of
the
key
practice
issues
and
holistic
principles
in
today's
health
system
(which
flags
both
the
therapeutic
benefits
and
tensions
between
these
two
supposedly
‘separate’
fields
-‐
Di
Stefano
reminded
us
‘the
art
of
the
healer
extends
beyond
the
casualty
ward’
(Di
Stefano
2006,
p.742).
The
challenge
to
western
industrial
scientific
medicine
comes
from
many
quarters,
not
least
from
the
medical
humanities,
and
high
quality
care
in
complementary
medicine.
In
such
places:
…less
pressing
realities
such
as
the
meaning
and
consequence
of
sickness
episodes,
knowledge
of
the
hidden
dimensions
of
life,
and
42
The
page
number
is
derived
from
the
online
source,
a
publicly
available
first
chapter
of
the
book.
This
may
differ
from
the
page
number
in
the
printed
edition.
156
sensitivity
to
the
subtle
influences
that
condition
our
health
become
important.
And
this
is
why
philosophy
is
inseparable
from
medicine.
(ibid,
p.7)
Returning
to
Ruscio,
who
may
contest
whether
holistic
approaches
can
work
cognitively:
“holists
over
estimate
the
extent
to
which
people
can
validly
combine
information
in
their
heads”
(Ruscio,
2002,
p49).
He
continues
to
infer
that
holists
perhaps
use
a
form
of
lazy
rhetoric
to
validate
what
he
seems
to
regard
as
pseudo-‐
sciences
(such
as
astrology
which
is
logically
deconstructed
in
the
essay)
despite
the
“overwhelming
evidence
to
the
contrary”
(ibid.)
6.
John
Clark’s
Social
Ecology
and
investigation
of
holism
Some
writers
comment
on
the
holistic
vision,
and
perhaps
still
find
holism
an
apt
methodology,
but
as
hinted
earlier,
place
caveats
within
their
commentaries
of
holism.
John
Clark,
in
his
A
Social
Ecology
(Clark,
1997)
(Ch
2,
A
Dialectical
Holism)
highlights
the
value
of
parts
and
wholes
as
non-‐hierarchical:
Questions
are
[also]
raised
about
the
totalising
implications
of
holism.
Critics
of
holism
sometimes
identify
it
with
an
extreme
organicism
that
denies
the
significance,
reality,
or
the
value
of
the
parts.
It
is
important
therefore
to
understand
that
«holism»
does
not
refer
exclusively
to
a
view
in
which
the
whole
is
ontologically
prior
to
the
part,
more
metaphysically
real
than
the
part,
or
deserving
of
more
moral
157
consideration
than
the
part.
In
fact,
a
dialectical
holism
rejects
the
idea
that
the
being,
reality
or
value
of
the
parts
can
be
distinguished
from
that
of
the
whole
in
the
manner
presupposed
by
such
a
critique.
(Clark,
1997,
p.11)
The
growing
tradition
Clark
writes
from
is
‘social
ecology’,
which
springs
from
the
work
of
the
political
philosopher,
anarchist
and
ecological
thinker
Murray
Bookchin
(1921-‐2006).
It
is
also
drawn
from
a
tradition
of
compassion.
Social
ecologists
can
be
seen
as
exemplars
of
those
who
wish
to
protect
society
from
rhetoric
which
seems
to
undermine
social
inclusion
and
that
which
fractures
society,
whether
that
is
‘scientific
racism’
or
humanity
attacking
the
earth
as
a
whole
(e.g.
climate
change
deniers
and
so
on).
But
what
is
social
ecology?
The
Institute
for
Social
Ecology,
a
prominent
centre
in
the
United
States
for
research
and
teaching
based
on
the
writings
of
Bookchin,
defines
social
ecology
as:
1:
a
coherent
radical
critique
of
current
social,
political,
and
anti-‐
ecological
trends.
2:
a
reconstructive,
ecological,
communitarian,
and
ethical
approach
to
society.
(Institute
for
Social
Ecology,
2014,
n.d.
/
n.p.)
158
Social
ecologists
do
not
just
oppose
current
threats
to
our
planet
and/or
society,
or
champion
the
recent
‘Occupy’
movement.
There
is
a
growing
academic
literature
that
underpins
the
activism
and
sustainability
of
social
ecology.
There
is
also
a
countercultural
aspect
to
social
ecology
that
is
enticing.
The
reason
this
is
relevant
to
the
use
of
the
term
holism
in
this
text,
is
that
such
countercultural
dialogues
may
also
help
situate
artists’
projects
such
as
mine
within
this
cultural
and
political
sphere,
and,
by
extension,
in
the
philosophical
debates
in
the
medical
humanities
and
arts
and
health
field.
Clark
discusses
both
sociologic
possibilities
and
planetary
evolution
as
a
holistic
process.
He
sees
ecosystems
in
both
societal
constructs
(i.e.
communities)
and
conventional
ideas
of
ecosystems
as
‘complex,
developing
wholes’.
He
finds
social
ecology
‘to
be
rooted
in
the
most
basic
levels
of
being’
–
and
describes
holism
thus:
Holism
does
not
mean
the
fetishisation
of
some
particular
kind
of
whole,
which
would
constitute
a
version
of
the
fallacy
of
misplaced
concreteness,
but
rather
an
exploration
of
the
meaning
of
many
kinds
of
wholeness
that
appear
in
many
ways
and
on
many
levels
within
developing
unity-‐in-‐diversity.
(A
Social
Ecology,
Clark,
1997,
n.d.)
159
7a.
Gideon
Kossoff’s
‘Radical
Holism’
Dr
Gideon
Kossoff
is
a
theorist
who
has
developed
the
term
‘transition
design’,
an
emerging
field
of
societal
planning
rooted
in
social
ecology
with
a
focus
on
how
to
make
the
transition
to
a
more
sustainable
future.
Kossoff
has
referred
to
the
work
of
Clark
(above)
and
trained
partly
at
Schumacher
College
–
an
institution
where
one
can
study
for
a
(rare)
MSc
in
Holistic
Science,
and
the
Centre
for
Natural
Design
at
Duncan
of
Jordanstone
College
of
Art
and
Design
at
the
University
of
Dundee.
What
follows
are
excerpts
and
commentary
from
Kossoff’s
University
of
Dundee
doctoral
text
Holism
and
the
Reconstitution
of
Everyday
Life
a
Framework
for
Transition
to
a
Sustainable
Society:
(2011
pp.113-‐133)
followed
by
field
notes,
transcriptions
and
commentary
from
an
interview
with
the
author.
Kossoff
coins
the
term
‘radical
holism’
to
“describe
a
tradition
of
anti-‐
authoritarian
thought
which
in
various
ways
is
grounded
in
‘ecology’,
‘whole
systems’,
‘holism/organicism
or
‘nature’.
(p.113)
Under
this
banner,
‘radical
holists’
come
with
several
different
monikers—anarchists,
social
ecologists,
libertarians,
communalists,
anti-‐authoritarian
socialists…”
(p.114)
–
One
may
reflect
if
some
contemporary
artists
might
be
located
under
this
banner
because
they
are
frequently
anti-‐authoritarian
and
anarchic
in
outlook.
Then,
Kossoff
hints
of
a
paradox
of
holistic
thought:
holism
is
often
assumed
to
be
a
reaction
to
the
mainstream,
atomised
and
scientific-‐technical
views
of
the
world
160
that
dominate
political
discourse,
but
‘It
is
remarkable
how
often
various
forms
of
holism
sit
in
the
background
or
foreground
of
anti-‐authoritarian
thinking,
which
is
paradoxical
given
the
tendency
of
holism
to
be
used
to
justify
conservative
or
authoritarian
ideologies.’
(p.114)
As
others
have
prefixed
or
supplemented
holism
with
caveats
–
or
augmented
the
term
holism,
Kossoff
here
prefixes
holism
with
‘authentic’
–
maintaining
that
‘authentic’
holism
is
where
human
affairs
‘is
clearly
progressive
and
can
become
the
basis
for
a
holistic
framework
for
transition
to
a
sustainable
society’.
(p.114).
Of
course
‘authentic’
is
also
a
highly
contested
term,
but
Kossoff
uses
it
to
imply
a
version
of
holism
underpinned
by
humanistic
and
egalitarian
values.
If
artists
often
take
matters
into
their
own
hands,
as
I
have
hinted
in
earlier
chapters,
so
then
do
‘radical
holists’,
who
‘in
common
with
most
anti-‐authoritarians,
argue
that
social,
cultural,
political
and
economic
forms
arise,
if
permitted,
from
within
the
communities
in
which
they
are
located
through
the
self-‐organised
activities
of
their
inhabitants’.
(p.115)
The
concept
of
care
is
also
not
excluded
from
this
model.
Kossoff
states
that
“Murray
Bookchin
shows
how
early
human
communities
were
“organic”
unities
that
were
“spontaneously
formed,
non-‐coercive
and
egalitarian...[they]
emerged
from
innate
human
needs
for
consociation,
interdependence
and
care”.
(p.116).
161
Wholeness
out
of
disruption?
The
nature
of
catastrophe
has
been
an
aspect
of
my
own
doctoral
enquiry.
In
one
of
the
symposia
presentations
for
this
project
I
stated
that
‘predicament
had
co-‐
authored
the
work.’
Can
catastrophe
too,
be
an
enlightening
factor
in
how
people
self-‐
govern
and
organise?
Kossoff
cites
cultural
geographer
Rebecca
Solnit’s
book
A
Paradise
Built
in
Hell,
(Solnit,
2009)
where
the
author
makes
the
case
that
people
behave
in
similar
ways
during
the
chaos
of
disasters,
such
as
the
1906
San
Francisco
Earthquake
or
in
the
aftermath
of
Hurricane
Katrina,
when
ordinary
life
is
suspended
and
the
institutions
which
preside
over
it
are
powerless.
We
are
given,
she
says,
…a
view
into
another
world”:
the
unsolicited
assistance,
resourcefulness
and
generosity
that
typically
characterizes
such
events
shows
us
who
we
really
are,
what
we
really
desire
and
what
is
really
possible.
She
is
not
describing
the
actions
of
a
revolutionary
cadre,
radical
activists
or
a
disgruntled
populace,
but
those
of
random
people
in
very
difficult
or
tragic
circumstances
who
have
been
taken
by
surprise
by
events
and
who
take
matters
in
their
own
hands
without
being
directed
by
any
external
authorities…
(Solnit,
2009
pp.116-‐117)
162
In
this
chapter
from
Kossoff’s
doctoral
thesis
the
central
message
is
that
authentic
social
wholeness…
…is
created
when
intrinsically
related
individuals
and
communities
mutually
participate
in
bringing
into
being
the
social
wholes
to
which
they
belong.
The
social,
cultural
and
psychological
diversity
that
radical
holists
have
advocated
would
develop
through
such
processes
since
social
parts
are
seen
as
different
but
related
expressions
of
such
social
wholes.
(p.133)
Working
with
these
kinds
of
definitions,
we
are
getting
closer
to
a
holism
that
mirrors
my
own
idiosyncratic
needs
to
design
an
inclusive
and
adaptable
holism.
The
above
excerpts
from
Kossoff’s
doctoral
text
offer
an
insight
into
what
he
has
defined
as
‘radical’
or
‘authentic’
holism.
But
as
an
artist,
who
is
working
with
metaphors
and
objects,
I
wondered
if
Kossoff
could
expand
on
this
social
wholeness,
perhaps
with
examples
from
the
cultural
world,
or
even
the
natural
world.
My
project
is
primarily
cultural
in
the
sense
that
it
is
located
in
the
arts.
How
does
one
understand
the
apparent
schism
between
whole
and
part
in
terms
of
art
projects,
or
for
example,
music?
Is
that
possible?
What
part
does
imagination
play
here?
What
results
in
the
section
below
is
a
brief
summary
from
meeting
Kossoff
at
the
University
of
the
West
of
Scotland
in
2012
(I
have
removed
my
questions
from
the
answers).
These
are
direct
quotes
from
my
recorded
material,
edited
from
a
one-‐hour
conversation.
163
7b.
Gideon
Kossoff
-‐
interview
responses,
early
2012:
Henri
Bortoft
in
‘The
Wholeness
of
Nature’
(Bortoft,
1996)
highlights
that
the
way
we
think
about
wholeness
is
usually
wrong
because
of
our
linear
thinking.
We
think
of
‘whole’
and
‘part’
as
two
distinct
things
rather
than
whole
or
part
as
simultaneously
manifesting.
Here,
the
whole
is
revealed
as
dynamic
and
temporal.
Think
of
a
plant.
The
plant
comes
into
being
over
time.
The
stamen,
the
leaves,
the
flower,
the
roots,
the
fruit,
everything
one
after
the
other
over
a
year
or
whatever,
so
the
whole
is
no
one
thing.
You
can’t
put
your
hands
on
the
whole;
the
whole
is
‘the
absent
whole’
as
Bortoft
calls
it,
expressing
itself
through
each
of
those
different
parts.
So
it’s
nothing
you
can
see,
it’s
nothing
you
can
put
your
hands
on.
The
only
access
you
have
to
it
is
through
your
imagination
because
it’s
never
there,
it’s
absent.
It
just
expresses
itself
in
different
ways
through
each
of
the
parts.
So
the
only
way
you
can
come
to
understand
the
whole
is
by
delving
into
the
parts,
by
dwelling
in
the
parts,
by
looking
at
the
leaf,
by
looking
at
the
flower
and
coming
to
understand
them
as
metamorphosed
expressions
of
a
unified
but
absent
whole
-‐
and
the
only
access
you
have
to
that
is
through
your
imagination.
164
Think
of
the
horse
family,
you’ve
got
the
zebra,
the
horse,
the
gazelle,
the
bison.
They
all
emphasise
different
aspects
of
this
idea
of
horse.
If
you
think
about
a
jazz
performance
there
might
be
an
underlying
melody
but
there
are
multiple
expressions
of
it.
Where
is
the
melody?
It
doesn’t
exist,
it
only
exists
in
the
minds
of
the
musicians
and
so
all
the
different
performances,
the
sorts
of
particular
melody
are
the
unity,
the
melody
is
the
multiplicity,
the
performers
themselves
are
like
the
dynamic,
as
they
perform
they’re
like
the
equivalent
to
the
dynamic
unfolding
of
the
plant,
they
are
the
parts.
They
are
the
parts
within
the
whole,
metamorphic
variations
on
a
theme
literally...and
[this
is
seen]
in
jazz
and
jazz
improvisation.
(Field
notes,
Dooks
2012)
So
how
may
I
respond
to
this
in
the
context
of
my
own
project?
There
is
a
critical
lesson
that
Kossoff
expounds
above:
that
holism
“…is
nothing
you
can
see,
it’s
nothing
you
can
put
your
hands
on.
The
only
access
you
have
to
it
is
through
your
imagination
because
it’s
never
there,
it’s
absent.
It
just
expresses
itself
in
different
ways
through
each
of
the
parts.”
This
is
a
liberating
statement
for
anyone
encountering
holism
usefully
-‐
even
imaginatively
-‐
for
it
appears
true
and
imaginative
at
the
same
time
and
for
the
artist,
165
serves
as
reinforcement
that
permits
the
use
of
the
word.
More
relevantly,
my
holism
has
been
born
out
of
practice.
It
had
to
be
carried
out
in
parts,
and
whilst
I
had
an
eye
for
an
overview
and
saw
the
projects
initially
as
separate
entities,
I
thought
my
project
was
one
in
which
areas
of
life
were
ticked
off
very
separately
in
my
red
record
and
the
blue
and
yellow
sequels
to
it.
Instead,
when
I
look
at
my
work
retrospectively,
I
see
how
variations
and
different
weights
or
emphases
on
the
same
essential
problem
of
creating
a
richer
view
of
the
world
emanate
from
limited
means.
It
requires
the
listener
to
work
with
the
objects
that
I
have
produced,
to
complete
my
idiosyncratic
‘holistic
vision
of
exhaustion.”
The
listener,
it
seems
may
complete
the
holistic
act
in
this
research
project,
in
ways
that
I
couldn’t
predict.
Moreover,
the
part
and
whole
are
inextricably
linked
in
the
work.
This
surprised
me.
Any
one
of
the
tracks,
without
its
larger
context,
needs
some
explaining
when
removed
from
the
rest
of
the
work.
But
it
shouldn’t
surprise
me
when
I
have
described
the
work
as
‘fragmented
films’
–
because
when
one
removes
an
element
of
a
film
away,
or
uses
that
element
in
an
isolated
manner,
as
I
demonstrated
in
Chapter
4,
apart
the
‘whole’
of
the
film,
the
spell
becomes
broken.
Here
the
listener
serves
as
holist
to
reunite
and
reinterpret
the
vision.
Kossoff
is
usefully
using
the
metaphor
of
jazz
(and
horses)
to
show
that
our
conception
of
both
jazz
(and
horses)
is
an
interpretive
view.
Instead
we
have
to
imagine
multiple
interpretations
of
a
musical
number
(or
a
horse)
to
locate
where
the
‘holistic’
or
even
‘objective’
view
of
these
concepts
lies.
166
8.
Tarnass
and
The
Passion
of
The
Western
Mind
So
far,
we
are
discovering
there
is
no
single
‘holistic’
viewpoint
in
critical
thinking.
But
holism
is
still
very
useful
shorthand
to
describe
a
project
like
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
that
is
a
kind
of
self-‐contained
entity,
which
through
triangulated
methods,
seeks
to
improve
the
breadth
of
life
for
someone
whose
illness
appears
all
encompassing.
I
hope
that
it
offers
an
artistic,
practice-‐based,
creative
contribution
to
the
canonical
literature
and
culture
of
holism.
One
aspect
is
key
here;
from
Aristotle
to
social
ecology,
to
current
debates
about
the
word,
I
reiterate
that
holism
needs
to
be
strongly
contextually
defined
if
used,
and
how
it
is
used.
I
close
this
chapter
by
commenting
on
excerpts
from
The
Passion
of
The
Western
Mind
(Tarnass,
1996),
a
philosophical
history
of
cross-‐currents
in
Western
thought,
because
it
serves
to
lead
us
from
holism
and
world-‐views
in
the
context
of
the
cultural
world
at
large,
which
artists
are
part
of.
At
the
same
time
the
author
provides
a
background
that
may
bring
into
a
more
conclusive
focus
those
present
day
practitioners
who
define
themselves
as
working
in
‘holistic
frameworks.’
The
author
also
brings
us
back
to
the
start
of
holistic
thought
by
reminding
us
of
the
ideas
of
the
Ancient
Egyptians
and
Greeks.
Tarnass,
when
discussing
holism,
outlines
the
value
of
creating
experiential
philosophical
paradigms.
He
discusses
(Tarnass,
1996,
pp.439-‐440)
the
emergence
of
167
such
paradigms
being
more
than
‘logical
reasoning
from
the
observed
data’
(p.439,
referring
to
the
breakthroughs
of
philosophers
from
Plato,
Aquinas
or
Kant
to
Heidegger).
He
infers
that
such
paradigms
by
their
nature
must
include
that
which
is
experiential.
Tarnass
argues
that,
in
philosophy,
metaphysical
perspectives
and
their
epistemologies
(historically)
have
reflected
“…the
emergence
of
a
global
experiential
gestalt
that
informs
that
philosopher’s
vision,
that
governs
his
or
her
reasoning
or
observations,
and
that
ultimately
affects
the
entire
cultural
and
sociological
context
within
which
the
philosopher’s
vision
is
taking
form.”
(Tarnass,
1996,
p.439)
Gestalt
is
a
German
word
for
form
or
shape:
or
“pattern,
organised
whole”
(Blackburn
2008,
p.151).
It
is
used
in
English
to
refer
to
aspects
of
holism.
A
‘world-‐
view’
could
be
a
gestalt.
How
do
such
‘global
experiential
gestalts
arise?
Tarnass
argues
that
they
arise
out
of
discoveries
such
as
the
Copernican
revolution,
which
partly
gave
birth
to
modern
rationality
‘out
of
the
ancient
medieval
cosmic-‐
ecclesiastical
womb’
(Tarnass
1996,
p.439).
In
doing
so,
he
deduces
that
a
new
world-‐
view’s
appearance
is
relational
to
the
‘archetypal
dynamic’
of
the
larger
culture,
either
by
supporting
the
status
quo
or
by
tearing
it
down.
He
goes
on
to
suggest
that
during
the
twentieth
century,
society
experienced
the
radical
breakdown
of
so
many
of
its
established,
taken-‐for-‐granted
structures,
from
previous
secure
strongholds
of
political,
religious
and
scientific
establishments
into
more
fractured
and
unstable
truths.
When
such
entities
broke
down
(in
regard
at
least
to
the
Western
Mind
of
his
title)
from
a
singular,
overarching
world-‐view
into
our
current
‘collective’
braches
of
society,
Tarnass
implies,
in
all
of
these
branches
we
re-‐
arrive
at
‘an
impetus
to
articulate
a
holistic
and
participatory
world
view.’
He
implies
168
that
it
is
our
unavoidable
nature
to
do
this.
He
asks
why
is
it
is
such
an
impulse,
and
a
constantly
growing
phenomena
that
the
‘collective
psyche
seems
to
be
in
the
grip
of
a
powerful
archetypal
dynamic?’
Is
it
just
human
nature
to
want
to
sort
phenomena
into
meaningful
configurations?
He
sees
this
as
a
repeating
pattern,
rather
than
a
conscious,
overt
yearning:
…we
can
recognize
a
multiplicity
of
these
archetypal
sequences,
with
each
scientific
revolution,
each
change
of
worldview;
yet
perhaps
we
can
also
recognise
one
overall
archetypal
dynamic
in
the
evolution
of
human
consciousness
that
subsumes
all
of
these
smaller
sequences,
one
long
metatrajectory…
(Tarnass,
1996,
p.440)
Earlier
in
the
book
(p.357),
Tarnass
explains
that
‘corrections’
in
science
and
the
recent
challenging
of
classical
physics
offer
apparent
paradoxes,
rocking
the
idea
of
previously
stable
holistic
visions.
He
uses
the
example
in
quantum
mechanics
of
waves
being
interchangeable
with
particles,
and
the
apparent
simultaneous
duality
and
unity
of
thought
that
this
suggests.
By
breaking
down
atoms
into
their
smallest
observable
parts,
science
has
not
revealed
the
whole
vision
of
the
universe,
instead
merely
pitted
it
against
previous
goals
of
a
single
universal
theory.
Rather
than
this
being
a
problem,
in
terms
of
how
the
universe
may
work,
perhaps
we
could
argue,
albeit
conjecturally,
that
systems
of
holism
are
simply
adequate
for
the
task
only
at
the
time
they
appear
from.
After
all,
holism
in
largest
sense
of
the
word
is
surely
about
universality
–
and
when
new
discoveries
are
made
(about
the
universe)
we
have
to
adjust
not
only
our
169
theories
but
also
broach
the
possibility
of
paradigmatic
shockwaves
and
pluralities.
He
phrases
this
conundrum
thus:
…the
quantum-‐relativistic
revolution
represented
an
unexpected
and
welcome
broaching
of
new
intellectual
possibilities.
(ibid,
p.357)
Put
another
way,
perhaps
it
is
that
we
may
need
to
investigate
many
holisms
as
opposed
to
a
grand
unifying
theory.
Moreover,
anyone
expounding
holism
must
also
say
something
about
reductionism
–
the
points
where
the
smallest
measurable
components
of
the
world
in
the
context
of
holism
are
illustrated.
…The
deep
interconnectedness
of
phenomena
encouraged
a
new
holistic
thinking
about
the
world,
with
many
social,
moral
and
religious
implications.
Increasing
numbers
of
scientists
began
to
question
modern
science’s
pervasive,
if
often
unconscious,
assumption
that
the
intellectual
effort
to
reduce
all
reality
to
the
smallest
measurable
components
of
the
physical
world
would
eventually
reveal
that
which
is
most
fundamental
in
the
universe.
(ibid,
p.357)
Tarnass
outlines
that
historically,
the
discoveries
we’ve
briefly
outlined
did
not
immediately
filter
though
to
other
comparable
theoretical
transformations
in
the
natural
sciences
and
social
sciences
-‐
these
areas
being
based
largely
on
the
170
‘mechanistic
principles
of
classical
physics’
(ibid
p.357)
-‐
but
argued
that
many
felt
the
old
materialistic
and
fragmented
worldview
had
been
irrevocably
challenged.
9.
Making
the
world
strange
One
of
the
emerging
world
views
that
Tarnass
goes
on
to
highlight
was
a
‘new
aesthetic
logic’
in
modern
Western
thought
–
that
of
artists
-‐
tearing
down
the
past
and
to
reveal
that
they
could
‘make
the
world
strange
(Tarnass,
1996,
p391)’.
This
is
the
tradition
that,
to
an
extent,
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
finds
itself
located
in.
‘Each
artist
had
become
the
prophet
of
his
new
order
and
dispensation,
courageously
breaking
the
old
law
and
forming
a
new
testament’
(ibid,
p.391)
The
above
sentence
can
illustrate
art
movements
over
time
and
in
the
current
‘postmodern’
mélange
of
artists
vying
to
‘make
the
world
strange’
on
their
own
terms
and
with
their
disparate
worldviews.
In
terms
of
large,
defining
art
movements,
it
is
held
that
they
arise
in
response
to
those
movements
that
preceded
them.
Foundation
art
students
examining
the
Western
traditions
are
taught
to
observe
the
ideas
of
the
Ancient
Egyptians
and
Greeks
and
follow
the
evolutions
from
the
classical
art
period,
followed
by
the
Byzantine
movement,
the
Renaissance
and
world-‐views
that
accompanied
it
before
the
arrival
of
Baroque
and
Romanticism
movements.
And
it
is
part
of
Western
art
171
history
to
then
include
Modernism,
Post-‐Modernism
and
the
multifarious
and
niche-‐
driven
movements
of
the
present
day,
if
we
can
define
them
yet.
A
key
point
in
Tarnass’s
writing
is
that
these
movements
were
not
fixed
or
stable.
This
influences
an
aspect
of
holism.
Tarnass’
‘whole’
appears
to
be
dynamic.
If
we
freeze
time,
we
define
the
‘whole’
subjectively
-‐
but
only
at
that
time
of
what
life
is
reacting
to,
or
dwelling
in
–
the
times
in
which
its
cultures
and
discourses
are
created.
The
author
suggests
that
holism
is
not
a
fixed
phenomenon
in
terms
of
human
awareness,
that
we
are
instead
shifting
in
space,
in
time
and
regarding
or
ideas,
that
the
shape
of
things,
the
‘gestalt’
is
dynamic
and
perhaps
even
creative.
10.
The
radical
cosmologies
of
artists
The
Cosmos
is
all
that
ever
was
or
ever
will
be.
(Sagan,
1980,
p.4)
In
this
section
I
would
like
to
trace
how
the
terms
‘cosmology’
/
‘cosmologies’
are
being
used
in
creative
ways
as
types
of
holistic
enterprises
and
that
such
‘cosmologies’
are
packages
of
integrated
ideas
being
used
by
artists
and
critical
thinkers
in
the
arts.
Let
us
look
first
at
the
prefix
‘cosmos.’
A
creative
description
of
the
term
‘cosmos’
also
appears
in
the
television
programme
of
the
same
name
delivered
by
Carl
Sagan:
172
If
you
wish
to
make
an
apple
pie
from
scratch,
You
must
first,
invent
the
universe.
(Cosmos
episode
9
-‐
The
Lives
of
The
Stars,
2009)
The
term
‘Cosmos’
had
long
been
‘owned’
by
science,
(Greek;
‘order43’)
which
included
the
philosophical
realm.
The
scientist
Carl
Sagan
(1934
–
1996)
may
be
seen
as
an
exemplar
of
a
professor44
who
used
accessible
metaphors
and
aphorisms
in
his
work.
In
doing
so,
Sagan,
though
not
exactly
a
philosopher,
was
instrumental
in
the
framing
of
the
term
‘cosmos’
in
creative
and
existential
ways
in
the
1980s
–
such
as
the
much-‐cited
apple
pie
example
above.
Sagan
was
prepared
to
create
metaphors
that
were
poetic
and
populist
in
his
television
programmes,
books
and
lectures.
The
related
term
‘cosmologies’
then,
initially
seems
a
paradox
when
‘cosmos’
implies
everything.
But
one
may
interpret
that
‘cosmologies’
means
everythings.
The
term
‘cosmologies’
can
be
therefore
be
applied
to
individual
disciplines
of
‘cosmology’
–
such
as
differing
accounts
for
the
creation
of
the
universe;
anthropological,
scientific,
religious
and
so
on.
Science
by
its
nature
develops
opposing
narratives
–
e.g.
between
theories
of
one
cosmos
or
multiple
ones,
and
we
now
see
more
of
a
convergence
between
the
arts
and
sciences
–
sometimes
in
so-‐called
‘sci-‐art’45.
In
critical
theory,
we
may,
43
(Oxfordreference.com,
2014)
44
Professor
of
Astronomy
at
Cornell
University
–
source
http://www.news.cornell.edu/stories/1996/12/carl-‐sagan-‐
cornell-‐astronomer-‐dies-‐today-‐dec-‐20-‐seattle
45
Sci-‐Art
or
Sciart
is
a
term
I
first
saw
in
the
context
of
the
Wellcome
Trust
in
the
late
nineties:
“In
1996,
the
Wellcome
Trust
launched
the
Sciart
funding
programme
in
response
to
a
growing
field
of
artists
embarking
on
interdisciplinary
practice
in
conjunction
with
scientists”
in
Insight
and
Exchange:
An
evaluation
of
the
Wellcome
173
likewise,
argue
for
holisms
as
opposed
to
one
holism,
which
must
be
defined
in
a
given
context
to
avoid
being
contentious.
Such
contextualisation
is
now
being
applied
to
equally
self-‐contained
worlds
as
‘cosmologies’
–
especially
for
those
labyrinthine
or
complex
cultural
worlds
created
in
writing
and
other
artforms.
In
regard
to
this
project,
the
large-‐scale
nature
of
the
vinyl
trilogy
produced
could
possibly
considered
a
kind
of
first-‐person
cosmology.
I
am
interested
therefore,
in
‘artists
cosmologies.’
In
literature
we
can
take
an
example
like
Italo
Calvino’s
The
Complete
Cosmicomics
-‐
(Calvino,
2010).
First
published
as
short
stories
in
1969,
Calvino's
stories
about
the
evolution
of
the
universe
in
first-‐person
characters
are
fashioned
from
cellular
structures
and
mathematical
formulae.
In
these
idiosyncratic
narratives,
the
reader
inhabits
planets,
moons,
sub-‐atomic
particles
and
even
dinosaurs.
What
is
interesting
about
this
book
is
that
it
was
written
in
small
individual
narratives,
and
then
‘contained’
as
a
collection:
a
modular
bricolage-‐like
process
that
became
a
literary
‘cosmology’
in
it’s
own
right.
Moving
to
the
internet
age,
and
questioning
traditional
definitions
of
what
defines
a
cosmology,
Viralnet.net
began
a
series
of
discourses
in
2011
looking
at
the
interplay
between
the
cultural
understanding
of
‘cosmologies’
i.e.
that
of
cosmology
in
regard
to
the
study
of
the
universe
–
against
a
backdrop
of
the
divergent
interests
and
trajectories
of
artists
and
thinkers
under
the
banner
‘Radical
Cosmologies’.
The
following
statement
is
from
the
project’s
home
page:
Trust's
Sciart
programme:
http://www.wellcome.ac.uk/About-‐us/Publications/Reports/Public-‐engagement/Sciart-‐
evaluation-‐report/index.htm
174
During
2011-‐12,
Viralnet.net
and
guest
artist
and
curator,
Lea
Rekow,
will
invite
writers,
artists,
scientists,
performers,
and
scholars
to
collaborate
on
the
theme
of
Radical
Cosmologies…
Our
project
marks
a
significant
creative
departure
from
traditional
and
scientific
notions
of
cosmology.
We
plan
to
explore
a
wide
range
of
contemporary
artist’s
perspectives
and
practices
around
the
cultural,
educational
and
creative
possibilities
of
what
a
Radical
Cosmology
could
look
like.
Our
intention
is
to
offer
the
viewer
fresh
interpretations
of
cultural
narratives
presented
in
the
form
of
experimental
and
unique
interdisciplinary
inquiries.
These
creative
inquiries
will
look
at
the
universe
and
our
place
in
it,
and
will
emphasize
the
synthesis
of
alternative
technologies
and
creative
experimentation.
(Leeser,
Bassett
and
Calkin,
2014,
n.p.)
The
Radical
Cosmologies
project
profiles
the
work
of
several
artists
working
either
directly
on
themes
of
the
human
relationship
with
space
directly,
such
as
conceptualising
outer
space,
mapping,
visualising
data
and
so
on,
but
also
leaves
the
discourse
open
wide
enough
for
themes
such
as
memory
as
an
entity
/
construct
or
more
idiosyncratically,
the
grouping
together
of
one’s
possessions
as
a
kind
of
‘idio-‐
cosmology’
–
such
as
in
the
work
of
Mary
Mattingly’s
‘House
and
Universe’
series46.
This
example
sees
the
artist
constructing
several
photographic
tableaus
(based
on
performances)
of
the
artist’s
wrapped
possessions
and
other
related
objects;
in
graves,
around
rocks,
pulled
along
a
street,
and
lying
on
a
human
form,
literally
contained
by
sheets
of
tarpaulin
and
twine.
One
may
argue,
that
in
this
light,
three
interrelated
vinyl
46
http://www.marymattingly.com/html/MATTINGLYHouseUniverse.html
175
records
is
as
idiosyncratic
a
take
on
the
idea
of
the
cosmologies
of
artists.
The
word
cosmologies
in
relation
to
the
arts
also
features
in
various
art
shows
and
symposia
such
as
Cornell
Council
of
The
Arts
2014
Intimate
Cosmologies
biennial,
which
is
centred
on
‘the
aesthetics
of
scale’47.
[CCA
Director
Stephanie
Owens
said]
Scientists
are
suddenly
designers
creating
new
forms...
And
artists
are
increasingly
interested
in
how
things
are
structured,
down
to
the
biological
level.
Both
are
designing
and
discovering
new
ways
of
synthesizing
natural
properties
of
the
material
world
with
the
fabricated
experiences
that
extend
and
express
the
impact
of
these
properties
on
our
lives.
(Aloi,
2014,
n.p.)
When
gathered
systems
of
thought
and
artistic
practice
are
played
out
in
the
cultural
world,
we
may
tentatively
term
these
experiments
as
potential
‘cosmologies’.
And
we
may
say
that
these
cosmologies
may
also
be
potential
‘enterprises
of
holism’
or
‘holistic
experiments’.
Such
enquiries
could
serve
as
both
complementary
and
counter
narratives
to
the
labyrinthine
bodies
of
thought
revolving
around
types
of
totality,
i.e.
around
the
cosmos,
or
one’s
personal
cosmos,
with
the
caveat
that
an
individual
artist
working
within
such
broad
and
encompassing
words
and
worlds,
who
develops
their
own
‘cosmology’
outside
of
the
purely
scientific
model
is
experimental,
or
occasionally
incredulous,
satirical
or
unorthodox.
But
at
the
same
time,
working
47
http://www.news.cornell.edu/stories/2013/12/2014-‐biennial-‐explore-‐nanotech-‐artistic-‐medium
176
within
such
terms
may
also
be
an
attempt
at
integrating
and
connecting
systems
of
thought
and
art
practice
as
much
as
possible.
11.
The
new
testaments
of
artists?
Concluding
thoughts
If
we
return
to
Tarnass’
suggestion
that
‘each
artist
had
become
the
prophet
of
his
new
order
and
dispensation,
courageously
breaking
the
old
law
and
forming
a
new
testament’
(Tarnass,
1996,
p357)
we
uncover
many
contemporary
examples
of
individual
artists
creating
their
own
‘cosmologies’,
or
self-‐contained
worlds.
One
example
of
this
is
the
history
of
the
artist
manifesto
as
a
self-‐contained
document
to
outline
idiosyncratic
worldviews
and
novel
methodologies.
Worldviews
of
artists,
to
quote
Alex
Danchev
in
100
Artists’
Manifestos
(Penguin,
2011)
are:
…self-‐differentiating.
Artists’
movements
and
artists’
manifestos
typically
define
themselves
against..
(Danchev,
2011,
introduction,
p.ixv).
This
‘against’
could
mean
either
against
the
accepted
view
or
against
each
other
and
for
or
against
holism
in
the
art
world.
Whole
worlds
can
be
optimistically
created
or
destroyed
in
this
ideological
playground,
although
in
Danchev’s
book,
many
artist
manifestos
emphasise
change
and
are
utopian
constructions.
There
are
many
contemporary
examples
of
this,
for
example
in
Bill
Drummond’s
numerous
visions
of
a
rebellious
utopia
in
his
manifestos,
from
his
anti-‐Turner
Prize
rhetoric
(O’Neill,
2005),
177
or
his
‘not
listening
to
recorded
music
for
a
given
time’
(‘17’
-‐
Drummond,
2008).
Drummond
is
a
prolific
manifesto-‐writer
and
maker,
fond
of
heavy
typefaces,
drama
and
grand
statements.
Here
is
‘poster
59’,
a
statement
which
became
a
collection
of
manifestos
charting
a
Drummond
choral
project.
NOTICE
ALL
RECORDED
MUSIC
HAS
RUN
ITS
COURSE.
IT
HAS
ALL
BEEN
CONSUMED,
TRADED,
DOWNLOADED,
UNDERSTOOD,
HEARD
BEFORE,
SAMPLED,
LEARNED,
REVIVED,
JUDGED
AND
FOUND
WANTING…
…The17
IS
A
CHOIR
…The17
HAS
MANY
VOICES
…THEY
USE
NO
LIBRETTO,
LYRICS
OR
WORDS;
NO
TIME
SIGNATURES,
RHYTHM
OR
BEATS;
AND
HAVE
NO
KNOWLEDGE
OF
MELODY,
CONTERPOINT
OR
HARMONY.
(Drummond,
2008,
p.3)
This
text
is
part
of
a
group
of
statements
or
manifestos
that
become
reflexive
over
a
given
period
of
time.
As
Drummond
mounts
a
tirade
against
making
new
recorded
music
over
several
years,
and
focusing
instead
on
the
practice
and
anti-‐
documentation
of
sound,
there
is
a
constant
drama
and
revision
to
the
texts
as
they
unfold
into
a
narrative
that
does
get
documented,
but
as
a
book.
Treated
as
a
whole,
the
book
is
a
singular
utopian
vision,
with
the
statements
forming
individual
stems
of
an
integrated
point
of
view,
a
potential
kind
of
idiosyncratic
holism.
178
Another
interesting
manifesto
that
we
may
look
at
is
‘The
Stuckists’
resolutely
nostalgic
view
of
what
constitutes
art
(and
life).
‘The
Stuckist
Manifesto’
(Childish
and
Thomson,
in
Danchev,
2011,
p425)
owes
its
existence
to
a
well-‐known
contemporary
artist
and
is
a
useful
manifesto
to
use
because
it
uses
the
term
‘holistic’:
Their
name
derives
from
an
outburst
by
Tracey
Emin…
directed
at
her
ex-‐boyfriend
Billy
Childish
‘Your
paintings
are
stuck,
you
are
stuck!
Stuck!
Stuck!
Stuck!’
(in
Danchev,
2011,
p.425)
The
manifesto
in
question
takes
a
rebellious
and
yet
traditional
stance
at
the
same
time
arguing
against
‘conceptualism,
hedonism
and
the
cult
of
the
ego-‐artist’
(in
Danchev,
p.426)
and
it
sees
the
work
of
‘stuckism’
as
holistic:
3.
Stuckism
proposes
a
model
of
art
which
is
holistic.
It
is
a
meeting
of
the
conscious
and
unconscious,
thought
and
emotion,
spiritual
and
material,
private
and
public.
Modernism
is
a
school
of
fragmentation
–
one
aspect
of
art
is
isolated
and
exaggerated
to
the
detriment
of
the
whole.
This
is
a
fundamental
distortion
of
the
human
experience
and
perpetuates
an
egocentric
lie.
(Childish
and
Thomson,
in
Danchev,
2011,
p.427)
Even
just
from
these
two
examples,
we
can
see
then
there
can
be
a
multiplicity
or
‘metatrajectories’
of
very
firm
points
of
view
between
artists
–
one
of
constant
revision
as
in
Drummond’s
case
–
as
opposed
to
the
literally
stuck
‘world’
of
“The
179
Stuckists’.
Whether
static
or
dynamic,
these
points
of
view
have
been
created
in
small
bursts,
forming
a
world
view.
Whether
that
worldview
is
looking
outward
or
inward
is
a
matter
for
the
individual
manifesto-‐ists
to
discern,
but
it
is
not
overstretching
the
argument
to
say
that
these
are
examples
of
a
kind
of
holism
in
contemporary
art.
We
can
certainly
use
the
term
‘world
view’
if
holism
is
semantically
problematic.
At
the
very
least,
artist
manifestos
can
be
seen
as
related
to
a
kind
of
holism,
from
the
desire
to
express
self
contained
worlds.
This
means
that
I
can
validly
place
my
‘holistic’
project
within
contemporary
art
practice.
Of
course
manifestos
are
not
confined
to
artists
(or
famously,
communists).
But
artists
do
create
their
own
worlds,
and
a
sense
of
‘enclosed
wholes’,
sometimes
unconsciously.
Concluding
thoughts
This
chapter
has
attempted
to
map
the
field
of
holism,
and
track
it
as
it
continues
to
explode
along
such
terrain
which
one
struggles
to
keep
up
with,
and
in
no
singular
‘holistic
vision’.
Holism
seems
to
be
exploding
along
metatrajectorial
and
diverse
academic
territories
and
geographies.
There
is
no
single
holism,
semantic,
methodological,
spiritual
and
so
on.
But
instead
of
a
fear
that
no
solid
universal
point
of
view
exists
in
which
we
can
protect
our
foundations
on
–
there
may
lay
opportunities
for
that
which
is
individualistic,
that
which
is
idiosyncratic,
and
born
from
necessity.
This
is
my
sole
reason
for
pursing
holism
as
a
word,
shorthand
and
a
symbol
that
may
then
be
suffixed
in
the
traditions
we
have
seen
in
this
chapter.
We
have
seen
how
thinkers
and
those
who
need
to
augment
holism
with
their
own
contexts
may
180
legitimately
do
so.
It
is
in
this
light
in
which
I
may
now
similarly
augment
holism
in
such
a
way
that
it
can
be
contextualised
in
my
own
tradition,
that
of
art
practice,
of
underpinning
an
idiosyncratic
methodology
with
practical
ends.
This
is
the
purpose
of
the
following
chapter:
the
development
of
the
word
to
be
used
from
an
artistic
and
individualistic
point
of
view,
that
of
idio-‐holism.
181
Chapter
7
Idioholism:
an
artist’s
intervention
1.
Introduction:
The
One
Minute
Manifesto
of
the
Exhausted
Artist
2.
The
idio
3.
A
short
survey
of
idios
kosmos
4.
Existing
idioholistic
publications?
5.
The
transferability
of
the
project’s
principles
6.
Conclusion
and
The
Ten
Minute
Manifesto
of
Idioholism
182
1.
Introduction:
The
one
minute
manifesto
of
the
exhausted
artist
In
this
chapter,
alongside
the
sleevenotes
to
the
three
records
(in
Chapter
8)
I
unpack
and
elaborate
on
the
metaphors
that
I
use
to
describe
and
comment
on
the
situation
–
perhaps
even
‘predicament’
-‐
that
I
find
myself
in.
These
approaches
are
connected
together
by
the
term
I
have
developed
to
contain
them:
idioholism.
The
research
project
began
with
an
artist
manifesto,
in
both
a
written
and
audio
version.
Alongside
several
other
manifestos,
it
was
‘performed’
(or
rather
played
back,
as
I
was
too
sick
to
attend)
at
a
symposium
on
the
artist-‐manifesto
in
Dundee
in
2012.
I
intentionally
limited
the
time
in
which
the
manifesto
could
be
read
to
approximately
one
minute,
so
that
people
with
an
exhaustion-‐related
condition
could
read
any
statement
of
principle
in
connection
with
this
research
project.
The
manifesto
is
presented
here,
and
by
the
end
of
the
chapter,
the
latest
incarnation
of
it
will
be
refined.
Between
these
two
manifestos,
I
attempt
to
validate
the
term
‘idioholism’.
In
doing
so,
I
will
be
outlining
a
conceptual
response
to
some
of
the
theoretical
and
philosophical
issues
which
we
have
mapped
thus
far.
183
The
One
Minute
Manifesto
of
The
Exhausted
Artist
v.1
Chris
Dooks,
2012
Commissioned
as
part
of
AHM's
'State
of
Play'
series.
(Ainsley,
Harding,
and
Moffat,
(2012)
theahmblog.blogspot.com/p/about-‐ahm.html)
i.
The
Exhausted
Artist
reaches
the
end
of
the
line
with
healthcare
providers
causing
his
already
weak
rainbow
to
flicker
and
dull.
ii.
The
prism
that
previously
created
this
rainbow
now
needs
re-‐
calibrating
or
‘patching’
with
adaptations
to
repair
it,
or
to
replace
it.
iv.
To
restore
the
affected
frequencies
of
this
‘rainbow-‐of-‐exhaustion’
we
instigate
super-‐low
energy
art
interventions
across
three
seemingly
idiosyncratic
hierarchical
categories;
1.
Art
as
Immediate
Triage,
2.
Art
as
Perceptual
Enhancer
and
3.
Art
as
Cosmological
Portal…
v.
We
use
psychogeography,
alpha
states,
astronomy,
broken
instruments,
bricolage,
but
in
particular,
art
that
is
made
through
appropriation,
allowing
large-‐scale
artworks
to
be
built
without
budget
or
physical
effort.
vi.
Accidentally,
these
processes
are
of
benefit
to
audiences
outside
of
the
ME
/
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
community.
184
2.
The
Idio
In
the
last
chapter
we
examined
the
nomenclature,
origins,
and
problems
of
holism.
Here,
we
undertake
a
similar
enterprise
with
the
word
‘idio’
(sometimes
spelled
‘ideo’)
in
order
to
validate
forging
a
portmanteau
term
with
holism
to
form
idioholism.
One
of
the
first
idio
prefixes
I
located
had
an
immediate
resonance
as
my
illness
may
be
idiopathic
(we
briefly
encountered
this
term
in
Chapter
6).
1.
Idiopathic:
adj.
Denoting
a
disease
or
condition
the
cause
of
which
is
not
known
or
that
arises
spontaneously.
(Oxfordreference.com,
2014)
The
next
idio
was
equally
apt,
and
hinted
at
an
‘inward-‐looking’
enquiry.
2.
Idiographic:
The
term
“idiographic”
comes
from
the
Greek
word
“idios”
meaning
“own”
or
“private”.
Psychologists
interested
in
this
aspect
of
experience
want
to
discover
what
makes
each
of
us
unique.
Gordon
Willard
Allport
described
the
term
idiographic
to
be
“unique
dispositions
based
on
life
experiences
peculiar
to
ourselves.
He
argues
that
they
cannot
be
effectively
studied
using
standardised
tests.”
-‐
Nomothetic
Idiographic
Debate
(McLeod,
2014,
online)
185
This
establishes
the
potential
of
calling
my
practice
‘idiographic
holism’.
Next,
we
have
idiom,
which
describes
figures
of
speech
and
particular
‘ways
of
words.’
However,
it
could
be
argued
that
the
primary
idio
in
common
parlance
is:
3.
Idiosyncrasy
/
Idiosyncratic
Noun
[C
usually
plural]:
a
strange
or
unusual
habit,
way
of
behaving,
or
feature
that
someone
or
something
has.
(Dictionary.cambridge.org,
2014)
In
my
idioholism,
I
infer
that
personal
routes
and
practices
from
the
first-‐
person
over
the
whole
of
one’s
life
would
equal
such
an
‘idio(syncratic)
holism’.
The
fourth
definition
further
lays
out
the
terrain
of
the
root
of
the
word,
and
it
originates
from
an
arts
context.
We
define
what
an
idioglossia
is
from
a
book
of
the
same
name.
An
‘Idioglossia’
is
a
‘glossary
of
texts
an
terms
generated
in
and
around
the
Goldsmiths
MFA
Art
Writing
seminars
at
the
Whitechapel
Gallery
2011/2012’
(Noonan-‐Ganley,
2012,
rear
cover).
The
book
refers
to
itself
as
an
entry
in
the
body
text
(note:
pages
deliberately
avoid
numbers,
perhaps
as
an
idiosyncratic
challenge
to
academic
convention).
Idioglossia
is
further
defined
as
an
idioticon,
a
kind
of
dictionary,
specific
to
a
unique
line
of
enquiry.
It
was
in
the
following
quote
that
I
first
came
across
a
more
meaningful
term
which
privileges
the
‘idio’
–
that
of
‘idios
kosmos’
a
term
that
is
so
highly
pertinent
to
the
project,
I
have
given
it
a
further
expanded
explanation
later
in
this
chapter.
186
First,
let
us
examine
what,
according
to
the
editors
of
the
publication,
an
idioglossia
is:
4.
Idioglossia
The
word
“idioglossia”
is
derived
from
the
Greek
“idios”:
pertaining
to
the
private,
and
from
“glossa”:
language.
An
“idiot”,
who
today
is
broadly
taken
to
be
“one
who
is
ignorant”,
was
originally
“one
who
does
not
take
part
in
public
life”,
sometimes
this
refers
specifically
to
someone
who
does
not
exercise
his
or
her
vote.
The
root
“idios”
gives
us
“idioticon”:
a
list
of
words
defined
in
relation
to
a
specific
discourse,
as
distinct
from
the
list
of
words
found
in
a
dictionary,
where
they
are
reported
according
to
general
usage,
“idiosyncrasy”:
an
action
which
appears
to
serve
no
purpose
because
the
actor's
motivation
is
hidden
or
private
i.e.
“though
this
be
madness,
yet
there
is
method
in't”,
and
“idiom”:
a
phrase
whose
meaning
is
private
because
it
is
not
decipherable
through
understanding
the
literal
definitions
of
its
constituent
words.
Idiocy
in
its
many
forms,
demonstrates
that
there
is
a
relationship
between
public
space
and
the
application
of
language
in
relation
to
the
subjective
beliefs
or
understandings
of
its
users
and
the
specific
discourse
that
these
users
carry
out.
187
Perhaps
then,
we
could
say
that
it
is
idiocy
when
instances
of
language
are
privately
owned
or
traded;
as
soon
as
they
are
uttered
or
committed
to
paper
our
words
escape
from
the
“idios
kosmos”
of
private
thought
and
enter
the
“koinos
kosmos”
of
public
life.
(Noonan-‐Ganley,
2011,
n.d.
note:
physical
publication
has
no
page
numbers)
But
there
is
also
a
caveat
in
this
definition.
Noonan-‐Ganley
suggests
that
idio
or
Greek
idios
is
part
of
the
etymology
of
idiot
early
on
in
the
entry,
before
going
on
to
suggest
that
a
historical
kind
of
idiocy
was
not
necessarily
equated
with
stupidity,
and
that
instead
it
was
a
term
which
privileged
private
and
unusual
views.
This
was
somewhat
a
relief:
whilst
there
may
be
some
anarchic
or
counter-‐cultural
aspect
in
calling
my
practice
‘idiot-‐holism’
it
would
probably
prevent
it
from
being
taken
seriously.
In
Noonan-‐Ganley’s
definition,
there
is
no
neat
explanation
of
using
‘idio’
as
a
general
term
or
prefix.
Moreover,
the
description
originates
from
a
(creative)
art
writing
MFA
from
Goldsmiths
College,
University
of
London,
where
the
writing
can
also
be
a
playful
response
to
a
word
in
this
‘glossia’.
The
first
term
in
Noonan-‐Ganley’s
entry
on
idioglossia
we
encounter,
of
idiot,
is
interesting
because
we
learn
that
there
was
a
time
when
this
meant
‘one
who
does
not
take
part
in
public
life.’
If
‘idiot’
retained
this
meaning
in
the
present-‐day,
it
would
be
particularly
apt
for
those
who
are
housebound
because
of
illness.
And
one
may
even
suggest
that
we
could
add
a
counter
narrative
to
this
‘idiot’
–
one
who
has
been
188
forgotten
from
public
life
–
as
so
many
of
the
ME
sufferers
have
become:
invisible
patients
with
invisible
illnesses.
If
we
are
permitted
to
think
of
the
non-‐written
elements
in
the
project
as
a
kind
of
language,
then
the
vinyl
trilogy
is
a
kind
of
‘audio-‐visual
idioticon’,
three
LPs,
forging
meaning
in
their
own
language
to
help
offset
CFS-‐ME.
In
fact,
the
word
ideophone
is
not
far
from
this,
as
we
will
discover
now.
This
fifth
id(e)o
also
happened
to
be
a
vinyl
trilogy.
I
came
across
this
trilogy
by
chance
and
was
unaware
that
other
sonic
artists
had
attempted
a
triple
vinyl
enterprise
prefixed
with
an
idio
or
ideo.
Luckily
the
project
(barely)
resembled
mine
and
in
physical
form
only.
Moreover,
this
was
a
work
that
referenced
other
work,
and
was
also
a
curated
gallery
piece.
The
word
is
Ideophone
and
the
record
trilogy
is
called
Three
Ideophones48
Three
Ideophones
(Goodiepal,
Aeron
&
Alejandra,
Piringer
in
collaboration
with
Lomme
and
van
Bladel,
2008)
is
a
box
of
three
10”
vinyl
picture
discs
from
the
publisher
of
artist
publications
–
Onomatopee,
an
Eindhoven
and
Amsterdam
based
production
label
for
such
projects
that
translate
texts,
work
with
at
the
interplay
between
text
and
image
and/or
sound
-‐
with
a
focus
on
poetry,
typography
and
sound
art.
48
http://www.onomatopee.net/project.php?progID=2c5215ddbac29a808abcd68d12199f6f
189
But
what
are
Ideophones?
One
definition
is
that
Ideophones
are
(often)
words
whose
form
is
suggestive
of
their
meaning.
Familiar
examples
include
the
English
kerplop
and
boom
or
German
holterdipolter
and
tick-‐tack.49
From
the
sleevenotes
of
the
box:
[The
publishing
label]
Onomatopee
got
into
a
quest
for
onomatopoeic
qualities,
whereby
we
refer
to
literal,
auditory
and
visual
qualities
within
one
medium,
and
invited
three
artists
to
make
this
happen.
The
title
of
the
project
is
‘Three
Ideophones’,
a
reference
to
the
work
of
experimental
music
pioneer
Dick
Raaijmakers50.
An
oft-‐cited
definition
of
the
notion
of
ideophone
is:
‘a
vivid
representation
of
an
idea
in
sound.
A
word,
often
onomatopoeic
and
reduplicated,
which
describes
a
predicate,
qualificative
or
adverb
in
respect
to
manner,
colour,
sound,
smell,
action,
state
or
intensity.’
For
instance
the
word
‘Bling
Bling’
is
an
ideophone.
Multiple
layers
of
meaning;
sound,
shiny,
expensive
or
rich
etc.
Two
artists
and
one
duo,
Goodiepal
(DK),
Aeron
&
Alejandra
(E/US)
and
Joerg
Piringer
(AT),
have
been
challenged
to
produce
their
‘Ideophone’.
These
artists
can
all
be
addressed
to
as
‘multidisciplinary
49
Source:
http://ideophone.org
-‐
an
research
site
about
the
phenomena
of
ideophones
Dick
Raaymakers
(Raaijmakers)
(1
September
1930
-‐
4
September
2013)
was
a
Dutch
composer,
theater
maker
and
theorist.
Source:
http://v2.nl/publishing/dick-‐raaymakers-‐a-‐monograph
190
artist’.
In
contrast
with
this
conception,
Onomatopee
does
not
believe
in
multidisciplinary
as
‘unity
in
diversity’,
but
believes
in
the
idea
of
‘unity’.
We
believe
we
can
put
forward
the
concept
of
the
Ideophone
as
an
accountable
basis
for
this
profession
and,
likewise,
as
a
verb
that
serves
the
outcome
of
this
project.
The
ideophone
would
serve
as
a
motive,
within
the
practice
of
the
invited
artists
as
well
as
for
the
challenge
this
project
targets.
In
this
Ideophone
they
captured
the
multiple
layers
of
their
artistic
practice
in
one
single
object.
There
appears
to
be
some
common
ground
with
my
work,
although
I
was
not
aware
of
this
project
at
the
inception
of
my
own.
So
it
was
with
some
trepidation
that
I
approached
the
records,
(which
I
bought
in
Germany
on
the
same
day
I
premiered
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
at
a
Berlin
artists’
space
–
www.image-‐movement.de,
a
gallery
space
/
shop
presenting
works
by
multimedia
artists
in
the
heart
of
the
city).
Here,
in
my
hands,
were
objects
and
texts
that
spoke
about
unity,
through
bringing
together
different
artists’
collaborations
and
thought
experiments
around
the
exploration
of
‘Ideophonic’
ideas
or
ideas
around
onomatopoeia.
As
it
turned
out,
it
was,
as
I
should
have
expected,
highly
idiosyncratic
and
crucially
bore
no
relationship
to
my
project
–
apart
perhaps
in
the
impulse
to
make
a
form
of
‘vinyl
trinity’
that
was
in
some
way
connected
to
‘an
ideo/idio’.
Of
course,
let
us
not
forget
that
the
idea
of
the
trinity
and
trilogy
is
a
common
form
in
art
production.
However,
the
idea
that
there
were
people
making
vinyl
trilogies
at
same
time
as
I
was,
around
the
idea
of
an
ideo,
or
an
idio,
sent
shivers
down
my
spine,
and
illustrates
if
an
artist
thinks
she/he
has
developed
a
unique
niche,
research
is
ever-‐more
essential
if
originality
is
key.
191
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
doesn’t
investigate
onomatopoeia,
so
I
was
happy
to
purchase
the
box
set
as
a
text
to
cite
here,
as
a
triple
vinyl
collection
around
a
phenomenon,
and
leave
it
there,
as
a
text.
What
I
turn
to
next,
is
that
which
underpins
my
idioholism
historically.
We
shall
leave
objects
and
return
to
concepts
and
definitions
of
the
idio,
with
possibly
the
most
relevant
term
that
serves
to
underpin
the
vinyl
LPs
as
an
entire
individual
world-‐view
-‐
an
idios
kosmos,
which
I
have
tried
to
create
as
part
of
a
collective
or
shared
cultural
world
-‐
the
koinos
kosmos.
3.
A
short
survey
of
idios
kosmos
Attributed
to
the
Philosopher
Heraclitus
(535
–
475
BC),
the
phrase
idios
kosmos
may
be
defined
as
‘private’
or
‘personal’
world
-‐
contrasting
with,
but
related
to
koinos
kosmos
(‘shared’
world).
Idios
kosmos
may
be
seen
as
a
perspective
of
the
world
from
first-‐person
experience
where
one’s
universal
view
is
inescapably
subjective,
unique
or
idiosyncratic.
In
contemporary
journals
however
one
sees
the
term
most
frequently
related
to
the
psychiatric
realm
or
within
studies
into
the
nature
of
consciousness.
Today,
in
using
a
term
such
as
idios
kosmos,
one
finds
it
most
commonly
cited
in
relation
to
mental
illness,
schizophrenia
and
delusional
states
–
a
personal
world,
but
one
gone
awry.
Here
is
a
typical
example:
in
Founding
Psychoanalysis
Phenomenologically
we
read
of
Ludwig
Binswanger,
a
Swiss
psychiatrist
and
pioneer
in
the
field
of
existential
psychology
who
“proposed
that
the
private
universe
(idios
kosmos)
of
dreaming
shares
features
with
psychosis”
and
is
related
to
“the
phenomenology
of
lived-‐bodily
192
experience
[which]
could
lead
to
the
constructive
revision
of
the
psychoanalytic
unconscious”
(Mishara,
Lohmar
&
Brudzinska,
2012,
p.170).
In
addition,
Lejla
Kucukalic’s
Philip
K.
Dick:
Canonical
Writer
of
the
Digital
Age
spells
out
the
science
fiction
writer
and
philosopher’s
understanding
of
both
idios
and
koinos
kosmos
-‐
with
reference
to
the
author’s
experience
of
schizophrenia
and
with
reference
of
it
in
his
work:
Dick's
view
of
subjective
and
objective
perceptions
is
focused
in
Heraclitus'
formulation
of
the
universe
as
consisting
of
private
idios
cosmos
and
the
collective
koinos
cosmos,
the
two
realms
that
determine
our
existential
position
in
the
world.
…Dick
explains
his
understanding
of
the
private
and
public
worlds:
"No
person
can
tell
which
parts
of
his
total
worldview
is
idios
kosmos
and
which
is
koinos
kosmos,
except
by
the
achievement
of
a
strong
empathic
rapport
with
other
people"
…"In
all
of
my
books,
well
virtually
all,"
continues
Dick,
"the
protagonist
is
suffering
from
a
breakdown
of
his
idios
kosmos—at
least
we
hope
that's
what's
breaking
down,
not
the
koinos
kosmos"
For
the
schizophrenic,
the
idios,
the
private
world,
will
always
fall
apart,
according
to
the
author.
(Kucukalic,
2008,
p.54)
So
whilst
this
psychiatric
focus
is
a
specific
application
of
the
Greek
koinos
terms,
in
my
view
this
does
not
negate
the
potential
(and
conceptual)
usefulness
of
the
phenomenon
of
a
‘personal’
or
idios
cosmos.
This
can
be
related
to
contemporary
193
culture,
alongside
such
related
individualistic
terms
such
as
‘artists’
cosmology’
(as
we
saw
in
the
chapter
on
holism)
or
‘family
constellations51’
and
my
own
‘idioholism’.
Therefore,
I
will
present
a
cluster
of
contemporary
examples
of
how
the
term
is
cited
before
offering
some
thoughts
on
how
I
find
it
to
be
related
to
my
own
idioholism.
Firstly,
Donald
P
Moss,
writing
in
The
Journal
of
Phenomenological
Psychology
introduces
the
“private
logic”
of
this
kosmos.
…
all
individuals
create
their
own
reality,
but
the
healthy
individual
does
so
in
dialogue
with
community,
constructing
a
"common
sense,"
or
a
shared
cognitive
map
of
reality,
while
the
unhealthy
individual
does
so
in
isolation,
producing
a
"private
logic,"
or
an
eccentric
schema
of
reality
lacking
commonality
with
the
shared
social
world.
We
all
live
in
a
constructed
cosmos,
but
that
cosmos
finds
its
place
between
the
ideal
extremes
of
the
koinos
kosmos
and
the
idios
kosmos
-‐
the
common
world
and
the
idiosyncratic
world
in
isolation.
(Moss,
1992,
p.98)
In
Religion
and
Psychiatry:
Beyond
Boundaries:
Implications
for
Clinical
Practice
Juan
José
López-‐Ibor
Jr.
and
Maria
Ines
López-‐Ibor
Alcocer
describe
how
the
‘sane’
person
may
inhabit
both
idios
and
koinos
kosmos
concurrently
–
but
crucially,
the
person
is
usually
able
to
distinguish
between
the
two
states:
51
“The
“Family
Constellation”
process
is
a
trans-‐generational,
phenomenological,
therapeutic
intervention
with
roots
in
family
systems
therapy,
existential-‐phenomenology,
and
the
ancestor
reverence
of
the
South
African
Zulus.
Although
the
Family
Constellation
process
is
sanctioned
by
family
therapy
associations
in
Europe”
(Cohen,
2006,
226-‐233)
194
Phenomenological
and
existentialist
influenced
psychiatry
has
described
how
delusional
ideas
consist
of
the
desire
to
control
one’s
own
world,
idios
kosmos,
or
the
common
world,
koinos
kosmos.
Each
one
of
us
is
in
two
worlds
at
the
same
time,
the
one
of
common
reality
and
one’s
own
in
which
fantasy,
dreams
or
simple
longings
and
hopes
reign.
The
sane
person
is
able
to
distinguish
one
from
another,
and
even
to
pass
from
one
to
another
even
when
doubts
about
that
radical
ambiguity
of
our
consciousness
assault
him
or
her.
In
delusions
everything
is
different.
Not
able
to
live
in
a
koinos
kosmos,
the
patient
substitutes
and
misappropriates
the
idios
kosmos
in
such
a
way
so
as
to
not
be
able
to
distinguish
what
is
what.
…The
brilliant,
innovative
man,
creator
of
new
worlds
feeds
in
an
idios
kosmos,
but
immediately
communicates
it,
drags
others
to
participate
in
it
and
recognize
in
themselves
the
creating
force.
Truth
with
capital
letters,
enriching
as
a
contrast
to
the
private
truth
of
the
delusional
individual
that
is
but
the
dramatic
effort
to
reach
a
truth
illness
denies.
(López-‐Ibor
Jr.
and
López-‐Ibor
Alcocer,
in
Verhagen
(ed)
2009,
p.215)
With
regard
to
‘the
dramatic
effort
to
reach
a
truth
illness
denies’,
the
authors
above
are
inferring
an
illness
in
terms
of
psychiatric
conditions,
and
within
such,
an
individual
is
sometimes
‘trapped’
in
idios
kosmos,
unable
to
relate
to
the
koinos
kosmos
due
to
their
condition.
I
find
this
interesting
in
regard
to
states
of
physical
and
cognitive
torpor
within
conditions
like
my
own,
that
one
may
have
to
‘make
do’
with
the
truths
one
finds
in
limited
means.
That
said,
if
that
practitioner
can
be
said
to
be
195
non-‐delusional
but
still
remains
limited
by
physical
and
cognitive
health
in
regard
to
their
own
horizons,
does
that
make
one’s
personal
truths
any
less
true
than
a
so-‐called
collective
koinos
or
‘objective’
truth?
Moreover,
if
we
revisit
what
Donald
Ross
earlier
terms
‘an
eccentric
schema’
to
describe
someone
with
a
dysfunctional
approach
to
a
world-‐view,
an
artist
would
not
necessary
have
a
problem
with
this
description.
Obviously
one
would
wish
that
such
a
practitioner
was
not
just
a
slave
to
eccentricity
or
enslaved
by
schizophrenia
and
related
conditions.
In
this
light,
perhaps
an
artist
deliberately
developing
‘an
eccentric
schema’
could
be
seen
as
a
perfectly
valid
way
of
encountering
the
world?
Because
this
research
project
has
been
about
exhaustion,
it
would
be
interesting
to
see
if
there
was
an
example
of
idios
kosmos
cited
in
as
close
relation
to
exhaustion
as
possible
i.e.,
in
relation
to
CFS-‐ME.
Whilst
the
search
for
such
a
specific
definition
of
this
idios
kosmos
in
relation
to
CFS-‐ME
currently
seems
unlikely,
Jiří
Wackermann
speaks
about
how
we
move
from
the
shared
world
to
the
private
world
every
time
we
sleep,
and
of
the
paradox
in
articulating
an
aspect
of
phenomena
which
the
absence
of
regular
consciousness
(sleep)
prevents:
As
Heraclitus
said
…the
world
of
the
waking
is
one
and
shared
but
that
the
sleeping
turn
aside
each
into
his
private
world
(Kahn,
1979,
fragment
VI).
Now,
what
is
the
passage
between
the
two
worlds
like?
…If
we
conceive,
with
Heraclitus,
the
falling
asleep
as
a
passage
from
the
commonly
shared
world
(koinos
kosmos)
to
a
private
world
(idios
kosmos)
of
the
sleeper—that
is,
a
transition
between
two
196
different
orders
of
experience—then
it
is
also
conceivable
that
the
passage
may
follow
different
paths
for
different
subjects.
(Wackermann
2010,
pp.1093-‐1094)
Wackermann
suggests
that
everyone’s
‘passage’
between
his
or
her
private
world
and
shared
world
is
unique.
If
we
extend
the
sleep
metaphor
to
other
modes
of
exploring
the
self,
of
which
an
art
practice
may
be
one,
then
it
is
especially
apt
to
think
of
this
passage
in
regard
to
the
autoethnographer
developing
world-‐views,
or
perhaps
‘holistic
exercises’
within
their
fields
and
their
limits:
each
one
unique,
in
the
context
of
a
shared
or
koinos
kosmos.
Finally,
with
slightly
larger
magnification
in
Borderlands
of
Psyche
and
Logos
in
Heraclitus:
A
Psychoanalytic
Reading,
Jessica
Ann
Mayoc
cites
Merleau-‐Ponty
(who
based
his
approach
on
Heraclitus)
to
illustrate
how
despite
living
in
a
koinos
kosmos,
we
do
so
based
upon
our
personal
reasoning
and
our
embodied
worlds.
As
Merleau-‐Ponty
remarks
in
Eye
and
Mind52,
“the
idios
kosmos
opens
by
way
of
vision
upon
a
koinos
kosmos”.
Vision
is
the
power
that
unites
inner
and
outer,
allowing
the
seer
to
recognise
the
continuity
of
the
self
with
the
world.
The
idios
kosmos,
the
experience
of
a
“private
world”,
is
an
important
element
in
Heraclitus
description
of
the
mortal
condition,
and
signifies
a
self-‐inflicted
separation
from
the
shared
logos.
The
theme
is
echoed
throughout
his
sayings,
but
is
perhaps
most
present
in
fragment
2
[from
Heraclitus]:
The
Merleau-‐Ponty
Aesthetics
Reader,
Northwestern
University,
1993,
page
128
52
197
2:
Although
this
logos
is
shared,
most
men
live
as
though
their
thinking
were
a
private
possession.
(Mayoc,
2001,
p.151)
So
what
can
we
make
of
this
term
‘idios
kosmos’
and
‘kosinos
kosmos’
in
relation
to
artists’
work
and
in
particular,
this
project?
We
can
see
by
the
examples
cited
that
whilst
there
have
been
examples
of
idiosyncratic,
person-‐led,
phenomenological
truths
borne
from
the
first
person,
there
is
also
the
implied
warning
that
some
of
these
states
of
mind
may
be
linked
to
schizophrenia
and
delusional
states.
But
even
without
being
particularly
medical,
one
may
argue
that
the
artists
working
in
isolation
in
relation
to
their
own
thoughts
and
impulses
are
vulnerable
when
defining
any
single
experience
as
a
definitive
truth.
In
other
words,
a
personal
world
may
become
‘untethered’
unless,
and
with
my
own
inference,
it
is
part
of
a
‘reflexive’
activity
between
self
and
society,
or
as
Wackermann
puts
it
above,
that
the
practitioner
encounters
‘a
transition
between
two
different
orders
of
experience’.
In
relation
to
this
research
project,
although
being
primarily
autoethnographic
and
first-‐person
led,
the
works
are
based
on
my
relationship
with
the
external
world.
One
of
the
impulses
of
my
making
the
project
was
to
continue
to
learn
about
the
shared
world
through
personal,
sensory
means.
Within
the
vinyl
trilogy
there
is
a
yearning
and
attempt
to
reach
out
beyond
my
own
limited
means
to
forge
ways
in
which
the
individual
assailed
by
little
choice
can
work
in
idiosyncratic
and
adaptable
ways.
This,
unavoidably,
involves
working
from
‘idios
kosmos’
towards
a
wider
‘koinos
kosmos’
of
experience
and
feedback,
and
this
approach
is
‘a
transition
between
two
different
orders
of
experience’
as
cited
above.
198
4.
Existing
idioholistic
publications?
Since
I
have
already
introduced
the
term
idioholism,
let
us
survey
some
existing
‘idioholistic’
publications.
One
may
define
these
works
as
attempts
to
pursue/represent
idiosyncratic
art-‐interventions
in
response
to
real-‐world
problems,
in
(near)
self-‐directed
ways.
During
the
last
few
years
a
number
of
‘instructional’
and
‘interventionist’
art
blogs
and
web
sites
by
creative
artists,
translated
to
slick
print
editions,
and
have
emerged
in
the
art
publishing
world.
One
might
say
that
the
single
philosophy
behind
each
of
these
books,
was
a
kind
of
‘alternative
tourism’
or
‘experimental
travel.53’
Many
of
the
artists’
methodologies
I
am
about
to
cite
are
distant
cousins
of
‘psychogeography’,
a
term
which
re-‐emerged
from
its
Situationist
past
possibly
due
in
part
to
the
notable
films
of
Patrick
Keiller
(London
(1994)
and
Robinson
in
Space
(1997)
and
in
the
‘noughties’
by
the
writer
Will
Self
who
wrote
a
highly
personal
treatise
on
the
word,
if
not
a
primer
on
the
subject
(Psychogeography,
Self
&
Steadman,
2007).
Between
2003
and
2005,
I
was
also
working
in
the
‘psychogeographical
realm’
designing
modest
tours
of
Edinburgh
and
beyond,
and
was
funded
by
the
Arts
Council
of
England
to
reimagine
an
alternative
history
of
an
East
Sussex
village54.
Such
methodologies
of
psychogeography
have
also
found
populist
forms
in
the
recent
alternative
tourism
movement55
enhancing
the
everyday
experience
in
what
artist
Allen
Ruppersberg
terms
as
“the
ordinary
event”
which
“leads
to
the
beauty
and
53
Experimental
Travel
or
Counter-‐Tourism,
e.g.
Mythogeography
http://www.mythogeography.com/
54
http://www.dooks.org/surreal/mainindex.html
55
Such
a
book
would
be
The
Lonely
Planet
Guide
to
Experimental
Travel
:
Lonely
Planet
Publications;
1st
edition
(1
May
2005)
199
understanding
of
the
world”.
Art
which
attempts
to
immerse
oneself
in
‘the
everyday’
is
a
tradition
(and
some
may
say
responsibility)
of
cultural
practitioners.
Georges
Perec’s
An
Attempt
at
Exhausting
a
Place
in
Paris
(Perec
and
Lowenthal,
2010)
is
an
apt
monograph
to
study
how
the
everyday
can
be
deconstructed
into
minutiae
that
perhaps
a
CFS-‐ME
sufferer
could
borrow
some
methodology
from,
albeit
from
an
enforced
geography,
not
one
given
through
choice.
In
this
light,
a
kind
of
‘exploding’
of
the
everyday
appears
as
a
survival
tactic
and
it
has
inspired
some
of
my
practice,
so
here
is
a
brief
primer
to
that
slim
monograph
An
Attempt
at
Exhausting
a
Place
in
Paris
(Perec,
G.
and
Lowenthal,
M.
(trans)
(2010)
Cambridge,
Mass):
One
overcast
weekend
in
1974,
Georges
Perec
set
out
in
quest
of
the
‘infraordinary’:
the
humdrum,
the
non-‐event,
the
everyday
–
“what
happens,”
as
he
put
it,
“when
nothing
happens.”
His
choice
of
locale
was
Place
Saint-‐Sulpice
where,
ensconced
behind
first
one
café
window,
then
another,
he
spent
three
days
recording
everything
to
pass
through
his
field
of
vision…
(Lowenthal
in
Perec
2010;
ibid,
rear
cover)
Perec’s
experiment
with
the
everyday
was
first
published
in
1975
and
I
was
interested
to
see
how
similar
experiments
dealing
with
the
depth
of
‘the
everyday’
were
being
approached
by
today’s
artists.
For
that
reason,
let
us
now
turn
to
three
recent
publications
that
represent
idiosyncratic
art-‐interventions
in
response
to
real-‐
world
contexts,
in
(near)
self-‐directed
ways.
Before
doing
so,
let
us
map
out
the
spirit
and
the
terrain
that
allowed
these
publications
to
exist.
All
of
these
publications
were
forged
out
of
a
close
relationship
to
the
Internet
and
hark
back
to
the
‘egalitarian’
200
roots
of
the
early
World
Wide
Web.
Therefore
I
will
briefly
explore
what
laid
the
foundations
not
only
for
these
books,
but
also
that
which
eventually
spawned
this
research
project
twenty
years
later.
“Learning
to
Love
You
More
(and
More)”
Fitter,
happier,
more
productive,
Comfortable,
Not
drinking
too
much,
Regular
exercise
at
the
gym
(Three
days
a
week),
Getting
on
better
with
your
associate
employee
contemporaries,
At
ease,
Eating
well
(No
more
microwave
dinners
and
saturated
fats),
A
patient
better
driver,
A
safer
car
(Baby
smiling
in
back
seat),
Sleeping
well
(No
bad
dreams),
No
paranoia…
Fond
but
not
in
love…
Fitter,
Happier
Thom
Yorke
&
Radiohead
1997
Whilst
the
lyrics
above
from
Radiohead’s
hugely
anticipated
and
popular
pre-‐
millennial
‘concept’
album
OK
Computer
were
intended
to
satirise
‘yuppie’
sentiments
and
glib
marketing
slogans
of
the
day,
at
the
same
time,
there
was
a
genuine
feeling
just
before
the
internet
became
a
mass-‐market
phenomenon,
that
true
cultural
exchanges
and
a
spirit
of
community
pervaded
the
world
wide
web
in
an
unbridled
and
fairly
unregulated
manner.
I
was
part
of
the
internet
when
there
was
no
advertising
online,
and
websites
were
primarily
message
boards
and
libraries
-‐
and
an
egalitarian
‘atmosphere’
pervaded
it.
I
was
not
yet
housebound
but
I
felt,
that
online,
a
sense
of
a
201
virtual
community
and
optimism
emerged,
even
if
it
was
a
kind
of
mirage56
To
the
newly
exhausted
artist,
this
was
the
beginning
of
feeling
less
isolated
from
the
world,
which
has
continued
to
this
day.
I
had
access
to
email
since
1995
at
a
University
I
was
teaching
at,
and
felt
a
direct
link
between
the
co-‐operative
excitement,
optimism
and
positivity
on
the
future
of
the
world
wide
web
regarding
how
we
could
discuss
our
lives
so
easily
and
exchange
ideas,
that
I
had
connected
online
at
home,
at
great
personal
expense,
just
in
time
as
I
become
ill
and
housebound
in
the
late
nineties.
The
casual
but
infamous
(and
oft-‐misquoted)
exchange
between
Andy
Warhol
(1928-‐1987)
and
photographer
Nat
Finklestein
(1933-‐2009)
accidentally
prophesised
that
“Everybody
wants
to
be
famous”
(Warhol)
to
which
Finklestein
replied
“Yeh,
for
about
fifteen
minutes
Andy”.
(Guinn
and
Perry
p4,
pp.364-‐365)
Added
to
this,
Joseph
Beuys
(1921-‐1986)
famously
claimed
“everybody
is
an
artist”
(Literat,
2012,
p.2974)
arguing
that
art
should
not
be
divorced
from
life.
These
two
statements,
in
my
view,
are
increasingly
coming
to
fruition
in
ever-‐subtler
ways
via
social
media
and
technological
ease.
Nearly
every
modern
cellphone
is
able
to
access
these
sites.
Take
out
such
a
phone,
take
a
photograph
of
one’s
child
or
a
political
rally
and
within
seconds
it
is
published
worldwide,
place
that
phone
back
in
a
trouser
pocket,
and
we
are
all
literally
joined
at
the
hip:
56
Fred
Turner
gives
an
account
of
the
origins
of
digital
utopianism
in
the
countercultural
movements
of
the
60s
and
early
70s
in
From
Counterculture
to
Cyberculture
(2010)
202
[Beuys]
famously
claimed
that
everybody
is
an
artist,
but
this
artistic
potential
gets
stifled
by
social
norms
and
pressures.
Far
from
advocating—as
some
mistakenly
interpret
his
well-‐known
adage—that
everyone
should
be
involved
in
the
creation
of
art,
Beuys
believed
in
the
creative
abilities
of
people
in
their
everyday
life
and
advocated
for
a
more
extensive
and
inclusive
reconceptualization
of
art.
(Literat,
I,
2012,
pp.2962-‐2984)
Because
I
will
shortly
turn
to
artists
books
and
websites
that
aim
to
democratise
the
life
of
the
artist,
a
thought
experiment
would
be
to
resurrect
Warhol
and
Beuys
and
demonstrate
to
them
the
phenomenon
that
everyone
on
Facebook
and
Twitter
is,
to
an
extent,
now
an
artist,
or
at
least,
a
kind
of
independent
publisher
and/or
accidental
artist/curator
–
simply
by
their
commenting
of
and
liking
of
an
item
on
a
feed
and
uploading
their
own
images
and
videos.
In
my
view,
for
all
the
oversaturation
of
creativity
online
–
at
least
in
the
navigating
of
it,
being
housebound
combined
with
following
this
arc
over
the
years
has
been
in
the
main,
a
liberating,
if
over-‐addictive
experience.
Some
artists
decry
social
media
and
crowdsourcing,
but
the
exhausted
artist
may
still
find
threads
of
egalitarianism
here
and
there
in
online
communities.
The
caveat
would
be
to
approach
with
caution,
but
still
to
approach.
Around
2003,
in
the
rise
of
what
came
to
be
described
as
‘Web
2.0’,
(O’Reilly,
2005)
blog
sites
like
Wordpress
and
Blogspot
(which
actually
existed
in
the
late
nineties),
Flickr
(formerly
Yahoo
Photos
from
2004)
and
Tumblr
(2006),
made
it
easier
for
egalitarian
web
sites
to
exist,
expounding
images,
texts,
videos
and
embedding
203
TED57
talks
on
how
to
be
an
artist.
This
was
not
conducted
in
a
sense
of
art-‐school
protocols
but
found
instead
in
a
chaotic,
individualistic
exchange
of
new
media
ideas
on
Wordpress,
Tumblr,
YouTube,
Vimeo
and
eventually
in
Facebook
feeds
(where
even
professional
artists
now
publish
their
works).
As
O’Reilly
(2005)
put
it
in
his
influential
short
definition:
Web
2.0
is
the
network
as
platform,
spanning
all
connected
devices;
Web
2.0
applications
are
those
that
make
the
most
of
the
intrinsic
advantages
of
that
platform:
delivering
software
as
a
continually
–
updated
service
that
gets
better
the
more
people
use
it,
consuming
and
remixing
data
from
multiple
sources,
including
individual
users,
while
providing
their
own
data
and
services
in
a
form
that
allows
remixing
by
others,
creating
network
effects
through
an
“architecture
of
participation”
and
going
beyond
the
page
metaphor
of
Web
1.0
to
deliver
rich
user
experiences.
(ibid,
2005,
n.p.)
During
this
period,
a
growing
number
of
artists
explicitly
became
transparent
in
relation
to
their
methodologies
by
publishing
and
disseminating
them
–
or
literally
became
about
designing
such
methodologies
for
others
to
carry
out.
Without
the
following
various
websites,
and
their
resulting
physical
publications,
these
extremely
populist
and
practical
forms
of
D.I.Y.
(even
what
might
be
termed
bricolage)
art-‐
making,
my
research
project
would
not
take
the
shape
it
does.
I
have
chosen
three
books
to
profile
what
I
consider
to
be
‘idioholistic
publications.’
Each
is
associated
with,
or
sprang
from
a
website:
57
http://www.ted.com
204
1.
David
Horvitz:
Everything
That
Can
Happen
in
a
Day
(Horvitz
and
Poole,
2010)
2.
Keri
Smith:
How
to
Be
an
Explorer
of
The
World
(Smith,
2008)
3.
Harrell
Fletcher
and
Miranda
July:
Learning
to
Love
You
More
(Fletcher
et
al.,
2007)
These
books
sometimes
read
as
illustrated
lists
and
graphically
inventive
instructions.
They
are,
in
the
main,
suggestions
of
how
one
might
have
a
more
interesting
day
through
the
deployment
of
art
practices
–
tactics,
strategies,
games,
interventions
and
re-‐framings.
There
is
little
commentary
or
discourse
of
why
one
may
pursue
such
apparently
strange
activities
(with
the
exception
of
Learning
to
Love
You
More
which
is
a
more
labyrinthine
project
with
a
modest
exegesis).
Perhaps
why
I
have
cited
them
as
potentially
‘idioholistic’
enterprises
will
be
clearer
if
we
begin
with
one
of
Horvitz’s
‘instructions’:
205
Everything
That
Can
Happen
in
a
Day
Instruction
25
Make
a
collection
of
sand
from
different
beaches
around
the
world
by
writing
to
resort
hotels
and
asking
them
to
send
you
an
envelope
of
sand.
Tell
them
you
recently
stayed
at
the
hotel
and
that
your
sand
was
lost
when
you
travelled
home.58
(Horvitz
and
Poole,
2010,
.p43)
The
example
above
is
particularly
enticing
for
the
exhausted
artist
and
typical
of
each
of
the
publications.
One
might
argue,
that
each
book,
which
contains
apparently
‘random’
art
assignments
are,
in
fact,
‘idioholistic
visions’
when
viewed
over
the
entirety
of
each
given
publication.
They
appear
to
the
reader
at
least
as
primers
of
surreal
time
wasting.
But
they
are
more
than
this.
The
books
provide
teachings
and
exercises
located
somewhere
between
auto
didacticism
and
very
loose
syllabuses
suggested
by
other
artists.
They
can
even
resemble
artists’
manifestos:
Learning
to
Love
You
More
adopts
a
pleasantly
dictatorial
tone
at
times;
even
the
preface
makes
this
clear:
Sometimes
it
is
a
relief
being
told
what
to
do
(Fletcher
et
al.,
2007,
p1)
And
for
my
potentially
exhausted
audience,
if
some
of
them
can
be
done
from
one’s
house
without
leaving
it,
then
all
the
better
for
the
purposes
of
this
research
project.
In
the
essay
which
accompanies
the
assignments
in
Learning
to
Love
You
More
58
EVERYTHING
THAT
CAN
HAPPEN
IN
A
DAY,
Horvitz,
David,
2010,
Mark
Batty,
NYC
p24
206
‘A
Modest
Collective
Many
People
Doing
Simple
Things
Well’
by
Julia
Bryan
Wilson
-‐
there
is
a
good
example
of
this
which
was
both
carried
out
locally
and
exhibited
online
(and
in
some
galleries):
63:
Make
an
encouraging
banner.
The
assignment,
issued
by
Harrell
Fletcher
and
Miranda
July
as
part
of
their
interactive,
web-‐based
project
Learning
to
Love
You
More,
has
been
completed
by
dozens
of
people
all
over
the
world.
Strung
up
in
bedrooms
and
dangling
from
fences,
the
blocky,
multi-‐coloured
messages
are
not
your
average
greeting
card
fare.
DYSLEXIA
BUILDS
CHARACTER!
reads
one
streamer,
ruefully
affixed
above
a
personal
computer
(submitted
by
Brock
of
Toronto).
Some
are
tinged
with
dark
humour:
YOU
STILL
HAVE
BOTH
OF
YOUR
LEGS,
reminds
Lauren
Oster
of
New
York.
Others
are
less
heartening
than
elliptical:
one,
hung
from
a
tree
branch,
cautions
viewers
to
LOOK
TWICE
(Shira
Bannerman,
Poughkeepsie).
These
unexpected
turns—how
the
artists'
instructions
get
interpreted,
exceeded,
or
unsettled—contribute
to
the
project's
dynamism.
The
surprising
variations
on
a
theme
demonstrate
how
seemingly
arbitrary
rules,
when
strictly
followed,
can
yield
profound
aesthetic
pleasures.
In
LTLYM,
Fletcher
and
July
issue
directives
simple
but
exacting
instructions
meant
to
be
followed
as
closely
as
possible
and
posted
in
the
form
of
reports.
Each
assignment
is
designed
to
stimulate
thought,
foster
discussion,
or
provoke
insight.
As
the
site
explains:
"The
best
art
and
writing
207
is
almost
like
an
assignment;
it
is
so
vibrant
that
you
feel
compelled
to
make
something
in
response.”
(Fletcher
et
al.,
2007,
p.144)
The
common
theme
across
these
three
books
is
that
first-‐person
experiments
are
disseminated
to
the
public.
To
an
extent,
the
books
are
‘completed’
by
the
public.
Reading
them
alone
is
not
enough.
That
is
also
a
goal
of
this
research
project.
Like
these
books,
I
am
developing
a
series
of
small
interventions
that
becomes
part
of
a
narrative
(or
exploratory)
arc
over
each
LP
record.
The
records
together
become
a
kind
of
syllabus.
The
arc
is
the
whole
that
contains
the
individualistic
exercises.
In
the
books,
some
of
the
exercises
even
attempt
to
actualise
miniature
worlds
themselves,
like
this
one
from
Keri
Smith:
How
to
Be
an
Explorer
of
The
World
Exploration
#52
MINIATURE
ECOSYSTEM
Collect
water
from
three
different
sites.
These
can
include
a
lake,
pond,
stream,
puddle,
or
similar.
Combine
the
samples
in
a
jar
in
a
sunny
location
and
watch
to
see
the
ecosystem
unfold.
Soon
this
miniature
world
will
start
to
organise
itself
and
create
some
interesting
results.
Make
notes
about
the
daily
changes.
Experiment
with
different
water
sources
to
see
how
the
results
vary.
Each
ecosystem
is
unique.
Source:
Gaia’s
Garden
by
Toby
Hemenway59
(Smith,
2008,
p.135)
59
http://www.patternliteracy.com/books/gaias-‐garden
208
In
each
book,
each
artist
leads
their
practice
by
demonstrating
the
unique
bias
of
being
themselves.
Despite
this,
the
experiments
can
be
personalised
by
others
when
undertaken
outside
of
that
particular
artist’s
world.
In
the
website
archive60
of
Learning
to
Love
You
More,
this
playfully
dictatorial
kind
of
rhetoric
allows
for
a
surprising
and
liberating
reciprocal
element
to
the
project
when
the
public
then
are
asked
to
design
some
of
the
later
‘assignments’
of
the
project,
which
are
as
idiosyncratic
as
that
of
the
authors.
Being
told
that
sometimes
it
is
a
relief
being
told
what
to
do
is
a
statement
about
choicelessness
that
resonates
particularly
with
people
who
are
also
exhausted
patients
like
myself.
Fun
for
all
the
family?
In
the
three
publications
we
are
profiling
here,
a
lot
of
the
exercises
are
suitable
for
families,
which
is
often
a
part
of
contemporary
art
practice
that
has
to
come
under
the
formal
banner
of
‘community
education
/
engagement’
The
following
assignment
could
be
undertaken
by
every
member
of
my
family
(it
may
be
a
push
to
include
my
four
month
old
daughter
directly)
my
but
my
young
son
and
I
would
gain
from
this:
http://www.learningtoloveyoumore.com
60
209
Learning
to
Love
You
More
Assignment
#10
Make
a
flier
of
your
day
Write
a
paragraph
describing
a
typical
day
in
your
life.
Make
one
hundred
Xerox
fliers
of
the
description
(you
don’t
have
to
include
your
name)
and
post
them
all
over
your
neighbourhood.
(Fletcher
et
al.,
2007,
p151)
The
individualistic
way
of
looking
at
the
world,
in
parts
and
modules
–
which
all
these
books
encourage
–
are
united
by
them
being
a
collection,
a
folio,
or
a
compendium
of
ideas.
When
viewed
or
practised
daily,
weekly,
monthly
and
so
on,
a
‘whole’
emerges
in
form
of
a
body
of
work,
but
also
a
body
of
ideas.
As
time
passes,
this
body
of
ideas
eventually
becomes
–
ultimately
–
the
modus
operandi
of
the
practitioner
with
little
divorcing
of
activity
and
life.
This
is
what
my
life
has
become;
there
is
no
barrier
between
living
it
and
making
art
projects.
When
such
barriers
break
down
between
my
life
and
my
practice,
I
am
now
stating
it
becomes
a
lived
idioholism.
This
is
why
I
can
be
a
fairly
prolific
cultural
practitioner
whilst
being
ill,
because
I
am
never
not
being
an
artist.
In
addition,
I
always
have
my
equipment
charged
and
ready
to
go,
to
minimise
effort.
If
my
term
idioholism
puts
anyone
off
or
is
interpreted
as
hyperbole,
perhaps
we
might
call
these
activities
simply
‘collections
of
individualistic
exercises.”
When
the
practitioner
completes
such
exercises,
s/he
begins
to
see
the
interrelationships
of
the
modules
through
the
biases
of
each
artist/author.
So
they
undergo
both
an
‘individualistic’
and
‘holistic’
vision
built
up
by
accretion,
from
practicing
small
conceptual
exercises.
In
my
vinyl
trilogy,
this
is
done
by
a
minimum
of
three
divergent
210
subject
areas.
But
it
is
crucial
to
say
that,
as
in
the
discussion
on
holism
in
Chapter
6,
what
is
being
created
here
are
holisms,
or
holistic
pluralities.
In
the
previous
chapter
we
arrived
at
the
conclusion
that
there
is
no
singular
holism,
but
a
multiplicity
of
holisms.
Whilst
these
books
may
encourage
countercultural
self-‐supporting
activities,
they
are
still
as
different
to
each
other
as
they
are
similar.
Some
of
the
assignments
in
these
books
appear
insubstantial
at
first
glance
–
until,
crucially,
one
practices
them.
Despite
appearing
somewhat
frivolous,
what
is
being
offered
resembles
‘free
art
schools’
in
and
of
themselves.
These
approaches
are
subtly
influenced
by
critical
concepts
such
as
Situationism
and
Psychogeography
(as
introduced
in
Chapter
3),
and
other
potentially
countercultural
practices
such
as
self-‐
publishing
and
modestly
covert
public
art.
I
have
evaluated
these
publications
in
the
first
person,
arriving
at
the
conclusion
that
there
is
a
kind
of
egalitarian
conceptual
art
practice
here.
For
example,
in
the
extract
below
provides
a
kind
of
fusion
of
geography
and
art,
a
concept
everyone
can
relate
to
whilst
still
making
the
world
strange:
Everything
That
Can
Happen
in
a
Day
Instruction
38
Calculate
how
far
away
the
Pacific
Ocean
is
from
your
bedroom.
Write
the
following
on
your
bedroom
wall:
“the
pacific
ocean
is
(enter
calculated
distance)
from
here.”
(Horvitz,
2010,
pp.62-‐63)
These
are
populist
and
highly
accessible
artists’
books,
presented
as
lush
folios
with
dramatic
and
optimistic
titles.
That
they
are
populist
does
not
negate
the
insights
211
that
may
be
gained
from
following
the
deceptively
simple
instructions
within.
They
bridge
the
gap
between
art
concepts
that
may
alienate
a
suspicious
public
and
instead
make
visible
that
which
is
missing
in
the
public’s
appreciation
of
conceptual
art
–
that
of
process.
And
they
do
so
without
much
complex
theoretical
or
critical
text,
and
use
the
idea
of
play
as
part
of
this.
That
they
avoid,
in
the
main,
complex
or
alienating
art
theory
terms
and
place
themselves
more
firmly
in
the
‘occupational,
’
active
side
of
art
practice
has
simply
encouraged
practitioners,
especially
the
exhausted
practitioner,
to
discover
a
kind
of
populist
practice-‐as-‐research.
Despite
my
work
existing
within
a
contemporary
art
context,
and
niche
record
retailers,
I
am
certainly
not
anti-‐populist,
so
there
is
a
resonance.
To
attend
a
‘reputable’
art
school
has
become
a
very
expensive
enterprise
in
most
countries,
and
alternatives
like
these
cheap
folios
offer
how
one
may
use
the
time
one
has
on
the
planet
to
curious
ends,
in
both
surreal
and
serious
exercises.
Perhaps
they
also
arrived
to
us
culturally
as
a
reaction
to
the
‘bucket-‐list’
publications
which
instructed
us
on
the
fifty
things
we
should
do,
visit,
or
experience
–
before
we
die
(i.e.
‘kick
the
bucket’
of
the
title).
Every
time
I
encounter
a
compendium
of
‘fifty
things
to
do
before
I
die’
or
suchlike,
I
always
ask
according
to
whom?
Instead,
within
books
like
those
I
have
profiled,
and
in
my
own
research,
I
hope
to
encourage
the
practitioner
to
invent
their
own
more
reflective
personal
and
imaginative
interventions.
One
person’s
bucket
list
is
always
different
from
another’s.
If
adopted,
idioholism
would
be
equally
pluralistic.
David
Horvitz
describes
his
exercises
as
‘instructions’
–
Fletcher
and
July
use
a
more
journalistic
or
academic
position
of
issuing
‘assignments’
whilst
Keri
Smith
opts
212
for
the
term
‘explorations’.
The
nuances
and
differences
of
these
terms
seem
small
but
remain
significant.
‘Instructions’
seems
an
almost
neutral
stance
to
take
–
whilst
‘assignments’
suggest
that
the
artist
is
carrying
out
the
tasks
for
someone
else.
‘Explorations’
may
be
seen
as
a
slightly
vague
position
to
take,
but
at
least
allows
for
there
being
no
‘right’
or
‘wrong’
approach.
In
this
typology,
I’ve
called
my
own
interventions
/
exercises
‘strategies’.
This
seems
an
appropriate
point
to
discuss
some
of
the
methods
of
my
own
vinyl
record
project
and
to
consider
to
what
degree
the
public
at
large
might
be
able
to
take
up
some
of
the
concepts.
213
5.
The
transferability
of
the
project’s
principles
Or,
Six
‘Idioholistic
Strategies’
based
on
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
Was
it
possible
to
economically
translate
six
of
my
own
strategies
from
making
the
vinyl
trilogy
into
replicable
exercises?
I
have
taken
two
of
my
methodologies
from
each
of
the
three
records
and
made
six
repeatable
exercises
from
them.
Although
the
sleevenotes
have
expounded
what
my
methodologies
have
been,
it
has
been
my
aim
to
always
have
an
eye
on
the
transferability
of
the
project
to
a
non-‐academic
audience.
What
follows
are
those
attempts
to
make
‘assignments’
(Fletcher
&
July’s
term)
/
‘instructions’
(Horvitz’
term)
/
or
as
Keri
Smith
calls
them
-‐
‘explorations’:
thus
I
present
my
own
set
of
six
‘idioholistic
strategies’:
214
Idioholistic
Strategy
#1
From
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
Record
a
broken
instrument
Find
a
broken
instrument
that
is
so
broken
that
is
it
is
difficult
to
play
as
intended
or
with
minimal
interference
from
the
player
/
composer.
An
example
is
a
smashed
recorder
or
a
guitar
with
broken
strings.
You
are
not
required
to
understand
any
formal
musical
theory
or
be
able
to
play
music
in
the
formal
sense.
You
don’t
have
to
find
a
broken
harmonium,
it
can
be
literally
any
instrument
compromised
by
overuse,
neglect
or
a
breakage.
Record
the
results
with
a
small
digital
recorder
or
a
smartphone
and
upload
it
to
a
soundcloud.com
account
with
the
tag
‘idioholism-‐broken-‐exercise’
with
a
one
paragraph
about
your
relationship
with
this
instrument.
How
does
it
feel?
Liberating?
Stupid?
You
should
include
a
square
portrait
of
the
instrument
as
the
image
soundcloud
requires
for
the
track.
When
you
then
search
for
‘idioholism-‐broken-‐exercise’
you
will
find
out
if
anyone
else
is
doing
the
same
kind
of
investigation.
215
Idioholistic
Strategy
#2
From
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
Create
your
own
outdoor
broken
instrument
sanctuary.
For
over
quarter
of
a
century,
Australian
composer
Ross
Bollater61
has
deliberately
exposed
unwanted
pianos
to
the
elements
of
time
and
weather
creating
novel
and
unexpected
musical
possibilities
of
ruined
pianos:
that
is
to
say,
old
pianos
that
‘have
been’.
“A
piano
is
ruined
(rather
than
neglected
or
devastated)
when
it
has
been
deliberately
abandoned
to
all
weathers
and
has
become
a
decaying
box
of
unpredictable
thumps,
creaks
and
unpredictable
resonations.
It
is
said
that
the
notes
that
don’t
work
are
at
least
as
interesting
as
those
that
do”
(Bollater,
2014).
Similarly,
collect
instruments
that
will
begin
to
rot
and
decompose
in
damp
conditions
or
extreme
heat.
Curate
them
as
a
both
a
collection
of
visually
interesting
items
(perhaps
hang
them
on
a
tree)
but
do
use
them
to
make
music
and
sound
art
from
them.
Question
at
this
point
‘who
is
authoring
the
work?’
61
http://corms30.wix.com/warpsmusic
216
Idioholistic
Strategy
#3
From
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
Create
your
own
deliberately
random
piano
improvisation
Choose
five
notes
on
a
Piano
over
two
octaves.
This
will
be
your
own
‘scale’
–
the
notes
may
be
random
or
personally
meaningful,
but
once
you
have
chosen
your
five
you
must
stick
to
them.
Now,
try
and
play
them
slowly
but
as
carelessly
as
possible.
A
slow
kind
of
ambient
music
should
result.
You
are
not
allowed
to
deviate
from
this
number
of
notes.
The
results
should
sound
softly
random.
The
only
choice
you
have
is
to
alter
velocity
of
note
(how
hard
you
hit
each
key)
and
the
order
you
hit
each
key
in
is
up
to
you,
however,
the
sustain
pedal
must
be
pressed
all
the
way
through
the
improvisation.
As
you
play,
as
soon
as
you
think
you
are
developing
a
‘tune’
attempt
to
abandon
the
idea
and
become
as
random
as
possible.
Slow
down.
Record
the
results.
Evaluate
if
despite
your
best
efforts,
a
tune
or
pattern
has
still
emerged
or
not.
A
caveat:
you
may
include
Morse
code
in
the
composition
if
you
get
really
stuck,
or
perhaps
if
you
don’t.
217
Idioholistic
Strategy
#4
From
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
Create
your
own
deliberately
random
piano
improvisation,
but
this
time
with
someone
reading
out
the
names
of
astronomical
constellations
in
a
language
you
don’t
understand.
Repeat
exercise
#3,
but
find
a
friend,
preferably
for
whom
English
is
not
the
first
language
spoken.
Work
with
them
to
translate
twenty-‐five
astronomical
constellation
terms
they
can
read
and/or
sing
over
the
top
of
your
piano
improvisation.
If
possible
mix
the
sound
of
the
narrator
and
singer
into
your
piano
work.
218
Idioholistic
Strategy
#5
From
CIGA[R]LES
Appropriate
discarded
notes
and
tuning
up
of
orchestras
and
bands
as
your
own
compositions.
In
the
sleevenotes
to
LP3
‘CIGA[R]LES’
I
stated
‘I
find
myself
standing
in
the
middle
of
bushes
in
a
park
close
to
my
house,
trying
to
discreetly
record
several
bagpipe
bands
rehearsing
concurrently
for
Ayr’s
Pipes
in
The
Park.
With
my
field-‐recorder
I
am
trying
to
capture,
even
‘create’
music
without
formally
‘composing’
it.
I
can
hear
an
out-‐of-‐synch
cacophony
of
pipes
and
drums
to
my
far
left
and
right.
Have
I
discovered
a
ready-‐made
soundscape
by
serendipity?
Can
I
appropriate
this
soundscape
as
a
composition?’
This
is
a
very
easy
exercise
to
repeat
in
order
to
‘compose’
music
thought
of
discarded.
The
idea
is
that
the
practitioner
makes
stereo
field
recordings
through
the
use
of
stereo
digital
recorders
(or
similar
apparatus)
whilst
choosing
the
location
of
where
sounds
overlap
(at
festivals
for
example)
as
the
place
we
can
call
‘the
authoring
spot’.
Here,
by
recording
musicians
tuning
up,
practicing
guitar
licks,
or
like
in
my
case,
eavesdropping
on
the
warming
up
of
the
lungs
of
bagpipes,
one
may
‘create’
a
unique
recording,
which
we
may
appropriate
as
a
personal
composition
–
by
defining
the
microphone
as
a
music
instrument
in
reverse
-‐
and
the
practitioner
as
a
‘professional
listener’.
219
By
defining
the
place
of
composition,
when
it
begins
and
when
it
ends,
the
practitioner
authors
the
composition.
The
moral
implications
of
recording
with
and
without
permission
are
down
to
the
practitioner’s
personal
ethical
code.
220
Idioholistic
Strategy
#6
From
CIGA[R]LES
Too
ill
to
travel
the
world?
Bring
the
world
to
you.
Attend,
if
possible
a
festival
or
symposium
where
the
visitors
are
international
–
or
at
least
not
local
to
you.
Enter
a
dialogue
with
the
participants
–
or
not
–
and
record
snippets
of
voices,
snatched
conversations
and
short
pieces
of
music.
Edit
a
dozen
or
so
snippets
together
to
form
a
travelogue
with
which
you
may
use
to
define
yourself
as
an
international
artist
–
or
at
the
very
least,
a
traveller
where
previously
you
were
stationary.
The
B-‐side
of
CIGA[R]LES
features
a
lengthy
movement
where
one
can
hear
sounds
from
all
over
the
world
analogous
to
the
various
soundscapes
we
placed
on
the
Voyager
spacecraft
in
the
1970s.
Instead
I
managed
to
get
to
various
street
festivals
in
the
South
of
France
where
international
artists
allowed
me
to
record
a
few
seconds
of
their
music
and
I
was
able
to
assemble
a
soundscape
from
Basque
Spain,
Provence,
Russia,
Finland
and
the
UK
within
one
square
kilometre.
The
field
recorder
here,
allowed
me,
literally,
to
coin
Keri
Smith
to
be
a
‘collector
of
the
world’.
So
my
instruction
would
be
to
attempt
to
attend
and
engage
performers,
to
collect
snippets
of
culture
to
be
amalgamated
onto
one
soundscape.
221
Too
exhausted
to
travel?
There
is
a
simpler
version
of
this
exercise
that
I
designed
specifically
for
the
housebound
/
bedbound.
It
is
simply
‘windowsill
recording’.
For
30
days
in
2012
I
left
my
field
recorder
‘objectively’
collecting
sounds
that
I
would
then
listen
to
in
bed.
It
required
no
editing,
but
for
the
sake
of
the
record
I
did
edit
it
and
it
appears
as
a
track
entitled
‘The
Loaning’
–
a
nearby
street
to
me.
I
hid
the
recorder,
I
left
the
house
on
each
day
and
when
I
returned
I
brought
the
outside
in.
This
is
a
small
step
that
a
severe
ME
sufferer
could
adopt
to
increase
their
dwindling
life
experience
and
that
has
been
one
of
the
most
enlightening
aspects
of
LP3.
222
5.
Conclusion
and
The
Ten
Minute
Manifesto
of
Idioholism
There
is
something
of
the
incorrigible
optimist
about
the
manifestoist.
To
make
a
manifesto
is
to
hallucinate
the
Promised
Land,
wherever
that
may
be.
It
is
in
its
own
way
a
utopian
project.
It
is
certainly
not
an
undertaking
for
the
faint-‐hearted.
In
this
sense,
perhaps,
it
is
apt
for
the
artist.
The
characteristic
stance
of
the
artist-‐manifestoist
is
a
sort
of
spiritual
resilience,
an
uprightness,
amid
the
general
flux
and
flex
[…]
As
Cezanne
knew,
the
artist’s
work
is
never
finished.
Nor
yet
the
manifesto…
Alex
Danchev,
100
Artists’
Manifestos
(page
xxviii),
2011
At
the
beginning
of
this
chapter
I
reproduced
The
One
Minute
Manifesto
of
The
Exhausted
Artist
v.1
before
mounting
an
enquiry
into
what
the
‘idio’
might
be,
both
in
relation
to
the
word’s
origin
and
also
in
response
to
the
chapter
that
preceded
this
one
–
the
chapter
on
holism.
Following
on
from
this,
in
the
second
part
of
the
chapter,
I
wanted
to
locate
which
‘ancestral’
term,
if
any,
my
own
humble,
small-‐scale
practice
may
be
aligned
with,
including
the
idios
kosmos
of
Heraclitus.
Finally,
in
part
four,
I
was
evaluating
to
what
extent
my
own
idios
kosmos
could
be
transferrable
to
the
koinos
kosmos
of
the
world
at
large.
I
also
found
some
examples
of
publications
that
may
be
considered
to
be
‘idioholistic
visions’
as
artists’
folios.
223
The
five
years
that
have
passed
between
writing
the
original
One
Minute
Manifesto
of
The
Exhausted
Artist
have
resulted
in
the
revision
that
follows.
And
it
is
part
of
the
tradition
of
artists’
manifestos
that
we
saw
in
Danchev’s
quote
‘the
artist’s
work
is
never
finished,
nor
the
manifesto.’
(Danchev,
2011,
xxviii)
This
chapter
has
focused
on
individualistic
forms
of
practice
related
to
holism.
In
the
previous
chapter
I
examined
how
holism
itself
can
be
seen
to
have
some
universal
qualities,
such
as
a
leaf
being
part
of
a
plant
only
in
relation
to
each
other,
and
in
that
part
and
whole
do
not
exist
independently
of
each
other
(see
Clark’s
comments
and
Kossoff’s
revisions,
discussed
in
Chapter
6).
However,
I
also
examined
that
there
exists
no
single
holism,
that
what
we
encounter
when
we
survey
holism
may
be
pluralities.
Therefore,
when
applying
models
of
holism
to
practitioners
of
individual
disciplines
or
some
with
variety,
it
is
inevitable
that
prefixing
and
augmenting
the
term
will
be
a
natural
consequence
of
the
context
within
one
is
working.
In
this
light,
my
‘idioholism’
was
born
and
we
shall
now
present
it
in
a
manifesto.
The
following
manifesto
is
an
attempt
to
launch
divergent
and
economical
art
practices
for
those
assailed
by
the
challenges
of
CFS-‐ME.
224
The
Second
Manifesto
of
The
Exhausted
Artist
The
Ten
Minute
Manifesto
of
Idioholism
Sequel
to
The
One
Minute
Manifesto
of
The
Exhausted
Artist
v.1
“We’re
never
gonna
survive
unless
we
get
a
little
bit
crazy”
‘Crazy’,
Henry
Olusegun
Adeola
Samuel
aka
Seal
1.
The
significance
of
a
syndrome
like
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
(or
CFIDS,
or
ME)
lies
in
both
its
invisibility
and
the
breadth
of
the
life-‐strata
it
retards.
Under
these
conditions,
can
an
art-‐orientated
perspective
claw
back
any
ability
to
experience
a
fuller
life?
What
are
the
adaptations
that
the
art-‐practitioner
must
adopt
in
order
to
outmanoeuvre
aggressive
illnesses
(like
CFS-‐ME)
that
affect
the
whole
person?
Responses
to
illnesses
like
this
are
likely
to
be
individualistic
when
the
cause
still
remains
speculative.
There
are
no
panaceas
available
to
sufferers
with
CFS-‐ME.
2.
I
postulate
Idioholism
as
a
modest,
autodidactic
mode
of
self-‐
learning,
by
triangulating
three
divergent
and
primarily
occupational
activities
within
the
limits
of
the
illness.
It
was
devised
as
a
bespoke
coping
mechanism
for
CFS-‐ME
and
a
practical
enquiry
into
exactly
what
can
be
improved
by
a
philosophical
art
practice
that
crucially,
does
not
exacerbate
the
illness.
225
3.
Could
a
tiny
cluster
of
art
practices
forged
from
divergent
strata
of
life,
in
line
with
the
symptoms
of
CFS-‐ME,
create
a
low-‐energy,
aesthetic-‐led
manoeuvre
around
the
condition?
Would
an
emphasis
on
practice-‐led
and
sensory
activity,
not
negating
the
intellect,
but
negotiating
it
on
the
terms
of
the
exhausted
practitioner,
forge
interesting
and
unpredictable
interrelationships?
The
goal
would
lie
in
the
renewing
of,
in
the
smallest
of
ways,
life-‐experiences
for
the
exhausted
practitioner.
4.
The
crucial
point
would
be
that
the
practitioner
decides
what
the
activities
will
be
in
the
simple
framework.
This
is
what
defines
this
‘holistic’
enterprise
as
idioholism.
5.
The
framework:
What
defines
such
a
‘triangulation’?
–
I
have
set
three
thematic
principles
that
I
felt
were
as
transferable,
simple
and
as
universal
in
scope
as
possible.
The
practitioner
chooses
projects
at
their
own
pace
within
the
following
headings:
a) One
art
practice
involves
working
with
the
body
e.g.,
when
I
take
photographs,
my
blood
pressure
reduces.
e.g.,
when
I
play
a
harmonium,
I
am
not
conscious
I
am
exercising
and
as
a
result
the
lymph
around
my
body
is
processed.
226
e.g.
when
I
am
too
exhausted
to
make
music,
I
author
it
by
recording
a
place
where
I
have
heard
environmental
sounds
overlap.
b) One
art
practice
involves
that
which
is
cosmological
e.g.
Society
passed
me
by,
so
I
bypassed
society
and
went
straight
to
the
stars,
and
learned
three
constellations
visible
from
my
window.
e.g.
Cognitive
fog
creates
memory
problems.
I
learned
about
one
incident
about
a
huge
iceberg
and
set
it
to
song.
The
song
imprinted
well,
and
now
I
will
never
forget
iceberg
B15A
which
‘ran
aground
on
the
McMurdo
sound…’
e.g.
By
meditating
on
the
death
of
stars,
I
relax
about
making
anything
anymore
and
spend
the
remaining
twenty
minutes
of
energy
with
my
son
and
daughter.
c) One
art
practice
involves
that
which
is
local
e.g.,
I
record
sounds
from
my
windowsill
when
I
cannot
leave
the
house
and
then
listen
to
the
sounds
in
bed.
e.g.,
Bored
of
my
surroundings,
I
go
deeper
into
them.
Via
the
internet,
I
was
able
to
locate
the
forest
where
my
skirting
boards
originated,
and
postulate
the
type
of
tree
felled.
227
e.g.
Too
sick
to
travel
to
another
country,
I
visited
a
food
fair
in
my
own
town,
and
whilst
exhausting,
I
managed
to
record
accents
from
at
least
seven
countries
and
two
continents.
6.
Something
may
look
familiar
about
these
headings
(working
with
the
body,
that
which
is
local
and
that
which
is
cosmological).
Whilst
not
quite
‘mind,
body,
soul’
they
are
a
crude
attempt
of
attending
to
diverse
needs
in
the
sufferer
–
physical,
social
and
existential
(if
one
is
not
keen
on
the
word
‘spiritual’).
The
key
principle
is
that
the
activities
themselves
are
divergent.
It
is
postulated
that
it
may
be
within
the
space
of
the
three
activities
that
the
beginnings
of
a
holistic
and
varied
existence
may
begin
to
form.
If
we
use
the
examples
I
cited,
then
it
is
easy
to
see
that
despite
being
unable
to
do
much
of
what
my
peers
take
for
granted,
i.e.
flying
on
a
plane,
walking
up
a
hill,
eating
what
they
like,
planning
for
the
future
–
I
have
explored
a
life
with
much
less
breadth
than
‘the
healthy’,
but
one
in
which
at
least
some
depth
is
not
negated
by
the
illness.
7.
But
how
should
one
start
an
‘idioholistic’
enterprise?
Outside
of
my
examples,
what
could
such
activities
be?
The
practitioner
will
define
them.
However,
if
the
thought
of
this
creates
a
stumbling
block,
examples
can
be
found
in
four
artists’
texts;
chosen
because
of
their
brevity
and
accessibility,
the
exercises
of
which
can
be
extracted
and
228
placed
into
the
categories
of
“the
body,
the
local
and
the
cosmological.”
The
books
are:
1. Learning
to
Love
You
More
by
Miranda
July
and
Harrell
Fletcher
2. How
to
be
an
Explorer
of
the
World
by
Keri
Smith
3. Everything
that
can
Happen
in
a
Day
by
David
Horvitz
4. Oblique
Strategies
Card
Deck
by
Brian
Eno
and
Peter
Schmidt
8.
These
books
(and
the
latter
card
deck)
offer
seemingly
random
exercises,
but
they
are
all
a
great
place
to
get
started
in
devising
one’s
idioholistic
enterprise.
They
may
even
be
arbitrary.
The
autodidact
with
energy
problems
(the
practitioner
teaching
him/herself)
then
designs
their
own
economical
syllabus
over
my
three
divergent
headings.
9.
The
autodidact
slowly
but
surely
may
re-‐engage
with
life
without
too
much
effort,
yet
learning
and
growth
still
occurs
because
of
the
potential
interplay
and
plasticity
between
the
areas.
In
doing
so
future
practitioners
forge
their
own
contribution
to
the
pluralities
of
holism,
via
idiosyncratic
means.
They
become
idioholists.
229
10.
At
least
one
idioholistic
enterprise
has
been
formally
undertaken
by
myself
in
the
form
of
a
vinyl
record
trilogy.
Three
colour-‐coded
vinyl
records,
which
appear
in
form
to
work
as
‘fragmented
films’
form
a
compendium
of
strategies
in
the
first
person
but
also
as
a
finished
product,
becoming
a
kind
of
emissary
from
the
idioholism
experiment.
See
www.idioholism.com
for
further
details.
Chris
Dooks,
www.idioholism.com
September
2014
230
Chapter
8
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy:
Photography,
Design
and
Sleevenotes
1.
Photography
&
Design
2.
The
idioholism
sleevenotes
3.
‘Part
of’
or
a
primer?
4.
LP1
SLEEVENOTES:
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
5.
LP2
SLEEVENOTES:
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
6.
LP3
SLEEVENOTES:
CIGA{R}LES
231
1.
Photography
&
Design
In
2012,
a
small
but
notable
artist’s
folio,
‘Triggered
Sound’
(Young,
Métayer,
2012)
was
published
by
Palavar
Press
in
an
edition
of
150.
Without
any
CD
or
downloadable
soundtrack,
the
folio
profiled
sound
artists
and
ambient
electronic
composers,
contextualising
a
rarely
seen
aspect
of
these
artists’
work
–
their
photographs.
I
begin
with
an
extract
from
Young’s
text,
then
expand
on
how
photography
and
graphic
design
are
important
elements
in
this
project.
…[recorded]
sound
events
function
as
frozen
images,
representing
that
entire,
hidden,
historical
process
of
how
they
inevitably
‘got
here’.
And
every
time
we
trigger
a
recorded
sound,
this
historical
image
re-‐enters
our
present.
I
can’t
help
but
think
that
this
is
why
recorded
sound
always
tends
to
connect
with
our
sense
of
memory.
Perhaps
just
by
virtue
of
its
representation
of
the
past,
our
brains
are
triggered
to
recall
emotional
events
and
sensations
from
our
own
past…
(Young,
2012,
p.17)
That
the
records
of
this
project
are
already
finished
and
released
has
placed
them
in
such
a
past.
One
motivation
in
making
some
of
the
works
that
are
accompanied
by
images
and
text
was
to
attempt
to
generate
both
a
document
of
the
experiences,
and
create
a
kind
of
emotional
replay
when
encountering
the
records
again.
For
my
records
to
have
the
most
‘efficacy’
in
the
first
person,
as
therapeutic
objects
to
be
revisited,
the
more
context
provided
on
my
LPs
as
‘documents’,
the
more
likely
I
am
able
to
revisit
and
remember
these
experiences.
232
What
of
the
images
on
the
records?
Outside
of
the
12”
outer-‐sleeves
the
images
are
laid
out
in
grids
and
each
rectangular
picture
averages
a
few
centimetres
wide.
They
primarily
document
place
and
minutiae
of
each
site-‐specific
locale
and
are
fairly
‘neutral’
and
straightforward
in
execution.
There
is
a
sense
of
order,
but
the
images
are
not
as
sequential
as
a
director’s
storyboard.
Instead,
they
appear
free
and
almost
random.
They
have
a
visual
and
aesthetic
logic
as
design
elements
themselves,
but
they
do
not
function
in
isolation.
How
other
listeners
interpret
and
connect
the
documentary-‐like
photographs
to
the
text
and
sounds
on
the
LPs
will
be
down
to
their
own
curiosity;
for
this
reason,
the
order
of
the
images
is
open
to
interpretation.
When
I
revisit
the
records,
play
them,
read
the
notes
and
look
at
the
images
my
mood
changes.
When
my
mood
changes
my
body
follows
suit.
With
CFS-‐ME,
this
aspect
cannot
be
underestimated.
This
connection
to
previous
experience
can
rescue
oneself
from
the
worst
of
days,
knowing
there
is
a
window
of
opportunity
to
change
one’s
circumstances.
But
what
of
when
the
images
reach
the
public
world
as
the
records
are
released?
John
Berger
in
his
edited
essay
Ways
of
Remembering,
in
Images:
A
Reader
(Manghani,
Piper
and
Simons,
2006)
emphasises
the
need
of
the
multiplicity
of
context
when
moving
images
from
the
personal
to
the
public
sphere
–
which
is
essentially
what
I
attempted
to
do
in
the
vinyl
enterprise.
233
The
faculty
of
memory
allows
us
to
preserve
certain
events
from
oblivion…
…in
private
use
a
photograph
is
read
in
a
context
which
is
still
continuous
with
that
from
which
it
was
taken.
…the
public
photograph
is
divorced
from
all
first-‐hand
experience
[as]
it
represents
the
memory
of
a
total
stranger.
…The
problem
is
to
construct
a
context
for
a
photograph,
to
construct
it
with
words,
to
construct
it
with
other
photographs,
to
construct
it
by
its
place
in
an
ongoing
text
of
photographs
and
images…
Memory
works
radially,
that
is
to
say
with
an
enormous
amount
of
associations
leading
to
the
same
event…
If
we
want
to
put
a
photograph
back
into
the
context
of
experience,
social
experience,
social
memory,
we
have
to
respect
the
laws
of
memory.
(Berger,
in
Manghani,
Piper
and
Simons,
2006,
pp.214-‐216)
My
own
memory
is
worsening
as
years
pass,
and
not
due
to
simple
ageing.
Photography
here
plays
a
part
in
recall
and
remembrance.
What
Berger
terms
‘respecting
the
laws
of
memory’
resonates.
In
my
practice,
when
imagery
is
combined
with
the
sound
and
the
text
of
my
objects
I
have
multiple
opportunities
in
remembering
the
process.
Early
in
Chapter
1,
I
posited
the
idea
that
through
three
different
projects,
a
form
of
‘triangulation’
could
generate
a
‘proto-‐syllabus’
of
engagement
with
life.
One
could
argue
that
principle
could
also
be
applied
to
each
individual
record.
The
text,
the
soundtrack/object
and
the
photography
may
be
seen
as
a
multi-‐sensory
record
of
memory
in
the
first
person,
before
other
viewers
feel
or
234
‘triangulate’
their
way
between
the
constituent
media
forms
that
contribute
to
the
whole
record.
The
12”
square
covers
help
to
represent
the
concepts
and
build
up
a
symbolic/metaphorical
language
to
communicate
the
ideas
in
the
records.
Here,
the
photographic
content
(maps,
trees,
insects)
is
deliberately
minimal,
to
allow
the
conceptual
colour-‐coding
aspect
of
the
project
to
be
clear.
So
the
primary
photographic
encounter
with
the
work
is
a
primary
colour
experience
first.
There
is
also
a
progression
between
LP1
to
LP3
photographically.
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
(LP1)
is
the
‘triage’
record
and
whilst
the
imagery
is
vérité
in
appearance,
and
full
colour,
it
is
framed
by
blood-‐red
elements,
perhaps
suggesting
a
sense
of
urgency
or
repair
akin
to
iconography
of
The
Red
Cross.
But
the
design
concepts
developed
in
LP1
become
perhaps
more
honed
in
LP2
and
LP3.
The
progression
between
LP1
and
the
sequel
Three
Hundred
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
(the
‘blue’
of
which
may
be
seen
as
the
colour
of
our
atmosphere
in
the
‘cosmological’
element
of
the
trilogy)
is
that
all
the
photographs
in
the
latter
album
were
selected
because
of
their
blue
hues.
Here
was
a
blue
cover,
blue
photographs
–
which
were
now
fusing
those
‘vérité’
elements
with
fine
art
sensibilities
–
and
a
record
which
was
a
highly
saturated
blue
vinyl.
This
slight
difference
or
progression
between
the
LPs
allows
for
the
records
to
be,
to
a
degree
‘themselves’
outside
of
their
identical
typefaces,
borders
and
graphics.
By
the
time
I
created
the
final
instalment
in
the
trilogy,
photography
had
been
completely
removed,
to
be
replaced
by
antique
illustrations
from
out-‐of-‐copyright
material
gathered
at
the
sources:
primarily
because
I
wanted
to
locate
(in
that
case)
235
images
of
cicadas
emerging
from
their
shells
and
bursting
out,
something
that
was
difficult
to
photograph.
The
typography
and
design
between
all
three
records
was
identical
–
important
in
communicating
that
these
records
belonged
together.
Rutger
Zuyderveldt
was
the
co-‐designer
(who
also
adopted
his
sound-‐orientated
Machinefabriek
moniker
for
collaborative
sonic
work
on
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium).
Zuyderveldt
was
adept
at
keeping
the
integrity
of
the
project
uniform
given
that
the
records
and
materials
were
made
in
factories
in
Canada
(Toronto)
(LP1)
and
the
UK
(London)
for
LP2
and
LP3.
There
is
one
final
added
dimension
to
the
context
in
which
photography
and
sleevenotes
feature
in
the
audit
of
works
created
for
the
project.
There
exist
very
simple
films62
based
of
the
photographic
sessions
I
created
‘in
the
field’.
Comprised
of
some
of
the
photography
from
the
entire
project,
they
make
useful
promotional
items,
but
also
can
be
seen
as
a
further
attempt
to
bring
myself
closer
to
the
moving
image
once
more
–
and
display
a
sense
of
plasticity
between
what
defines
a
filmmaker,
composer
and
digital
artist.
There
is
a
documentary-‐like
track
on
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
which
is
narrated
as
a
short
radio
piece.
Taking
the
opportunity
to
make
a
promotional
piece
from
the
images
–
I
created,
almost
by
accident,
a
documentary
film
Betamax
and
Dictaphones
which
was
used
at
the
launch
event
of
that
particular
LP.
Now
that
I
have
given
a
short
examination
of
how
the
visual
materials
came
about,
and
given
that
the
best
way
to
encounter
the
visuals
is
in
the
documents
themselves
(i.e.
the
records)
let
us
end
with
a
little
more
of
Young’s
insight
onto
the
62
Listed
sequentially
in
the
concluding
chapter
236
‘hidden’
life
of
the
audio
artist,
and
of
the
relationship
of
‘triggered
sound’
to
photographic
content
from
audio
practitioners.
…Photography,
as
the
act
of
recording
our
world,
fitting
it
to
a
frame
and
creating
a
manipulable
double,
tightly
mirrors
the
notion
of
triggered
sound.
Photographs
and
recorded
sound
both
provide
images
of
a
past
present
and
both
have
this
great
power
over
our
emotional
memory.
….sound
artists
[share]
an
acute
consciousness
in
regards
to
recording,
editing
and
playback
devices,
but
more
importantly,
a
concern
for
the
implications
of
recorded
sound
and
both
the
contexts
and
contours
of
our
heard
environments.
It’s
the
sound
that
we
long
for
whilst
gazing
upon
these
photos
because
it’s
the
sound
that’s
been
left
behind
[in
this
folio].
(Young,
2012,
p18)
237
2.
The
idioholism
sleevenotes
In
the
upcoming
pages,
the
following
sleevenotes,
reproduced
in
full
-‐
were
all
written
as
the
sonic
works
were
produced,
forming
a
diary-‐like
element
that
aimed
to
both
unearth
the
process
and
help
me
remember
it.
In
this
way,
it
can
be
said
that
the
sleevenotes
are
directly
part
of
the
praxis.
These
are
verbatim
reproductions
from
the
records
themselves
which
are
not
‘academic’
documents
in
the
formal
sense.
So
what
follows
after
this
primer
on
them,
can
be
considered
a
kind
of
appendix
-‐
but
to
place
it
at
the
end
of
this
exegesis
would
imply
the
methodologies
employed
in
the
discs
are
an
afterthought
–
when
they
are
crucial
to
this
text.
Although
the
reader
of
this
text
will
hopefully
have
the
physical
records
in
front
of
them,
the
sleevenotes
are
included
here
for
convenience
also.
However,
one
must
note
that
most
sleevenotes
are
more
informally
written
-‐
and
are
without
academic
citations
(but
they
are
not
without
references).
Therefore,
to
address
this
phenomena,
I
have
included
any
references
the
sleevenotes
refer
to,
in
the
bibliography.
Sleevenotes,
as
I
have
suggested
throughout
this
exegesis,
can
be
seen
as
the
‘script’,
‘narrative’
or
frequently
the
textual
‘documentary’
element
of
these
so-‐called
‘artisan’
editions
of
vinyl
releases.
For
the
listener,
the
sleevenotes
also
serve
as
a
commentary
or
layer
of
the
process
and
help
prime
the
listening
experience.
Vinyl
records,
which
may
have
pull-‐outs,
coloured
vinyl
and
extend
into
complex
assemblages,
can
be
highly
personal
and
idiosyncratically
‘read’,
‘played’
and
listened
to.
Vinyl
‘fetishists’
are
often
described
of
having
a
love
and
devotion
to
the
format,
comparable
to
religious
ceremony.
Whilst
it
is
a
cliché
to
invoke
terms
like
238
‘vinyl
devotees’
–
or
speak
of
‘the
vinyl
cult’
I
am
interested
in
the
ways
where
‘the
order
of
service’
from
person
to
person
differs.
Some
even
use
white
cotton
gloves
to
handle
the
records…
In
some
ways
the
‘gatefold’
edition
of
12”
records,
prominent
in
the
concept
albums
of
the
1970s
and
undergoing
a
current
revival,
unfolding
like
a
giant
birthday
card,
is
analogous
in
some
ways
to
portable
shrines
I
have
seen
in
photographs
of
Catholic
Mexico
or
Buddhist
Tibet.
They
serve
as
backdrops
to
secular
and
sonic
incantations
on
the
vinyl.
Sound
may
still
be
centre
stage,
but
the
framing
and
commentary
of
the
sound
are
co-‐dependent
with
the
sonic
element.
This
is
highly
noticeable
when
one
removes
the
visuals,
text
and
ephemera,
where
a
vastly
different
dynamic
develops.
If
we
look
at
‘untethered’
mp3
files,
which
languish
in
isolation
on
a
fragment
of
a
hard
drive,
devoid
of
‘ID3
tags,’
sound
becomes
devoid
of
its
roots
and
heritage.
Detached
from
photography
and
sleevenotes,
sound-‐only
releases
risk
loss
of
presence,
narrative
and
context,
and
at
worst,
the
whole
enterprise
may
collapse,
cheapening
the
experience.
Without
contextual
anchors
(such
as
sleevenotes
or
photography)
we
become
divorced
from
the
sound
or
music.
One
may
construct
a
counter-‐argument
to
suggest
that
sleevenotes
distract
from
the
music,
but
in
the
context
of
vinyl
records,
or
of
my
‘fragmented
film’
records,
the
sleevenotes
are
part
of
the
end
product
and
are
reciprocally
related
to
the
other
design
elements,
the
artwork,
the
object
as
a
whole
and
the
vinyl.
Additionally,
the
consumer
of
vinyl
often
expects
their
time
and
monetary
investment
to
be
rewarded
in
this
way.
But
vinyl
is
still
a
niche.
It
is
expensive
and
it
is
inconvenient
–
which
may
also,
paradoxically
protect
the
format.
Many
of
today’s
digital
releases
become
ubiquitous
239
sonic
works
frequently
lost
on
hard-‐drives,
suffering
from
a
lack
of
context,
fanfare
or
‘wow
factor’
despite
attempts
by
iTunes
or
graphic
designers
and
their
D.I.Y.
printed
pdf
labels.
There
are
exceptions
-‐
Björk
Guðmundsdóttir’s
Biophilia
iOS
project
Biophillia
(Guðmundsdóttir,
Snib
2011)
in
which
a
large
smartphone/tablet
app
is
sold
alongside
the
record
to
expand
the
experience
with
scientific
links,
videos,
games
-‐
is
a
brave
and
immersive
effort.
Peter
Gabriel’s
early
experiments
with
CD-‐ROM
work
in
the
early
1990s
or
Coldcut’s
expanded
Let
Us
Play
CD+CD-‐ROM(Black,
More
and
Warren
Hill,
1997)
and
Let
Us
Replay
CD+CD-‐ROM
(Black,
More
and
Warren
Hill
1998)
are
examples
of
earlier
works
in
which
artists
attempted
to
make
a
record
more
than
a
record
by
adding
interactive
elements.
Vinyl
doesn’t
do
this
in
such
a
complex
manner.
The
interactivity
with
vinyl
is
tactile
and
as
a
result
forges
a
direct
sense
of
engagement.
So
what
are
the
antitheses
of
sleevenotes,
recorded
music
and
perhaps
the
materialistic,
tactile
and
embodied
character
of
musical
objects
and
sound
art?
Is
it
purely
ephemeral
work?
In
an
almost
Buddhist
exercise
of
non-‐attachment
to
objects,
Bill
Drummond’s
response
was
to
make
a
project
like
“The
17”
(Drummond,
2008)
where
the
artist
removes
himself
from
physical
and
recorded
sounds
altogether
to
form
folk-‐choirs
around
the
world
and
to
never
record
any
of
it
(see
Chapter
6).
However,
Drummond
is
a
dramatist
in
this
way
and
despite
the
enterprise
being
one
of
non-‐attachment,
it
still
forged
a
heavyweight
text
stuffed
with
manifestos
and
pronouncements
of
the
experience.
It
seems
that
the
need
to
document
our
sonic
enterprises
with
text
and
images
is
a
hard
human
faculty
to
shake
off.
240
The
records
I
have
produced
are
ultimately
directed
by
the
listener
who
chooses
how
to
reassemble
the
experience.
This
process
begins
by
the
unwrapping
of
the
shrink-‐wrap
covering
the
sleeve,
effectively
destroying
the
innocence
one
has
with
the
pristine
package,
but
the
listener
is
in
charge,
and
will
likely
not
rush
the
experience
(I
even
caught
myself
writing
‘listener’
in
this
paragraph,
which
is
telling.
vinyl
record
fans
are
rarely
just
listeners,
they
are
musical
holists
of
a
kind.)
It
is
not
a
click
on
an
icon
on
a
computer
screen.
Vinyl
formats,
in
my
opinion,
foster
a
kind
of
curiosity
–
and
patience
-‐
in
which
sleevenotes
are
the
canonical
players
in
the
ceremony.
3.
‘Part
of’
or
a
primer?
It
is
not
unusual
to
have
the
sleevenotes
take
the
form
of
a
removable
sheet
of
paper
–
meant
to
be
taken
away
and
appreciated
on
its
own.
Perish
the
thought
of
a
vinyl
connoisseur
ever
divorcing
the
sleevenotes
from
the
objects
they
are
married
to,
for
the
sleevenotes
are
part
of
the
‘genetic
makeup’
of
the
final
package.
But
in
my
case,
there
is
a
strong
argument
that
the
sleevenotes
need
to
prime
the
listening
experience
because
the
methodology
is
as
important
as
the
final
product.
Of
course
many
record
fans
and
producers
totally
eschew
the
thought
of
sleevenotes
existing
at
all.
And
that
is
often
a
way
of
preserving
a
purely
sensory
experience
from
being
‘debased’
by
words.
Usually,
in
my
own
past
work,
the
product
-‐
i.e.
the
final
outcome
of
the
process
-‐
has
always
been
my
most
valued
part
of
my
work.
No
more.
During
illness,
process
has
at
the
very
least
become
as
important
as,
if
not
more
than,
for
the
241
first
time,
any
product.
The
sleevenotes
elucidate
this
aspect
of
the
work.
Therefore
I
present
here,
the
sleevenotes
of
the
records.
242
4.
LP1
SLEEVENOTES:
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
Limited
Edition
Transparent
Red
Vinyl
LP
Published
and
Released
by
Komino
Records,
Toronto,
November
2012
Edition
of
300
[http://kominorecords.com/promo/komino-‐004]
Heavyweight
full
colour
card
inners
Launched
at
the
Centre
for
Contemporary
Arts,
Glasgow,
11
Dec
2012
Layout
by
Rutger
Zuydervelt
&
Chris
Dooks
Sleevenotes:
If
it
sucked
air
past
its
reeds
it
might
called
a
melodeon
but
this
one
blows,
so
it’s
a
harmonium,
not
to
be
confused
with
the
smaller
hand-‐pumped
instrument
of
the
same
name
used
in
Indian
folk
and
devotional
music.
It’s
a
lumbering
object,
like
a
baby
elephant,
about
four
and
a
half
foot
tall
and
wide,
with
heavy
ivories.
It
has
two
treadles
that
must
be
triggered
fairly
briskly
in
order
for
the
air
to
flood
its
internal
bellows.
Accumulated
dust
causes
constriction
of
the
tubes,
narrowing
the
airways
like
an
asthma
attack.
Keys
can
stick,
as
can
internal
mechanics.
Things
can
snap
off,
rupture.
A
lung
can
collapse
or
be
torn
open.
In
fact,
an
artificial
lung
is
not
a
bad
analogy.
It’s
not
that
artificial
either,
the
wood
creaks
and
it
always
sounds
sad,
maybe
from
the
karma
of
the
ivory
keyboard
veneers,
likely
forged
from
tusks
or
other
dentine.
Elephants
never
forget.
243
In
a
harmonium,
the
more
notes
in
your
chord,
the
faster
you
have
to
pedal,
the
quicker
you
reach
exhaustion.
Also,
the
more
notes
in
your
chord
the
quieter
it
becomes
and
only
pedalling
much
faster
will
keep
up
the
volume.
If
you
hold
down
a
note
and
stop
pedalling
it
really
does
feel
like
a
dying
breath.
The
processes
involved
are
visceral.
Artists
and
musicians
alike
love
to
engage
with
it.
I
think
the
reason
some
of
us
are
drawn
to
instruments
like
this
is
two-‐fold;
a
broken
or
wheezing
apparatus
brings
out
the
anthropomorphic
side
of
us
because
it
‘feels’
slightly
human
when
we
engage
with
it.
But
it
is
also
a
highly
limited
instrument,
especially
when
it
is
old
and
broken,
and
for
an
exhausted
non-‐virtuoso
composer/player
like
myself,
it
is
liberating
because
of
the
limitations,
which
are
also
endearing.
I
catch
myself
assigning
human
properties
or
illnesses
to
it,
calling
it
arthritic
and
asthmatic.
It
can
also
be
grumpy
and
stubborn
depending
on
the
weather.
Before
I
began
this
project,
the
only
harmonium
record
I
owned
was
Music
for
a
Found
Harmonium
(Editions
EG,
1985)
by
Penguin
Café
Orchestra,
which
managed
to
infiltrate
popular
culture
and
film
soundtracks.
In
the
sleeve
notes
to
Preludes
Airs
and
Yodels
(A
Penguin
Cafe
primer,
Virgin
1996),
the
story
goes
that
Simon
Jeffes
found
an
old
harmonium
dumped
in
a
back
street
in
Kyoto
in
1982.
After
transporting
the
instrument
to
a
friend's
house
in
a
pretty
suburb
of
the
city,
he
visited
it
during
the
next
few
months,
fondly
recalling
the
period
as
one
during
which
he
was
under
a
form
of
enchantment
with
the
place
and
the
time.
244
A
similar
experience
has
happened
to
me.
I
visit
a
harmonium
regularly
both
because
of
the
instrument
itself,
but
also
because
of
where
it
is.
It’s
like
going
to
see
a
distant
relative
in
a
care
home.
When
I
record
or
photograph
the
instrument,
it
becomes
the
axis
of
whatever
I
am
doing
near
the
site;
the
weather,
my
health,
walks,
memories,
anxieties,
my
hopes
for
the
future,
the
room
I
am
sat
in,
the
books
on
the
shelf
–
all
this
context
is
recorded
also.
This
accumulated
experience
is
sometimes
recalled
to
me
when
playing
back
the
work.
In
February
2011,
I
needed
to
get
away
for
a
while
–
not
because
I
don’t
love
my
family,
but
because
I
was
exhausted.
I
do
this
once
or
twice
a
year
with
my
wife’s
blessing
because
of
a
fairly
stressful
illness
I
have
had
since
1999
(www.afme.org.uk
if
you
are
interested).
So
I
went
away
to
refuel.
I’ve
done
it
before,
such
as
in
winter
2010
when
I
stayed
in
Brodick
on
the
Isle
of
Arran,
producing
an
hour-‐long
‘radio-‐ballad’
for
Hibernate
Recordings
(a
Northern
English
ambient
music
imprint).
I
did
some
writing
and
walking
and
stargazing.
A
self-‐imposed
residency-‐retreat.
These
‘retreats’
–
even
retreats
‘at
home’
–
have
transmuted
into
a
collection
of
interdependent
audio
works
for
my
PhD;
ultimately
forming
a
model
of
health
through
sonic
art
practice.
Broken
musical
instruments
for
‘broken
people’
(e.g.
the
chronically
ill)
is
one
strategy
explored
here
through
sonic
pilgrimages.
I
am
especially
excited
if
they
are
located
in
remote
but
accessible
geographies.
245
And
so,
with
monastic
ideals
in
mind,
I
chose
to
stay
at
a
Buddhist
temple
in
Eskdalemuir,
a
village
and
district
not
far
from
Lockerbie
in
the
Scottish
Borders.
It’s
like
a
tiny
Tibet.
I
thought
I’d
stop
there
for
a
while,
do
a
bit
of
meditation
and
return
home
a
bit
calmer,
less
addicted
to
my
work.
But
the
monastery
had
run
out
of
rooms.
Luckily,
I
found
local
family-‐friendly
accommodation
in
a
sweet-‐looking
farmhouse
called
“Rennaldburn”
–
which
turned
out
to
be
the
name
of
the
stream
(‘burn’
in
Scotland),
which
trickled
down
the
side
of
the
farm.
This
farmhouse
was
available
to
rent
–
at
least
half
of
it,
whilst
the
owners
lived
in
the
back.
It
was
at
this
point
I
came
across
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium,
not
to
mention
two
megalithic
stone
circles
–
The
Loupin
Stanes
and
The
Girdle
Stanes
in
the
fields
nearby.
When
I
discovered
guests
had
access
to
this
amazing
instrument
in
the
living
room,
there
was
no
time
to
lose.
Within
an
hour
of
arriving
I
had
a
field
recorder
plonked
between
the
air-‐vent
speakers
recording
long
sustained
tones,
placing
microphones
in
or
around
different
parts
of
the
machine.
Despite
my
need
for
landscape
and
meditation,
I
had
found
some
sense
of
immediate
peace
working
with
this
awkward,
antiquated
and
wheezing
workstation.
I
just
slid
open
the
lid
and
began
to
compose
‘stems’
–
long
strands
of
sound
where
post-‐production
would
be
the
place
to
‘compose’
the
works.
Get
it
recorded
first,
ask
questions
later,
I’m
only
here
for
a
day
or
two.
Playing
a
harmonium
is
a
useful
methodology
for
the
artist
who
is
rather
246
unwell
–
even
if
like
myself
you
aren’t
a
great
player.
A
few
fingers
in
the
right
places
and
some
low-‐grade
exercise
from
the
feet
will
result
in
a
very
healing
period
of
time.
When
I
played
on
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium,
I
actually
lost
track
of
time
altogether.
It’s
like
a
spiritual
exercise
bike,
and
a
kind
of
holistic
enterprise
–
mind,
body
and
creative
energies
effervesce
when
playing
it.
I
say
‘it’,
but
‘it’
turns
out
to
be
more
than
one
instrument.
This
album
features
two
near-‐identical
‘Estley’
and
‘Miller’
harmonium
models.
One
is
kept
warm
and
dry
and
the
other
has
been
allowed
to
decay
in
a
barn.
You
can
hear
the
owner
of
the
instruments,
Ita,
speaking
about
them
on
Betamax
and
Dictaphones
–
a
compressed
radio
documentary
that
closes
the
first
side
of
the
record.
Whilst
most
of
the
work
on
the
album
is
made
with
the
warm
and
dry
model,
it
is
perhaps
the
album’s
closing
track
utilising
the
critically
ill
harmonium
that
is
more
conceptually
interesting.
It
is
very
difficult
to
compose
music
with
it,
because
it
is
stuck
in
a
fairly
discordant
key.
On
the
other
hand,
you
might
say
it’s
very
easy
to
compose
with
if
you
don’t
alter
anything
and
are
happy
to
work
with
the
highly
limited
range
of
the
machine,
i.e.,
literally
one
chord!
This
is
a
bit
of
a
gift.
I’m
constantly
looking
for
ways
in
which
unwell
artists
like
myself
can
make
conceptual
work
and
remain
authors
of
cultural
projects,
without
interfering
with
the
subject
too
much
-‐
or
needing
a
lot
of
energy
for
such
projects.
The
Holy
Grail
is
to
make
something
with
conceptual
value
without
actually
‘making’
anything
at
all.
I
have
a
bit
of
a
history
with
the
use
of
visual
appropriation
as
a
key
tool
for
the
‘exhausted
artist’
and
this
is
my
first
real
attempt
at
sonic
appropriation
or
a
kind
of
musical
empathy
and
metaphor.
I’m
247
virtually
using
the
harmonium
as
a
medical
tool
–
both
sonically
for
the
benefit
of
exercise
and
drone-‐bathing
–
but
also
psychologically,
investigating
collapsing
systems
and
coming
to
terms
with
the
three
motivations
for
enlightenment;
old
age,
sickness
and
death.
So,
the
‘ill’
harmonium,
(or
‘Harmonium
B’)
because
it
is
broken,
actually
composes
music
itself.
All
the
composer
need
do
is
pump
the
treadles.
If
punk
was
celebrated
for
it’s
three-‐chord
reductionism
then
this
harmonium
is
even
more
punk
because
it
has
jammed
itself
on
this
one
five-‐note
chord.
On
this
final
track,
entitled
Settlement
(because
of
the
chord
‘settling’
and
also
because
it’s
a
nearby
spot
on
a
map)
the
first
half
of
the
track
sees
me
literally
forcing
different
notes
out
of
the
machine
without
even
touching
the
keys.
The
faster
I
pedal,
the
more
of
the
stuck
chord
you
hear.
It
is
even
possible
to
isolate
different
notes
by
foot
pressure.
There’s
something
beautifully
simple
about
the
harmonium
giving
me
this
autobiography.
It
chose
those
notes
itself.
All
I
did
was
turn
them
on
with
my
feet.
Most
of
what
you
hear
is
a
raw
field
recording.
When
I
encountered
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium(s)
(especially
the
broken
version)
I
was
reminded
of
an
infamous
‘ruined
piano
sanctuary’
in
western
Australia,
nine
thousand
miles
away
from
Eskdalemuir.
The
composer
Ross
Bolleter
has,
in
the
last
10
years
explored
playing
with
such
‘ruined’
pianos
over
several
exploratory
albums.
Rain,
heat
and
insects
carve
authorship
on
these
instruments
and
end
up
as
collaborators
with
the
composer.
The
sanctuary
is
available
to
visiting
composers
to
use
-‐
as
are
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmoniums.
248
Between
February
2011
and
March
2012
I
started
to
filter
several
tracks
and
I
quickly
realised
to
avoid
navel-‐gazing
it
might
be
wise
to
get
a
different
perspective
on
the
sounds.
At
this
point
I
contacted
Rutger
Zuydervelt,
aka
Machinefabriek
and
asked
if
he
would
be
interested
in
being
my
collaborator
on
the
project.
He
did,
and
we
started
to
process
the
sounds
and
alter
each
other’s
treatments
via
soundcloud.com,
as
I
wanted
a
critical
perspective
from
someone
who
hadn’t
seen
the
machines
or
the
environment
I
was
in.
I’ve
done
a
lot
of
virtual
collaborations
before,
as
has
the
massively
prolific
Rutger.
In
1999
I
was
signed
to
French
electronica
label
bip-‐hop
who
released
my
first
album
Social
Electrics
(featuring
Matt
Elliot
and
Janeck
Schaefer
among
others,
made
through
a
56k
modem).
The
collaboration
with
Rutger
here
was
a
silver
lining
on
soundcloud
because
we
both
had
reasonably
fast
connections
allowing
the
efficient
transfer
of
daily
megabytes
of
lossless
audio
arriving
into
our
studios
in
Ayr
and
Rotterdam.
It
was
a
series
of
contemplative
digital
jam
sessions.
Before
I
began
this
project
I
was
unaware
of
the
pioneering
Harmonium
work
made
by
Sigbjørn
Apeland
on
his
album
Glossolalia
(Hubro
Music
2011);
a
set
of
immersive
improvised
harmonium
recordings
made
over
a
decade.
I’m
almost
glad
I
didn’t
know
of
that
album’s
existence
prior
to
recording
‘my’
harmonium
in
Eskdalemuir.
But
if
you
want
a
recent
primer,
Apeland’s
work
is
a
superb
document
of
postmodern
Harmonium
composition
executed
in
single
takes.
Had
I
known
about
it,
I
think
it
would
have
influenced
how
I
proceeded
or
I
might
have
just
given
up.
If
Glossolalia
were
a
Buddhist
teaching,
it
would
now
be
my
‘root
text’.
249
According
to
Glossolalia’s
sleevenotes,
“most
harmoniums
are
old,
badly
maintained
and
more
or
less
out
of
tune”
and
for
most
trained
musicians
this
is
a
problem
as
the
machine
is
“averse
to
all
kind
of
virtuosity”.
All
sorts
of
squeaks
and
whimpers
can
be
found
in
Glossolalia.
When
I
listen
to
the
peripheral
noises
on
Apeland’s
Bulder
Og
Lys
I
always
think
my
baby
boy
is
crying
nearby.
I
stop
the
track
and
the
phantom
baby
evaporates.
Glossolalia
is
a
slow
but
intense
record.
Wind
instruments
with
‘lungs’
just
don’t
suit
being
played
fast
–
and
sometimes
I
prefer
just
to
bathe
in
their
inherent
drone.
Play
a
harmonium
fast
and
it’s
like
that
elephant
again,
only
trying
to
breakdance.
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
is
an
assemblage
through
improvisation.
Rutger
and
myself
worked
microscopically
on
the
extensive
field
recordings.
Because
we
are
also
visual
artists,
it
may
come
as
no
surprise
that
a
filmic
or
‘modular’
approach
to
the
harmonium
composition
was
the
adopted
method,
and
the
editing
methodology
was
similar
to
the
workflow
of
a
radio
documentary.
My
PhD
revolves
around
creative
responses
to
chronic
illness,
and
one
aspect
of
that
is
to
create
‘soporific
sonics’
–
where
tones
to
aid
sleep
and
rest
are
cherished
prizes,
when
found.
People
with
CFS-‐ME
(or
C.F.S.
/
C.F.I.D.S.
in
the
USA
and
Canada)
are
rarely
properly
rested.
But
it
is
also
comforting
when
the
instrument’s
range
and
‘health’
can
be
said
to
be
in
sync
with
the
unwell
artist
deriving
sounds
from
it.
This
is
a
kind
of
intuitive
sonic
investigation,
or
as
Dr
Sarah
Pink
would
say
in
academic
terms,
it
is
a
kind
of
‘sensory
autoethnography’
–
a
form
of
qualitative
research,
a
sounding
out
of
the
soulscape.
250
Sociologically,
there
is
a
growing
societal
movement
away
from
the
word
‘disabled’
toward
terms
such
as
‘inclusive’
–
and
I
believe
there
is
a
parallel
in
the
world
of
specialist
music
and
sound
art.
Sounds
previously
thought
of
as
errors
are
now
being
celebrated
and
the
language
investigated.
Over
the
last
thirty
years,
despite
(or
because
of)
the
advent
of
precise
digital
recordings
and
of
producers
who
spend
aeons
ridding
instruments
of
hums
and
crackles,
there
are
other
producers
who
are
interested
only
in
those
hums
and
crackles
being
left
in.
In
electronic
music
too
-‐
Philip
Jeck,
Christian
Marclay,
William
Basinski,
James
Leyland
Kirby
as
The
Caretaker
–
and
especially
Rutger
Zuydervelt,
all
are
artists
working
closely
with
the
aesthetics
of
detritus.
This
is
a
site-‐specific
project
and
I
wanted
the
site
to
be
heard
in
the
results.
Field
recordings
and
interviews
were
sourced
alongside
video
and
photographic
images.
The
expanded
digital
edition
at
www.dooks.org/harmonium
has
even
more
images
and
sounds
made
in
the
sessions.
We
hope
you
will
enjoy
the
rattles,
rhythms
and
compressed
airs
of
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
and
perhaps
even
visit
these
wonderful
machines
yourself
before
they
return
to
the
mossy
and
damp
earth
of
Eskdalemuir
-‐
groaning,
wheezing
and
collapsing
on
themselves
as
they
fall
into
the
gravitational
suck
of
the
earth’s
core…
Chris
Dooks,
Alloway,
June
2012
251
5.
LP2
SLEEVENOTES:
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
Limited
Edition
Blue
Vinyl
LP
Pressed
by
Curved
Pressings
London,
Edition
of
300
Heavyweight
full
colour
card
inners
Self-‐Released
by
Chris
Dooks
[www.idioholism.com]
and
Auntie
Helen
Records
Launched
at
Woodend
Barn,
Banchory,
Scotland:
22
August
2013
Layout
by
Rutger
Zuydervelt
and
Chris
Dooks
Sleevenotes:
If
you
wish
to
make
an
apple
pie
from
scratch,
you
must
first
invent
the
universe.
Astrophysicist
Carl
Sagan
sings
these
words
from
the
grave
on
a
limited
edition
7”
single,
the
b-‐side
of
which
displays
engravings
copied
from
The
Golden
Record,
famously
mounted
on
the
Voyager
probes
to
the
outer
solar
system.
On
her
album
and
multimedia
project,
Biophillia,
Icelandic
composer
and
singer
Björk
informs
us
that
the
rate
at
which
our
fingernails
grow
is
the
same
rate
at
which
the
earth’s
Mid-‐Atlantic
Ridge
drifts.
In
2009,
which
was
The
International
Year
of
Astronomy,
a
jazz-‐choral
piece
about
sunspots,
by
a
cappella
troupe
The
Chromatics,
explained
solar
rotation:
A
strange
kind
of
movement
to
do
a
full
roll,
25
days
in
the
middle,
36
at
the
poles…
252
I
adore
music
about
science.
In
2008
Benbecula
Records
released
an
LP
of
my
songs
entitled
The
Aesthetic
Animals
Album,
where
each
song
referred
implicitly
or
explicitly
to
biology.
One
song
was
titled
The
Penguin.
At
the
time,
I
was
gripped
by
the
media
coverage
of
Antarctic
penguins
near
the
Ross
Ice
Shelf.
They
were
unable
to
get
back
to
their
chicks
because
the
landscape
of
ice
was
rapidly
changing
due
to
the
worlds
largest
iceberg
blocking
their
path
–
a
problem,
as
it
was
easily
over
100
kilometres
long.
At
the
time
of
writing
the
song,
the
iceberg
had
‘calved’
or
jettisoned
much
of
it’s
bulk,
creating
the
enigmatically
named
B15(A),
which
eventually
calved
(B)15B.
I
used
information
found
inside
a
copy
of
National
Geographic
to
write
the
song.
The
world’s
largest
iceberg
is
B15(A)
And
it’s
run
aground
on
The
McMurdo
Sound
again.
It
is
preventing
penguins
from
entering
their
colonies
It
is
preventing
scientists
from
carrying
out
their
follies
B15(B),
took
the
kinder
route
It
shattered
on
the
sea-‐bed,
with
minimal
repute
Once
a
motherlode,
once
leviathan
Disintegrating
Iceberg,
and
iceberg
traffic-‐jam
I
spent
most
of
2012
creating
more
sonic
science
vignettes,
but
not
songs
in
the
formal
sense,
forming
instead
a
backbone
of
earth-‐science
and
astronomy
spoken
word
pieces
which
eventually
resulted
in
this
LP.
One
might
call
this
suite
of
works
Astrosonic
Edutainment.
The
title
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
refers
to
the
area
of
253
Galloway
Forest
Park
in
Scotland,
most
of
which
is
also
an
internationally
accredited
Dark
Sky
Park
for
observing
the
night
sky.
Its
northern
border
is
only
thirteen
miles
away
from
my
house.
Side
One
Gardening
as
Astronomy
This
is
the
soundtrack
to
a
twelve-‐minute
film
commissioned
by
Woodend
Barn
Arts
in
Banchory,
Aberdeenshire,
where
I
was
given
access
to
a
creative
space,
a
Steinway
piano
and
a
wildlife
garden.
I
also
had
the
opportunity
to
make
sound
recordings
with
any
visitors
to
the
various
indoor
and
outdoor
spaces
over
a
period
of
48
hours.
The
rough
brief
was
to
focus
around
the
expansion
of
the
centre’s
wildlife
garden
(featured
on
this
LP’s
front
and
rear
covers).
With
all
this
focus
on
locality
(and
the
track
mentions
very
British
concepts
like
‘allotments’),
it
made
sense
to
counterpoint
it
around
something
universal,
like
astronomy.
Could
working
in
a
garden
count
as
astronomy?
I
like
the
idea
of
daytime
astronomy.
I
had
already
used
the
solar
telescope
of
my
local
astronomy
group
during
the
day,
and
I
already
knew
that
radio
telescopes
could
work
during
the
day,
so
why
not
define
gardening
as
astronomy?
Or
at
least
call
it
a
kind
of
‘star-‐work.’
Defining
gardening
as
astronomy
opens
up
astronomy
to
all
sorts
of
audiences.
254
I
read
somewhere
recently
that
one
reason
we
know
that
the
sun’s
solar
energy
peaks
in
13-‐year
ejections
is
because
the
trunks
of
felled
trees
have
thicker
bark
around
these
periods.
Whilst
that
isn’t
gardening
as
such,
it
is
a
kind
of
astronomy
that
is
both
informed
by
modern
research,
and
is
at
same
time
rooted
(literally)
in
the
earth.
As
such,
it
is
accessible.
To
an
extent,
this
track
is
following
in
the
footsteps
of
Hamish
Henderson,
Alan
Lomax
and
linguistic
ethnographers
from
Edinburgh’s
School
of
Scottish
Studies
(an
institution
with
which
I
have
worked
in
the
past).
These
researchers
and
collectors
stomped
around
Scotland
with
their
tape
recorders
and
microphones
collating
and
depositing
songs,
stories
and
points
of
view
for
the
archives
of
the
future.
I
am
influenced
by
that
tradition,
but
I
interfere
with
the
process,
producing
a
sonic
artwork
rather
than
straight
ethnographic
survey.
The
Greeks
That
I
Love
Recorded
in
my
Vauxhall
Meriva
(cars
make
great
recording
spaces),
I
continued
the
process
mentioned
previously.
This
time
it
was
literally
one
take,
with
perhaps
a
couple
of
post-‐production
edits.
The
interviewee,
John
Berry,
has
a
riveting
yet
relaxing
voice.
I
used
techniques
learned
in
my
broadcast
days
to
gently
influence
him
in
musing
continuously
about
the
night
sky.
This
session
was
one
of
my
favourites,
as
John
is
clearly
vocalising
a
stream
of
consciousness,
but
it’s
not
without
humour,
and
the
microphone
loves
his
voice.
255
Continuing
the
piano
theme
of
the
previous
track,
I
used
an
older
recording
I
had
not
worked
with
before,
made
in
the
Sutherland
village
of
Helmsdale.
The
track
is
heavily
influenced
by
the
band
Labradford,
whose
album
E
Luxo
So
I
was
listening
to
a
lot.
The
Greeks
features
an
upright
tinkly
primary
school
piano,
augmented
by
other
layers
in
my
studio.
Morse
Mode
I
have
a
large
collection
of
odd
78
records,
one
of
which
is
a
two-‐part
set
of
Morse
code
instructions,
getting
on
for
a
hundred
years
old.
I
also
have
a
broken
piano,
the
third
piano
to
feature
on
this
LP.
I
wanted
to
make
a
piece
of
music
that
could
actually
contain
Morse
code
within
the
composition,
to
send
some
kind
of
message
on
the
sound
waves
entering
space.
I’ll
leave
you
to
evaluate
on
whether
or
not
there
may
be
a
hidden
text
inside
this
track.
When
I
composed
this
tune,
I
opened
the
living
room
windows
wide,
not
to
annoy
my
neighbours
but
to
think
about
how
sound
carries
on
in
space.
It
leaves
my
fingers,
it
leaves
the
piano,
it
leaves
the
room,
it
hits
the
tree
in
the
garden,
it
gets
broken
up
by
the
wind
and
so
on…
at
what
point
does
it
die?
I
have
a
chronic
illness
(see
www.afme.org.uk),
and
one
of
the
symptoms
is
that
cognitive
processes
are
impaired.
I
would
like
to
say
that
this
recording
of
the
piano
is
one
take.
Due
to
illness,
it
is
actually
five
multi-‐tracked
sessions,
with
some
rehearsal.
I
listen
a
lot
to
Indian
Ragas,
where
relevant
scales
are
applied
at
different
times
of
the
day.
My
scales
are
in
no
way
as
musically
or
philosophically
complex
as
Ragas.
I
tend
to
choose
humble
visual
patterns
with
my
fingers
and
have
to
look
down
256
on
the
ivories
so
that
I’m
not
deviating
from
perhaps
five
notes.
It
is
on
subsequent
multi-‐tracked
‘stems’
where
I
then
apply
sympathetic
layers,
depending
on
my
different
states
of
illness/health.
I
layer
these
stems
via
the
same
technique
to
a
total
of
around
five
other
sessions.
It
sounds
like
less,
perhaps
two
to
three
sessions
on
the
track.
But
as
I
say,
I’m
not
a
seasoned
or
fit
pianist.
However,
it
is
a
methodology
that
is
useful
for
composing
when
illness
threatens
creative
endeavour.
It’s
a
bricolage
technique
that
helps
me
attempt
more
complex
arrangements
from
very
simple
sessions.
Side
Two
Conversation
with
a
Boy
(album
mix)
This
is
a
track
made
with
Francis
Cazal
(Porzellan),
and
the
result
of
another
residency,
this
time
in
my
home
town
of
Ayr
in
the
west
of
Scotland.
This
version
is
under
half
the
length
of
the
original,
but
still
preserves
the
heart
of
the
work
featuring
the
voices
of
six
Ayrshire
teenagers
from
different
backgrounds,
all
speaking
about
their
hopes
for
the
future.
The
residency
became
part
of
a
show
entitled
Lodestone
–
a
word
sometimes
used
to
describe
the
mineral
magnetite.
Magnetite
is
used
in
the
tips
of
compasses,
where
it
pulls
to
magnetic
north.
This
piece
is
another
way
in
which
I
am
trying
to
use
local
voices
with
astronomical
concepts.
It
is
a
sonic
partner
piece
in
many
ways
to
the
first
track
on
Side
A.
257
Gwiazdozbiór
Andromedy
I
was
shortlisted
for
Galloway
Forest
Park‘s
Dark
Sky
residency
in
2011-‐12.
It
gave
me
an
opportunity
to
make
a
work
specifically
for
the
launch
of
the
new
astronomy
park.
Given
the
international
potential
of
astronomy,
I
wanted
to
make
a
spoken
word
track
with
someone
who
is
of
mixed
nationality.
Different
accents
are
a
feature
of
this
record.
Luckily,
I
had
a
Polish
friend,
the
performer
Marta
Adamowicz,
who
lived
in
Ayr.
Working
with
her,
I
realised
how
amazing
some
of
the
popular
constellations
sounded
in
Polish.
This
seemed
important
space-‐wise,
as
a
leading
astronomy
organisation
‘Astronomers
without
Borders’
promote
this
motto:
One
People,
One
Sky.
I
don’t
want
to
debate
the
hemispheres
or
get
into
a
Bob
Marley
One
Love
rhetoric,
but
One
People,
One
Sky
is
a
sentiment
worth
pursuing
when
the
skies
don’t
care
for
our
petty
borders.
This
is
only
half
the
story.
I’d
had
a
car
crash
some
two
years
earlier,
right
at
the
start
of
my
PhD
(of
which
this
record
is
part).
After
I
was
released
from
hospital,
the
first
creative
thing
I
did
whilst
hugging
my
ribs,
was
to
make
several
recordings
on
my
equally
broken
piano.
I
shelved
them,
but
discovered
the
technique
of
playing
the
piano
in
the
manner
that
I
explored
on
the
track
Morse
Mode.
Then
I
fused
the
track
and
Marta’s
voice
together.
When
I
play
this
back
now,
I
sometimes
get
visions
of
the
car-‐crash
alongside
Marta
and
stars
at
the
same
time.
258
Pinpricks
Over
2012
I
recorded
way
too
many
interviews
than
I
could
possibly
use
for
this
album.
So
I
have
released
a
companion
work
in
the
expanded
digital
version
of
this
record
that
you
may
have
downloaded
by
now.
It
contains
sketches
and
archives
recorded
mostly
at
the
Ayr
campus
of
the
University
of
The
West
of
Scotland
during
summer
of
2012.
One
of
the
interviewees
that
I
felt
had
a
nice
and
enthusiastic
voice
was
Anna
Kennedy,
a
performing
arts
student.
I
featured
her
purely
because
of
the
way
she
pronounces
‘stars’
–
While
I
had
a
microphone
pointed
at
her,
I
knew
immediately
I
was
going
to
loop
the
natural
rhythms
in
her
voice.
This
track
takes
her
recollection
of
stargazing
and
attempts
to
turn
it
into
a
sonic
vortex.
Katrina
Chronically
ill
people,
like
any
other
stratum
of
society,
may
need
access
to
the
latest
discoveries
of
the
universe.
But
many
very
sick
people
find
it
overwhelming
even
to
watch
a
TV
documentary.
One
way
I’ve
been
trying
to
help
overcome
this
disadvantage,
at
least
in
a
tiny
way,
is
to
locate
very
short
strands
of
information
that
are
easy
to
process
but
are
still
full
of
awe
–
like
this:
Today’s
sunlight
is
about
30,000
years
old.
It
was
made
at
the
height
of
the
last
ice
age
(spoken
to
me
by
Marcus
Chown
in
April
2012,
in
Edinburgh).
Initially,
I
was
going
to
record
statements
like
these
with
music,
in
the
hope
that
the
words
became
more
memorable.
Writers
like
Oliver
Sacks
have
researched
the
power
of
music
as
a
‘squatter’
–
in
patients
with
Alzheimer’s
Disease,
who
can
259
often
recall,
verbatim,
tunes
and
songs
from
decades
ago,
yet
are
unable
to
recall
their
own
name,
for
example.
I
became
so
interested
in
this
as
a
research
method
that
I
will
be
pursuing
a
separate
release
in
the
future
regarding
this
phenomenon.
Without
music
we
are
left
thematically
(and
literally)
with
space
-‐
for
the
final
trajectory
on
this
album.
It’s
in
Japanese
and
English,
for
no
good
reason
other
than
my
wanting,
again,
to
make
a
track
that
was
local
and
international
at
the
same
time.
And
so
I
tracked
down
a
Japanese-‐Scottish
chap
called
Jamie
Jiei
Uchima.
Born
and
raised
in
Japan
till
eleven,
and
in
Scotland
ever
since.
His
voice
is
beautifully
soft
in
his
Galloway
lilt
and
it
is
fascinating
in
its
Japanese
mode.
So,
closing
the
album,
you
hear
just
three
statements
in
Japanese
and
English,
donated
to
me
by
Marcus
Chown
and
Govert
Schilling,
authors
of
Tweeting
the
Universe
–
Tiny
Explanations
of
Very
BIG
ideas.
Chris
Dooks
Ayr,
February
2012
260
6.
LP3
SLEEVENOTES:
CIGA{R}LES
Limited
Edition
Transparent
Yellow
Vinyl
LP
Released
November
2014,
Edition
of
300
Heavyweight
full
colour
card
inners
Self-‐Released
by
Chris
Dooks
[www.idioholism.com]
Layout
by
Rutger
Zuyderveldt
and
Chris
Dooks
Sleevenotes
This
LP
eavesdrops
on
a
street
not
far
from
a
small
airport,
close
to
the
Scottish
town
where
the
poet
Robert
Burns
was
born.
It
also
incorporates
bagpipes,
and
by
way
of
surreal
contrast,
it
features
thousands
of
French
cicadas.
The
title
CIGA{R}LES
is
a
fusion
of
the
word
cigale
(cigar-‐like
cicada)
with
the
Provençal
town
of
Arles.
This
might
sound
arbitrary
or
idiosyncratic,
but
this
LP
and
the
expanded
download
that
accompanies
it,
is
thematically
tight:
a
composer
with
physical
limitations
employs
field
recording
as
an
experimental
intervention
in
health.
The
project
began
as
a
semi-‐autobiographical
Entente
Cordiale
as
I
recorded
material
firstly
in
Scotland,
(from
my
windowsill
near
to
the
flight-‐path
of
Prestwick
Airport)
and
subsequently
in
France,
birthplace
of
Musique
Concrète
and
the
alluring
cicada
soundscapes
of
the
south.
261
The
idea
of
flight,
whether
by
flying
insect,
aeroplane
or
otherwise,
can
be
a
lofty
metaphor
for
those
limited
by
illness.
Luckily,
artistic
practice
itself
revolves
around
limitation
in
that
no
work
of
art
or
music
can
contain
everything.
From
this
simple
viewpoint
it
follows
that
the
practice
of
making
any
artwork
is
accomplished
by
edits,
biases
and
the
filtering
of
information
by
all
sorts
of
discriminations.
This
is
the
process
of
most
creative
constructions.
Art
is
bias.
One
might
say
even
that
perception
itself
is
a
form
of
bias
unless
one
is
omnipotent.
So
even
before
we
start
to
make
anything,
only
a
slither
of
life
is
going
to
fit
on
the
page,
on
the
soundtrack,
within
the
sculpture,
in
the
frame
and
so
on…
Everyday
life
may
also
impose
limits
onto
artists;
problems
with
budgets,
ability,
time
frame,
health,
and
so
on.
We
would
usually
assume
that
problems
like
these
must
limit
the
development
or
opportunities
of
an
artist.
Is
this
really
the
case?
Whilst
I’m
not
suggesting
there
is
a
panacea
to
remove
these
particular
limits,
a
valid
question
does
emerge:
To
what
extent
is
there
any
benefit
in
welcoming
unpleasant
and
inconvenient
limitations
as
part
of
the
process
of
making
a
piece?
Additionally,
does
‘predicament’
itself
co-‐author
work?
I
believe
if
our
definition
of
art
(including
music
and
literature)
is
inclusive
enough,
perhaps
predicament
need
not
be
an
enemy
of
the
sick
or
disabled
practitioner.
262
I’ll
turn
to
the
sounds
on
the
record
shortly,
but
I’d
like
to
expand
on
this
idea
of
‘predicament’.
If
the
purpose
of
an
artist
making
work
is
as
suggested,
to
be
a
kind
of
editor,
perhaps
those
limited
by
illness
or
other
factors
are
already
half-‐way
to
their
art?
Is
this
one
of
the
few
advantages
of
being
an
ill
practitioner?
Every
day,
creative
acts
are
launched
in
diverse
circumstances,
not
all
of
which
appear
as
favourable.
These
circumstances
are
unavoidable
bedfellows
in
the
process.
Whilst
this
may
reduce
the
freedom
of
choice
in
what
is
creatively
possible,
perhaps
there
is
also
a
sense
of
relief
in
only
being
able
to
do
so
much
via
a
small
cluster
of
methods.
Freedom
of
choice
in
creative
projects
can
frequently
cause
an
agony
of
choice
resulting
in
procrastination.
When
illness
intervenes,
many
creative
decisions
are
instantly
negated
or
removed
and
the
kind
of
shape
or
potential
the
artwork
now
has,
is
already
part-‐sculpted
or
part-‐drafted
through
externally
imposed
‘disadvantages’.
The
chronically
ill
practitioner
knows
what
the
work
won’t
be
at
least.
So
some
of
that
choice
is
simplified,
and
some
time
and
energy
is
saved,
even
if
creative
opportunities
now
seem
depressingly
small-‐scale
due
to
circumstances.
I
am
a
cultural
practitioner
limited
by
my
failing
physical
(and
to
an
extent
mental)
health.
But
when
I
accepted
(if
not
embraced)
my
limits,
I
was
able
to
exploit
and
refine
limitations.
Whilst
this
won’t
be
possible
for
all
ill
practitioners,
I
did
manage
to
implement
my
limitations
into
a
collection
of
individualistic
wellbeing
methodologies.
Field
recording
is
one
of
a
number
of
methods
I
employ
in
an
attempt
to
make
the
everyday
less
ordinary.
This
LP
investigates
and
showcases
the
results
of
this
modus
operandi.
263
Side
One
a.k.a.
‘The
Scottish
Side’
Referendum
I
find
myself
standing
in
the
middle
of
bushes
in
a
park
close
to
my
house,
trying
to
discreetly
record
several
bagpipe
bands
rehearsing
concurrently
for
Ayr’s
Pipes
in
The
Park.
With
my
field-‐recorder
I
am
trying
to
capture,
even
‘create’
music
without
formally
‘composing’
it.
I
can
hear
an
out-‐of-‐synch
cacophony
of
pipes
and
drums
to
my
far
left
and
right.
Have
I
discovered
a
ready-‐made
soundscape
by
serendipity?
Can
I
appropriate
this
soundscape
as
a
composition?
Two
traditional
bagpipe
bands
attempt
to
out-‐rehearse
each
other
in
short
bursts
and
passages
with
no
over-‐arching
plan
as
to
what
is
happening.
It
is
a
purely
spontaneous
and
cacophonous
accident
that
I
walked
into.
But
by
imagining
this
accident
is
actually
experimental
music,
the
kind
of
music
I
listen
to,
it
suddenly
sounds
composed,
reminding
me
of
Julia
Wolfe’s
piece
for
nine
bagpipes
LAD,
or
triggering
associations
with
Steve
Reich’s
many
phase
pattern
experiments.
In
this
context,
my
field-‐recordings
appear
as
cousins
of
niche
but
recognised
musical
genres.
At
the
same
time,
they
remain
in
my
arsenal
of
illness-‐compatible
tactics,
in
this
case,
as
a
form
of
‘sonic
appropriation’.
Had
I
come
across
this
recording
as
a
stranger,
perhaps
in
the
context
of
contemporary
sound-‐art,
I
think
I
would
have
assumed
it
was
composed,
or
at
least
set-‐up,
being
so-‐called
‘experimental’
music,
not
an
accidental
and
fragmented
mash-‐up
of
pipe-‐band
anthems
such
as
Flower
of
Scotland
or
Amazing
Grace.
It
is
a
mash-‐up,
but
is
made
unknowingly,
completely
live.
264
It
is
perhaps
ethically
appropriate
that
I’m
not
bootlegging
the
piper’s
tunes.
The
band’s
off-‐cuts
are
my
prime-‐cuts.
Because
of
this,
perhaps
I
can
claim
the
soundscape
as
my
‘composition’,
and
not
just
a
recording.
Merely
by
moving
a
stereo
mic,
I
alter
this
soundscape.
Therefore,
the
mic
becomes
an
‘instrument’
of
sorts
and
composition
occurs.
I
postulate
the
possibility
of
‘authoring’
musical
compositions
by
when
and
where
we
place
a
microphone,
in
a
curatorial
sense.
We
know
field-‐recordings
have
become
lodged
in
musical
history.
There’s
the
association
with
electro-‐acoustic
composition
and
a
sub-‐history
of
field
recording
for
and
as
music.
Pierre
Schaefer
was
just
one
of
a
number
of
composers
whose
work
evolved
alongside
the
rise
of
the
phonograph
and
the
portable
tape
recorder,
making
field
recording
possible.
At
the
same
time,
Schaefer
was
one
of
the
first
manipulators
of
recorded
sound.
It
is
because
of
his
manipulations
that
he
was
able
to
place
his
work
into
the
vocabulary
of
new
musical
families;
Acousmatic
Sound,
Musique
Concrète
and
later,
Electroacoustic
composition.
But
can
field
recording
be
music
on
its
own?
Is
it
diluted
when
augmented
by
editing
and
processing?
Referendum
contains
both
‘pure’
and
heavily
treated
field
recordings.
Recently,
at
a
symposium
on
field
recording,
I
asked
Chris
Watson
this
question.
In
2013,
Watson
is
arguably
the
world’s
most
famous
field
recordist.
How
did
he
feel
about
the
validity
of
layering
field
recordings
with
other
musical
structures
in
recent
work?
Did
this
‘reduce’
or
somehow
devalue
the
‘pure’
field
recordings?
I
asked
him
about
a
piece:
The
Signalman’s
Mix
of
El
Tran
Fantasma
released
by
Touch
in
2011.
265
CD:
On
some
of
your
recent
releases
I’ve
noticed
that
you’ve
started
layering
sine
waves
and
other
musical
structures
on
top
of
what
were,
previously,
rawer
field
recordings.
I
know
you’ve
worked
in
experimental
music
over
the
years,
but
I
wondered
if
you
have
any
thoughts
on
field
recording
as
music
as
opposed
to
when
you
are
using
it
as
one
of
many
elements?
CW:
I
regard
it
as
music.
That’s
it.
I
don’t
discriminate
between
the
two,
even
when
I’m
supplying
something
as
I
did
last
week
to
a
computer
games
company,
they
asked
me
to
deliver
‘a
track’
so
I
don’t
discriminate.
And
it
does
go
back
a
long
way
when
I
first
got
interested
in
it,
you
know,
tape
recorders
and
speakers.
Just
tools
to
document
stuff.
I
try
not
to
pigeonhole
things.
On
this
album,
the
track
Referendum
attempts
to
demonstrate
how
a
raw
field
recording
can
be
evaluated
as
a
piece
of
music
in
itself.
A
strategy
for
the
exhausted
or
sick
composer.
So
it
is
virtually
raw
for
the
first
two
minutes.
In
order
to
see
this
in
clear
focus,
the
latter
half
is
deliberately
heavily
treated
and
edited,
sparring
with
the
first
couple
of
minutes
‘pure’
field-‐work
by
developing
into
intensely
edited
structures.
So
the
start
of
the
piece
is
a
virtually
untouched
recording,
and
is
placed
there
as
an
example
of
an
illness
methodology,
but
I
felt
well
enough
to
spend
time
editing
and
refining
these
opposing
elements
in
the
track,
which
fight
it
out.
Very
soon,
sparring
will
dictate
Scotland’s
independent
future
in
the
upcoming
referendum
in
2014.
Ideas
of
Scottishness
and
national
pride
may
clash
like
competing
pipe-‐bands.
In
the
same
way
that
artist
Jeremy
Deller
persuaded
brass
bands
in
the
North
of
England
to
play
Acid
House
anthems,
this
track
ultimately
investigates
a
sonic
266
Scottish
identity
in
a
time
of
political
flux.
I
like
the
fact
that
a
work
that
started
out
as
a
so-‐called
‘illness’
methodology
becomes
one
that
is
about
life
for
many
audiences.
Birdies
Orgiastic
seagulls
driven
into
a
feeding
frenzy
are
the
subject
here,
made
with
my
(then)
one-‐year
old
son,
throwing
so
much
bread
into
the
air
that
the
gulls
ganged-‐
up
in
a
huge
flock.
I
had
my
recorder
on
a
long
pole,
right
in
the
middle
of
the
action,
a
position
that
would
have
been
impossible
to
extend
my
arm
into.
There’s
a
lot
to
be
said
for
placing
one’s
microphone
on
an
extendable
stick
as
it
quickly
enables
the
practitioner
to
‘milk’
one
location
for
as
much
variety
as
possible,
placing
it
where
our
ears
cannot
be.
It
is
not
just
a
method
for
the
energy-‐addled
field
recordist,
it
is
also
practical.
It
is
a
model
used
by
filmmakers
where
material
is
shot
for
location
practicalities
and
rarely
in
sequence
-‐
and
on
a
personal
level,
this
an
echo
of
my
‘past
life’
as
a
‘healthier’
TV
director.
Microwave,
BT
Homehub
and
Boiler
Circuits
This
track
is
less
than
ten
seconds
long,
and
it
was
made
by
wandering
around
my
home
with
a
coil-‐induction
microphone
to
see
if
I
could
add
further
interest
to
my
life
by
listening
to
all
of
the
electrical
sounds
in
the
house.
By
being
super-‐local,
I
was
asking
myself
–
what
other
ways
can
I
eavesdrop
on
my
living
space
to
expand
the
parameters
of
this
reduced
existence?
I
failed.
The
howl
of
the
Wi-‐Fi
signal
from
the
British
Telecom
Broadband
Home
Hub
was
ear-‐splitting
enough
to
abandon
this
experiment.
267
The
Loaning
In
November
2012
I
spent
an
entire
month
attempting
to
‘objectively’
or
‘democratically’
record
sounds
from
several
windowsills
of
my
house
during
eight-‐hour
sessions.
Could
placing
a
humble
field-‐recorder
on
a
windowsill
be
an
interesting
approach
for
people
who
are
shut-‐in
or
shut-‐away?
As
the
outside
world
often
becomes
unavailable
for
chronically
ill
people,
this
practice
invites
some
of
it
in.
If
for
any
reason
we
can’t
be
in
the
outside
world
physically,
can
we
at
least
move
a
soundscape
from
the
street
and
skies
to
our
beds,
chairs,
walls
and
eardrums?
By
employing
even
a
subtle
form
of
editing
or
layering
of
local
field
recordings,
a
housebound
sufferer
of
a
chronic
illness
now
becomes
an
explorer
from
said
windowsill.
In
the
same
way
writers
like
James
Joyce
(or
more
recently)
Jon
Macgregor
explode
minutiae
into
riveting,
spiralling
fragments
of
greater
and
refined
magnification
–
digital
recording
and
editing
enable
such
a
stretching
and
exploding
of
one’s
frankly
boring
life
into
a
reassessment
of
‘the
everyday’.
This
is
a
vital
point
for
the
housebound
sufferer.
Or
as
the
San
Francisco
Buddhists
of
the
sixties
would
say
“Shit
Happens.
But
it
isn’t
really
shit.”
Street
noise
coupled
with
aeroplanes
flying
around
Prestwick
Airport
eight
kilometres
away
is
the
central
drone.
Cars
arrive
and
depart.
Birds
flap
near
the
recorder
and
shriek
in
the
dawn
chorus.
Distant
helicopters
fly
women
in
labour
from
the
Clyde
Islands
to
Crosshouse
hospital
in
Kilmarnock.
Neighbours
gossip
about
my
visible
microphone,
a
skateboard
rattles
and
football
is
kicked.
A
little
girl
talks
about
268
how
long
I
have
left
our
pumpkins
to
rot
on
the
doorstep
post-‐Halloween.
A
crow
rhythmically
shrieks
to
someone
nailing
a
fence.
Other
neighbours
have
a
floor
polished
and
a
kitchen
installed
-‐
the
sound
of
which
blends
into
the
gentle
roar
of
the
A77
to
Glasgow,
a
kilometre
away.
But
in
the
main,
it
is
the
frankly
surprisingly
beautiful
sound
of
distant
aeroplanes
that
dominates.
At
night,
I
take
the
recorder
to
bed,
sleeping
to
the
world
I
simply
caught
on
the
window-‐ledge,
which
I
sometimes
can’t
be
in.
Through
this
experiment
I
feel
like
I’ve
lived
a
little
better.
As
a
family
we
were
about
to
go
to
the
South
of
France
and
so
I
pack
my
recording
unit
into
the
suitcase…
Side
Two
aka
‘The
Provençal
Side’
CIGA{R}LES
This
is
a
travelogue,
and
takes
up
all
of
side
two.
Essentially,
it
contains
fragments
of
field
recordings
of
insects
(cicadae)
overlaid
with
instrumental
pieces
made
in
my
studio,
but
derived
exclusively
from
field
recordings.
Much
of
this
piece
involves
the
mixing
of
cicada
calls
prominently
in
the
music,
faithful
to
the
phenomena
of
encountering
these
shrill
insects
in
the
south
of
France,
the
sounds
of
which
can
dominate
a
local
soundscape
for
miles.
It
might
seem
a
long
way
from
the
bagpipes
of
side
one,
but
in
reality,
the
pitch,
rhythms
and
sheer
volume
of
these
insects
has
a
great
deal
in
common
with
the
bagpipes.
Like
bagpipes,
they
polarise
listeners,
who
either
love
or
hate
them
-‐
there
appears
to
be
little
middle
ground.
269
In
Provence,
I
wanted
to
create
more
exercises
of
limited
means.
Arles
has
a
major
photography
festival
plus
a
live
street
music
one
-‐
Les
Suds
à
Arles
sees
many
buskers
and
live
musicians
hit
town.
I
stuck
within
one
square
kilometre
of
our
rented
apartment
to
record
short
snatches
of
these
performers.
I
also
experimented
with
some
Provençal
windowsill
recording.
One
methodology
for
the
exhausted
artist
is
to
place
oneself
at
the
centre
of
where
the
action
is,
and
as
a
result
not
have
to
travel
much
to
gather
a
wide
cultural
palette.
Add
to
this
that
festivals
bring
the
world
to
one
stage,
and
I
need
not
grieve
that
illness
curtailed
my
Marco
Polo
potential.
Consequently,
the
middle
section
of
this
long
piece
features
a
soundscape
of
buskers
from
all
over
Europe
who
were
performing
fairly
close
to
each
other.
Festivals
can
be
a
useful
way
for
ill
practitioners
to
‘collect’
rare
cultural
scenarios
in
one
session.
My
material
was
made
as
ethically
as
possible:
buskers
were
paid,
and
appear
like
the
pipers
of
side
one
-‐
i.e.
for
a
small
fraction
of
time.
It’s
the
mix
I
am
more
interested
in.
This
section
has
a
‘promenade’
feel
where
the
sounds
overlap
–
and
at
one
point
there
is
material
recorded
in
nearby
Beaucaire
where
you
can
hear
horns
of
boats
blasting,
as
the
populace
celebrate
the
100th
birthday
of
an
old
barge,
mixed
together
with
the
bustle
of
the
buskers
and
sounds
of
the
flea-‐market
brocante.
But
it
was
cicadas,
or
les
cigales
I
spent
most
of
my
time
pursuing.
It
had
been
a
warm
holiday
full
of
new
experiences
and
these
loud
flying
insects
became
an
270
obsession
for
me.
Whenever
my
two
year
old
was
sleeping,
I
collected
these
cicadascapes
as
I
would
term
them.
The
extended
download
of
this
record
contains
an
hour-‐long
montage
of
raw
cicada
mating
calls
which
are
not
produced
like
crickets,
by
the
rubbing
of
hind
legs,
but
instead
by
vibrating
collective
abdomens
en
masse.
The
sound
is
so
loud,
the
insects
have
to
close
their
‘ears’
whilst
performing.
It
is
when
the
insects
are
more
distant
that
they
create
a
collective
‘sonic
curtain’
of
white
noise.
The
process
here
was
soporific:
the
rhythm
and
timbre
of
this
soundscape
calmed
my
overactive
system
down
as
much
of
the
time
I
am
flooded
with
adrenaline
to
get
through
the
day.
Two
months
later,
in
a
colder,
wetter
and
frankly
darker
west
of
Scotland,
I
realised
that
my
editing
of
the
material
was
still
positively
affecting
my
health.
I
am
very
sensitive
to
sound
so
it’s
no
surprise
that
I
started
to
consciously
‘self-‐medicate’
with
these
recordings.
As
I
edited
the
noises,
I
felt
as
if
I
also
played
back
a
fraction
of
the
state
of
mind
with
which
the
recordings
were
made;
warm
and
bright.
I
became
a
little
warmer
and
brighter.
This
is
a
real
argument
for
the
value
of
an
art
practice.
Obviously
recalling
nice
memories
has
a
pleasant
effect
on
the
individual,
but
I
find
an
art
practice
can
prolong
this
further,
forging
a
much
deeper
level
of
association
between
identifying
an
activity
as
meaningful,
and
then
working
on
it
consciously.
My
own
work
might
be
played
a
thousand
times
while
editing
it
and
consequently
some
of
the
effects
are
extended.
I
was
aware
that
these
insect
soundscapes
made
me
happy,
and
so
I
was
living
in
the
echo
of
that
time
again
via
the
making
of
this
record
and
the
playing
of
the
bright
yellow
disc.
271
Even
as
I
type
these
words,
I
think
of
sitting
in
the
sun
listening
to
these
insects,
and
the
change
this
had
on
my
brain
and
body
chemistry.
Right
now,
the
sweet
dregs
of
this
(busman’s)
holiday
ricochet
inside
me.
It
helps
that
other
memories
are
attached
to
the
experience,
that
as
a
family
we
all
had
some
fun
in
‘Arles
2012’
but
by
utilising
the
association
with
the
heavily
anchored
sound
in
my
head
(anchored
because
of
repeated
listens/edits),
I
have
made,
by
accident,
a
self-‐initiated
psychophysical
tool
of
wellbeing.
It
is
tailored
for
me
but
the
principle
behind
it
could
be
adopted
for
quite
a
range
of
people.
Erroneously,
I
thought
I
might
have
created
the
only
vinyl
project
that
heavily
features
cicadas.
It
turns
out
the
composer
Luc
Ferrari
(and
no
doubt
others)
got
there
decades
before
me.
On
Ferrari’s
field
recording
masterwork
Presque
Rien,
I
was
both
elated
and
depressed
to
hear
how
large
sections
of
my
track
are
very
close
to
Ferrari’s
former
Yugoslavian
cicada
/
beach
piece
Le
lever
du
jour
au
bord
de
la
mer.
I’ll
be
writing
about
him
in
the
PhD
thesis
which
accompanies
this
record
(the
final
in
of
a
trilogy
of
three
–
see
www.idioholism.com).
As
a
kind
of
Coda
to
the
holiday
(and
now
this
record)
we
spent
the
last
three
days
at
Hotel
Dieu,
in
Paris
–
a
hotel
in
a
working
hospital,
next
to
Notre
Dame
cathedral.
The
artist
Luke
Jerram
had
installed
a
piano
inside
the
grounds
for
anyone
to
play.
Fountains
splashed
loudly
nearby.
I
took
my
iPhone
out
my
pocket
and
recorded
thirty
minutes
of
an
improvisation
on
it.
Someone
undergoing
chemotherapy
was
listening
and
clapped
afterwards.
I
went
to
talk
to
her.
She
loved
watching
my
son
cavort
in
the
fountain
near
the
piano.
At
the
time
of
writing,
I’m
not
sure
if
she
is
still
alive,
but
this
record
is
dedicated
to
her.
272
Chris
Dooks,
Alloway,
Scotland
March
2013
273
Chapter
9
Contribution
to
Knowledge
and
Conclusion
of
Project
Preface
1.
Contribution
to
knowledge,
an
introduction:
the
terrain
of
arts
practice
as
research
2.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
published
vinyl
records
and
download
packages.
3.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
papers
and
appearances
4.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
terminology
5.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
The
Exhaustion
Symposium
6.
Conclusion:
A
self-‐reflective
account
of
the
successes
and
failures
of
the
project
274
Preface
The
purpose
of
this
concluding
chapter
is
to
ascertain
the
project’s
contribution
to
knowledge.
Within
arts
practice
as
research,
the
notion
of
what
constitutes
‘knowledge’
is
contested
and
constantly
being
re-‐mapped
due
to
the
emergent
and
contingent
nature
of
the
doctoral
qualification
in
studio
art
practice,
and
similar
studies
and
developments
within
broader
academic
arts
practices.
Within
the
exegeses
of
artist-‐researchers,
one
may
frequently
observe
repetitive
caveats,
justifications
and
rationales
for
the
field
of
artistic
practice
to
be
studied
at
doctoral
level.
This
is
less
frequently
observed
in
doctoral
projects
in
the
so-‐called
‘hard
sciences’.
However,
some
text
offering
conclusions
and
identifying
‘new
knowledge’
is
still
important,
given
the
experimental
scope
of
what
may
constitute
an
artist’s
PhD.
Therefore,
in
looking
at
the
concept
of
‘new
knowledge’
or
evaluating
my
‘contribution
to
knowledge’
I
will
outline
four
connected
facets
of
how
this
project
may
have
contributed
to
the
field
of
arts
practice
as
research.
Firstly,
I
will
examine
the
literature
of
some
key
Practice
as
Research(PaR)
publications.
Secondly,
I
will
audit
the
literal
objects
that
now
exist,
both
commercially
and
privately
as
published
records
of
the
process,
and
list
exhibitions
and
public
presentations
of
the
records
undertaken
to
date.
Thirdly,
I
lay
out
my
contributions
to
the
literature
of
the
fields
which
the
project
has
addressed,
the
conferences
where
I
have
presented
work
drawn
from
the
project,
papers
published,
and
briefly
re-‐cap
the
descriptive
terms
that
have
been
generated
by
the
process
–
a)
Idioholism,
b)
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker,
c)
The
Exhausted
Artist
and
d)
M.E.thodologies.
Fourthly,
I
will
devote
some
time
exploring
one
important
presentation
in
particular
(at
a
Wellcome
275
Trust
funded
symposium
on
Exhaustion
at
The
University
of
Kent)
and
my
involvement
with
it
as
one
of
the
potential
successes
of
the
research.
I
shall
conclude
the
project.
I
will
evaluate
the
methodology
and
recap
on
the
idea
of
formulae
and
my
use
of
triangulation
within
in
a
creative
and
experimental
context.
276
1.
Contribution
to
knowledge
Introduction:
The
terrain
of
arts
practice
as
research
The
first
thing
to
say
is
that
projects
like
this
one
do
not
deal
with
empirical
or
statistical
knowledge.
Robin
Nelson,
in
Practice
as
Research
in
the
Arts
(Nelson,
2013),
puts
it
succinctly:
Data-‐based
approaches
are
not
…typical
of
PaR63
[Practice
as
Research]
and
its
mode
of
knowing
is
not
of
a
propositional
(descriptive-‐
declarative)
or
falsifiable
kind.
Thus
anyone
who
insists
on
research
undertaken
in
accord
with
‘the
scientific
method’
(whatever
exactly
it
might
entail)
as
the
sole
basis
for
knowledge
is
not
likely
to
accept
arts
PaR.
(Nelson
2013,
p50)
Barbara
Boldt
uses
a
logical
construct
from
Martin
Heidegger
to
suggest
that
to
PaR
is
a
rational
mode
of
knowing:
In
Being
and
Time
(1966)
Martin
Heidegger
sets
out
to
examine
the
particular
form
of
knowledge
that
arises
from
our
handling
of
materials
and
processes.
Heidegger
argues
that
we
do
not
come
to
“know”
the
world
theoretically
through
contemplative
knowledge
in
the
first
instance.
Rather,
we
come
to
know
the
world
theoretically
only
after
we
have
come
to
understand
it
through
handling.
Thus
the
new
can
be
seen
to
emerge
in
the
involvement
with
materials,
methods,
tools
and
63
I
will
use
PaR
as
an
abbreviation
of
‘Practice
as
Research’
from
now
on.
277
the
idea
of
practice.
It
is
not
just
the
representation
of
an
already
formed
idea
nor
is
it
achieved
through
conscious
attempts
to
be
original.
(Boldt,
in
Barrett
and
Boldt,
2010,
p30)
Estelle
Barrett
speaks
about
‘situated
knowledge’
within
research,
specifically,
that
arts
PaR
may
champion
marginalised
causes.
This
is
particularly
pertinent
to
the
‘gentle
activist’
qualities
of
this
project
akin
to
the
examples
we
saw
in
Chapter
3
(‘Artists
in
Extremis’)
regarding
arts
in
an
illness/disability
framework,
allowing
for
the
expression
of
‘alternative
realities’:
Because
creative
arts
research
is
often
motivated
by
emotional,
personal
and
subjective
concerns,
it
operates
not
only
on
the
basis
of
explicit
and
exact
knowledge,
but
also
on
that
of
tacit
knowledge.
An
innovative
dimension
of
this
subjective
approach
to
research
lies
in
its
capacity
to
bring
into
view,
particularities
of
lived
experience
that
reflect
alternative
realities
that
are
either
marginalised
or
not
yet
recognised
in
established
theory
and
practice.
(Barrett,
in
Barrett
and
Boldt,
2010,
p.143)
The
sense
of
intuition
and
plasticity
of
method
as
a
viable
and
valid
mode
of
research
within
artistic
PaR
is
posited
by
Sim,
in
a
quote
we
encountered
earlier
in
the
chapter
on
bricolage
(Chapter
4,
p.88).
In
terms
of
how
one
may
arrive
at
new
knowledge
within
an
artistic
process,
such
knowledge
may
not
be
visible
when
beginning
PaR.
278
The
sense
of
improvisation
that
bricolage
carries
appeals
to
the
postmodern
theorist,
since
it
suggests
an
arbitrary,
undetermined
quality
to
creative
activity
in
which
the
end
is
not
specified
in
advance.
Where
a
modern
thinker
might
see
lack
of
order
or
method,
his
postmodern
counterpart
would
see
a
welcome
exercise
of
spontaneity.
(Sim,
2005,
p.178)
‘New’
knowledge
and
originality
per
se
may
not
necessarily
be
the
same
thing.
Professor
William
H
Calvin
at
the
University
of
Washington,
who
writes
on
climate
change,
evolution
and
cognition,
emphasises
that
the
quality
of
originality
is
more
important
that
the
‘newness’
of
an
original
thought
or
contribution
to
knowledge
in
this
simple
example:
How
to
think
what
no
one
has
ever
thought
before:
The
short
answer
is
to
take
a
nap
and
dream
about
something.
Our
dreams
are
full
of
originality.
Their
elements
are
all
old
things,
our
memories
of
the
past,
but
the
combinations
are
original.
Combinations
make
up
in
variety
what
they
lack
in
quality,
as
when
we
dream
about
Socrates
driving
a
bus
in
Brooklyn
and
talking
to
Joan
of
Arc
about
baseball.
Our
dreams
get
time,
place,
and
people
all
mixed
up.
(Calvin,
in
Matson
and
Brockman,
1995,
p.151)
Staying
with
the
mind
(and
body),
there
is
one
author
that
the
first-‐person
researcher
frequently
uncovers
within
the
field
of
artistic
research.
In
pursuing
the
279
ethnography
of
the
self,
French
phenomenological
philosopher
Maurice
Merleau-‐
Ponty
(1908-‐1961)
is
here
cited
by
Havi
Carel
in
Illness
(Carel,
2010).
In
the
following
passage
Carel
argues,
via
the
observations
of
Merleau-‐Ponty,
that
subjectivity,
in
which
arts
practice
is
rooted,
is,
firstly,
an
inevitable
aspect
of
‘embodied’
research.
Secondly,
she
argues
that
the
subjective
mind
is
the
body:
inseparable
from
a
previously
‘dualistic’
and
separate
Cartesian
view.
Merleau-‐Ponty
sees
the
body
and
perception
as
the
seat
of
personhood,
or
subjectivity.
At
root,
a
human
being
is
a
perceiving
and
experiencing
organism,
intimately
inhabiting
and
immediately
responding
to
her
environment.
To
think
of
a
human
being
is
to
think
of
a
perceiving,
feeling
and
thinking
animal,
rooted
within
a
meaningful
context
and
interacting
with
things
and
people
within
its
surrounding.
By
taking
this
approach,
Merleau-‐Ponty
responds
to
a
previous,
intellectualist
(as
he
calls
it)
definition
of
the
human
being
provided
by
the
seventeenth-‐century
French
philosopher
René
Descartes
(1596-‐
1650).
Descartes
defined
us
as
thinking,
abstract
souls
who
temporarily
and
contingently
occupy
a
physical
body.
Descartes’s
approach
is
known
as
“dualism”
because
it
postulates
two
different
substances:
spatial
or
extending
substances
such
as
physical
objects,
and
thinking
substances
such
as
minds.
Merleau-‐Ponty’s
aim
was
to
correct
this
erroneous
view
and,
while
avoiding
the
materialist
reduction
of
mind
to
matter,
to
emphasise
the
inseparability
of
mind
and
body,
of
thinking
and
perceiving.
His
280
approach
can
be
thought
of
as
holistic
with
respect
to
the
human
being.
We
cannot
divide
a
person
into
a
mental
and
a
physical
part,
because
the
two
are
de
facto
inseparable.
Any
mental
activity
must
have
some
physical
action
underlying
it
(for
example,
some
neuron
firing
in
the
brain).
It
is
impossible,
on
Merleau-‐Ponty’s
view,
to
think
of
a
purely
mental
action
because
mental
activity,
abstract
as
it
may
be,
is
always
embodied.
(Carel,
2008,
pp.20-‐21)
What
can
we
ascertain
from
these
arguments?
Firstly,
we
may
suggest
that
to
pursue
PaR
is
not
necessarily
to
be
dealing
with
independently
verifiable
empirical
evidence,
and
that
PaR
outcomes
are
unlikely
to
form
conclusions
based
on
statistical
or
readily
quantifiable
data.
Next
we
can
solidify
the
claim
that
in
the
context
of
an
artist’s
doctorate,
‘knowledge’
may
be
generated
through
experience.
I
would
go
one
step
further
and
argue
that
the
relationship
between
experience
and
knowledge
requires
an
element
of
reflexivity,
whether
written
down
or
presented
in
some
other
form.
This
manifests
in
PaR
as
a
praxis.
For
example,
in
my
case,
the
resulting
form
of
my
praxis
has
become
the
combination
of
this
exegesis
alongside
physical
objects
(records).
Next
-‐
and
this
is
a
point
that
is
particularly
important
for
‘the
exhausted
artist’
-‐
we
may
say
that
PaR
opens
up
a
potentially
creative
space
for
minorities
and
marginalised
groups
to
pursue
their
work
at
a
doctoral
level.
This
will
inevitably
make
some
artists’
doctorates
experimental
in
form,
balanced
with
a
need
to
281
be
negotiated
within
the
PhD
audit
and
assessment
process.
Furthermore,
we
can
say
that
artists-‐as-‐researchers
are
likely
to
pursue
an
adaptable
methodology,
one
in
which
not
only
requires
a
degree
of
plasticity
to
cognise
intuitive,
emotional,
and
sensory
aspects
of
research
–
but
one
in
which
crucially,
the
research
outcomes
may
not
be
predicted
in
advance.
Following
this,
when
arguing
for
a
‘contribution
to
knowledge’
Calvin
argues
that
originality
is
not
difficult
per
se,
but
the
quality
of
that
originality
is
paramount
(Calvin,
in
Matson
and
Brockman,
1995,
p.151)
Put
another
way,
one
may
say
that
it
is
easy
to
posit
an
original
idea,
but
less
easy
to
posit
a
contribution
to
knowledge.
Finally
in
looking
closer
to
work
which
is
about
one’s
own
life
experience,
it
is
impossible
to
divorce
the
inevitable
subjectivity
of
such
research
being
‘embodied’
and
‘situated’.
282
2.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
Published
vinyl
records
and
download
packages
Illustration:
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
(Image:
Dooks,
Zuydervelt,
2014)
3x12”LP
designed
by
Chris
Dooks,
layout
by
Rutger
Zuydervelt,
artwork
produced
between
2010-‐2013
Introduction
Three
expansive
twelve-‐inch
records
have
been
produced
within
the
doctoral
process.
The
published
records
offer
a
‘literal’
contribution
to
knowledge
in
the
sense
that
these
records
are
now
within
the
public
sphere,
released
over
three
years.
I
have
released
them
separately
during
the
doctoral
process
to
learn
from
both
the
successes
and
pitfalls
of
doing
so
for
each
subsequent
release
and
as
a
necessary
part
of
praxis.
In
late
2011,
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
was
released,
one
year
later
in
2012
(and
with
a
second
launch
in
2013),
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
was
released).
In
2014,
CIGA{R}LES
was
released,
and
finally,
in
late
2014,
all
three
records
are
released
in
an
imprint
of
25-‐30
as
a
limited
edition
trilogy.
In
addition,
ten
copies
of
the
entire
trilogy
283
have
been
packaged
together
in
laser-‐cut
wooden
boxes
that
double
as
wall-‐hung
storage
units
for
the
records.
It
is
this
version
that
will
be
submitted
for
academic
appraisal.
In
terms
of
the
public
edition,
customers
may
purchase
individual
records
-‐
or
one
of
the
limited
edition
collections
of
all
three
records
primarily
through
bandcamp64.
I’ve
deliberately
not
titled
records
in
the
trilogy
‘part
one’,
‘part
two’
and
so
on,
because
it
is
irksome
for
some
buyers
being
obligated
to
purchase
the
other
parts.
The
grouping
of
the
trilogy
of
the
records
is
important
for
the
critical,
holistic
and
conceptual
nature
of
the
project
-‐
the
‘idioholistic
whole’
as
an
enterprise,
but
as
a
record
buyer
it
is
annoying
to
own
something
as
a
‘part
two’
without
a
‘part
one’.
As
a
result,
I’ve
tried
to
make
these
objects
both
separate
and
connected
enough
to
work
in
two
ways;
as
individual
projects
and
as
a
thematic
set.
64
http://chrisdooks.bandcamp.com
284
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy:
An
audit
of
all
the
works
1a)
12”
LP:
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
(Dooks
/
Zuyderveldt,
2011)
Published
by
Komino
Records,
Toronto,
2011,
edition
of
300
Catalogue
Number:
K0M1N0-‐004
Form:
Red
Vinyl
LP
with
two
free
downloads
with
every
copy
Digital
files
available
as
FLAC
+
ALAC
+
MP3
320
KBPS
Link:
http://kominorecords.com/site/news/portfolio/k0m1n0-‐004
Public
launch:
Centre
for
Contemporary
Arts,
Glasgow,
11
Dec
2012.
Lecture
based
on
the
sleevenotes
of
the
record,
with
two
HD
films
projected,
two
turntables.
Purchased
by
The
British
Library
Sound
Archive,
London
in
2014
285
Tracklisting
A1.
The
Pike
Knowes
The
Loupin’
Stanes
12:47
A2.
Betamax
and
Dictaphones
5:14
B1.
Ewe
Knowe
The
Girdle
Stanes
12:22
B2.
Settlement
4:36
1b)
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
-‐
Bonus
Material
when
bought
with
the
LP:
Non-‐Linear
Responses
of
Self-‐Excited
Harmoniums
(Dooks,
2011)
Published
by
Komino
Records
as
part
of
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
download
Another
version
with
bonus
items
is
published
by
the
artist
(link
below)
Catalogue
Number:
K0M1N0-‐004
(same
as
LP)
FLAC
+
ALAC
+
MP3
320
KBPS
(from
Komino
Records)
286
Separate
link
which
divorces
this
E.P.
from
the
Komino
published
version
with
further
formats
in
FLAC
+
ALAC
+
MP3
320
KBPS
+
MP3
V0
+
AAC
+
OGG
VORBIS
available
from:
https://chrisdooks.bandcamp.com/album/non-‐linear-‐responses-‐of-‐self-‐excited-‐
harmoniums-‐2011
Purchased
by
The
British
Library
Sound
Archive,
London
in
2014
Tracklisting
1.
Steady
States
and
Transient
Oscillations
04:15
2.
Aerodynamic
Excitation
of
the
Harmonium
Reed
01:48
3.
The
Motion
of
Air-‐Driven
Free
Reeds
06:33
Two
bonus
films
in
the
download
(from
the
bandcamp
link
only):
a)
Betamax
and
Dictaphones
(Dooks,
2011)
and
b)
Steady
States
and
Transient
Oscillations
(Dooks,
2010)
The
two
films
use
the
photographs
included
on
the
inner
sleeve,
in
a
digital
rostrum
process
which
effectively
animates
them
over
the
spoken
word
track
(in
the
case
of
Betamax
and
Dictaphones)
or
from
pseudo
super-‐8mm
film
footage
navigating
the
nearby
‘Loupin
Stanes’
stone
circle.
287
2)
12”
LP:
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
(Dooks,
2012)
Published
by:
Auntie
Helen,
Woodend
Barn
Arts
Ltd
and
the
University
of
The
West
of
Scotland,
Ayr,
2011,
edition
of
300
Catalogue
Number:
FRAGFILM001
Form:
Blue
Vinyl
+
Digital
Copy
+
HD
Film,
Full
Colour
Inner
and
Outer
Sleeves
on
Pearl
Card
Stock
&
Photographic
Essay
and
Sleevenotes
Digital
edition:
files
available
as
FLAC
+
ALAC
+
MP3
320
KBPS
+
MP3
V0
+
AAC
+
OGG
VORBIS
Link:
https://chrisdooks.bandcamp.com/album/300-‐square-‐miles-‐of-‐upwards-‐2013-‐
blue-‐vinyl-‐digital-‐album-‐hd-‐film
Public
launch:
23rd
August
2013,
Wooden
Barn
Arts
Ltd,
Banchory
(the
record
was
available
in
2012
via
the
bandcamp
site)
Purchased
by
The
British
Library
Sound
Archive,
London
in
2014
288
Tracklisting
A1.
Gardening
as
Astronomy
10:24
A2.
The
Greeks
That
I
Love
02:37
A3.
Morse
Mode
04:47
B1.
Conversation
With
a
Boy
[version]
05:50
B2.
Gwiazdozbiór
Andromedy
05:12
B3.
Pinpricks
05:23
B4.
Katrina
01:37
Bonus
Digital
Only
Tracks:
1.
Calibre
Private
Press
Female
Twinkle
Twinkle
Little
Star
(bonus)
01:38
2.
Calibre
Private
Press
Male
Twinkle
Twinkle
Little
Star
(bonus)
01:35
The
bonus
tracks
involved
the
reproduction
of
two
anonymous
‘private
press’
records
dated
unknown
(likely
1960s)
singing
‘twinkle
twinkle
little
star’
in
a
fairground
recording
booth.
Bonus
HD
Film
Gardening
as
Astronomy,
(Dooks,
2011)
(digital
only).
289
3)
12”
LP
CIGA{R}LES
(Dooks,
2014)
Published
by:
Auntie
Helen
and
the
University
of
The
West
of
Scotland,
Ayr,
2011
edition
of
300
Catalogue
Number:
FRAGFILM002
Form:
Yellow
Vinyl
+
Digital
Copy,
Full
Colour
Inner
and
Outer
Sleeves
on
Pearl
Card
Stock
&
Photographic
Essay
and
Sleevenotes
Digital
edition:
files
available
as
FLAC
+
ALAC
+
MP3
320
KBPS
+
MP3
V0
+
AAC
+
OGG
VORBIS
Link:
https://chrisdooks.bandcamp.com/album/ciga-‐r-‐les-‐2014-‐yellow-‐vinyl-‐extended-‐
download-‐package
Purchased
by
The
British
Library
Sound
Archive,
London
in
2014
290
Tracklisting
A1.
Referendum
07:53
A2.
Birdies
00:40
A3.
Microwave
BT
Homehub
and
Boiler
Circuits
00:08
A4.
The
Loaning
08:09
B1.
CIGA{R}LES
18:17
Bonus
Digital
Only
Tracks:
Près
60
Minutes
de
Cigales
Provençales65
01:00:05
and
Referendum
mp4
movie
08:00
Près
60
Minutes
de
Cigales
Provençales
features
the
non-‐processed
sounds
of
French
cicadas
as
raw
field
recordings
and
Referendum,
the
first
track
on
CIGA{R}LES
was
used
as
a
soundtrack
to
a
Year
of
Natural
Scotland
commission
(as
a
film)
in
2013.
CIGA{R}LES
was
informally
released
in
September
2014
via
social
media
to
friends
and
will
be
launched
officially
in
2015
in
Ayr
and
hopefully
at
some
point
in
Arles,
France
where
most
of
side
two
was
recorded.
65
Près
60
Minutes
de
Cigales
Provençales
was
broadcast
via
the
Glasgow-‐based
audio
arts
fm
radio
project
st
Radiophrenia
in
April
2015
www.radiophrenia.scot
[accessed
1
May
2015]
291
3.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
Papers
and
appearances
Due
to
health
problems,
I
found
travelling
to
give
paper
presentations
very
hard
during
the
doctoral
process.
However,
I
did
present
aspects
of
the
work
at
a
handful
of
academic
institutions
between
2011
and
2014
that
resulted
in
one
of
the
papers
(300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards,
Tales
from
a
Dark
Sky
Park66)
being
published
in
an
anthology
(Heavenly
Discourses,
Sophia
Press,
University
of
Wales,
to
be
published
in
December
2014).
I
also
gave
some
informal
talks
during
the
process
–
one
on
‘mashup
culture’
at
the
CCA
in
2011,
which
was
related
to
my
interests
in
bricolage,
and
I
was
also
on
an
invited
panel
at
the
same
institution
in
2012,
looking
at
how
artists
may
respond
to
the
collapsing
economy.
There,
my
presentation
focused
on
physical
collapse
as
the
basis
of
responding
to
this
situation.
During
the
doctoral
process
I
also
received
a
grant
from
Creative
Scotland
as
part
of
The
Year
of
Natural
Scotland
2013,
where
I
produced
an
‘artist-‐feature
film’
Tiny
Geographies
(Dooks,
2013)
over
a
three
month
residency.
When
asked
to
speak
about
my
working
method,
the
vinyl
trilogy
featured
in
this
context
and
I
presented
some
of
the
records
I
had
already
made
at
public
talks
in
Banchory,
Aberdeenshire
to
illustrate
such
working
methods
(note:
Tiny
Geographies67
is
not
part
of
this
project).
In
the
following
section
I
will
briefly
describe
three
conferences/symposia
that
I
appeared
at,
before
reporting
in
more
detail
on
involvement
with
The
University
of
Canterbury’s
conference
on
exhaustion
in
October
2013
funded
by
the
Wellcome
Trust.
66
audio
version
can
be
streamed
from
https://chrisdooks.bandcamp.com/album/tales-‐from-‐a-‐dark-‐sky-‐park-‐2011
67
See
www.tinygeographi.es
292
Presentations
/
conferences
attended
were:
i)
Presentation
at
Blueprint
for
a
Bogey
at
The
Gallery
of
Modern
Art,
Glasgow
(GoMA)
on
the
24
March
2011:
6.00
–
7.30
pm.
Whilst
not
strictly
about
the
records,
I
was
asked
by
GoMA
Glasgow
to
respond
to
an
exhibition
(Blueprint
for
a
Bogey)
about
playful
working
methodologies
of
artists.
I
used
much
of
my
doctoral
work
to
illustrate
how
someone
with
CFS-‐ME
could
still
make
meaningful
works
using
economical
and
playful
methods.
ii)
Heavenly
Discourses,
14-‐16
October
2011
was
a
symposium
at
Bristol
University
and
a
more
straightforward
academic
presentation.
The
symposium
was
centred
on
the
relationship
between
astronomy
and
cultural
forms
that
promised
to
‘bring
together
scholars
to
examine
the
relationship
between
the
heavens
and
culture
through
the
arts,
literature,
religion
and
philosophy,
both
in
history
and
the
present.’68
At
this
point
I
was
presenting
my
plans
to
make
a
record
that
became
LP2
-‐
and
the
talk
was
based
on
the
title
of
LP2:
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards,
Tales
of
a
Dark
Sky
Park.
This
was
a
lecture
that
became
in
part
the
sleevenotes
of
that
record.
My
presentation
was
based
on
collating
examples
of
‘astrosonic
edutainment’
–
a
phrase
I
coined
to
map
of
the
territory
and
history
of
artists
and
musicians
primarily
singing
about
science.
As
mentioned
earlier,
that
paper
will
be
published
by
Sophia
Press
(part
of
The
University
of
Wales)
in
2015
in
an
anthology
based
on
the
symposium.
iii)
Sound
Thought
2014,
10th
January
2014
–
Centre
for
Contemporary
Arts,
Glasgow.
Sound
Thought
is
Glasgow
University’s
annual
music
research
symposium.
Here
I
68
http://www.heavenlydiscourses.org
293
presented
a
paper
‘Introducing
the
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy’
which
was
based
around
the
entire
project.
iv)
One
Day
Symposium/Workshop
on
Exhaustion,
University
Of
Kent,
Canterbury.
The
fourth
–
and
possibly
most
important
conference
in
relation
to
the
cultural
aspects
of
CFS-‐ME
follows
shortly,
in
some
necessary
depth
and
contextualises
my
contribution
to
knowledge
in
relation
to
the
academic
field
of
medical
humanities.
I
was
the
only
practice-‐based
speaker
in
the
symposium
On
Exhaustion,
and
I
was
also
the
only
speaker
with
CFS-‐ME.
It
is
therefore
necessary
to
survey
this
conference
more
expansively.
Before
we
enter
that
overview,
related
to
the
papers
and
terms
forged
by
the
process,
is
a
collection
of
key
terms
and
phrases
the
project
has
generated.
After
I
present
these
terms,
I
will
return
to
the
University
of
Kent
event
from
October
2013.
294
4.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
Terminology
1. The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
2. Idioholism
3. M.E.thodologies
4. The
Exhausted
Artist
It
may
be
worthwhile
to
assemble
and
define
the
four
terms
and
phrases
that
I
developed
and
deployed
within
this
research
project.
They
are
also
part
of
the
‘contribution
to
knowledge’
of
the
project.
They
may
read
slightly
as
if
they
were
part
of
a
manifesto
(see
Chapter
7,
Idioholism).
1.
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
/
Fragmented
Film
The
Fragmented
Filmmaker
is
a
term
I
have
developed
to
describe
a
practitioner
pursuing
an
art
practice
derived
from
filmmaking.
The
end
result
of
his/her
art
practice
is
loosely
related
to
film,
but
does
not
generate
a
film.
The
end
result
may
be
a
unified
collection
of
aggregates,
such
as
the
expansive
12”
vinyl
record,
artwork
and
sleevenotes.
Whilst
developing
the
project,
it
occurred
to
me
that
despite
not
labelling
myself
a
filmmaker
for
over
a
decade,
the
urge
to
collate
and
unify
soundtracks,
visual
art
and
texts
is
not
wholly
divorced
from
filmmaking
and
has
created
a
trilogy
of
‘fragmented
films’
as
vinyl
records.
The
idea
that
I
might
still
be
a
kind
of
filmmaker
took
me
by
surprise
during
the
doctoral
process.
Therefore
a
‘Fragmented
Filmmaker’
is
myself
or
any
other
film
practitioner
who
previously
had
a
relationship
with
filmmaking
and
now
works
in
the
embers
of
that
field,
reconstructing
295
‘filmic
ingredients’
into
other
forms
(such
as
but
not
with
exclusivity
to,
vinyl
records).
2.
Idioholism
Literally
an
idiosyncratic
form
of
holism.
It
originates
from
the
point
of
view
that
three
low-‐energy
art
practices
‘triangulated’
by
any
practitioner
in
the
first
person,
would,
by
such
(loose)
‘triangulation
of
practice’,
potentially
result
in
an
overlapping
and
involving
‘holistic’
existence
than
in
the
practitioner’s
current
life.
Idioholism
is
only
concerned
with
a
practical
improvement
of
both
breadth
and
range
of
experience
-‐
within
a
practitioner’s
life.
To
stand
a
chance
of
being
effective,
the
three
art
practices
are
pursued
with
a
deliberate
attempt
to
be
different
enough
from
each
other,
so
that
a
kind
of
‘proto-‐syllabus’
occurs
and
a
sense
of
engagement
with
the
world
(crucially
whilst
still
ill)
may
become
possible.
The
user
can
define
the
three
art
practices
and
the
chapter
on
idioholism
expands
and
proposes
the
concept
as
fully
as
possible.
3.
M.E.thodologies
The
methodologies
of
someone
with
CFS-‐ME.
Initially
this
term
may
be
applied
to
the
techniques
explained
in
the
sleevenotes
of
this
project
and
in
the
chapter
on
bricolage.
In
a
wider
sense
M.E.thodologies
could
be
simply
defined
as
the
conscious
adaptations
of
someone
with
CFS-‐ME
generated
in
day
to
day
living
with
the
illness,
usurping
the
condition,
or
perhaps
applied
to
formal
research.
M.E.thodologies
may
be
a
blanket
term
for
coping
strategies
in
the
widest
sense
-‐
for
those
with
low
energy
challenges.
They
are
a
form
of
embodied
learned
experiences
(as
opposed
to
lateral
296
thinking)
resulting
in
actions
that
are
compatible
with
the
illness.
They
are
not
panaceas.
4.
The
Exhausted
Artist
This
term
could
be
used
outside
of
CFS-‐ME
if
necessary.
In
the
first
instance,
the
exhausted
artist
is
myself,
but
when
applied
to
the
idea
that
some
of
the
examples
in
this
research
project
could
work
outside
of
my
idiosyncratic
research,
then
the
exhausted
artist
could
be
defined
as
anyone
with
CFS-‐ME
(or
similar
conditions)
who
has
an
interest
in
cultural
and
creative
responses
to
their
predicament.
297
5.
Contribution
to
knowledge:
The
Exhaustion
Symposium
-‐
University
of
Kent,
October
2013
The
following
section
is
included
to
illustrate
the
ways
in
which
my
research
has
made
a
contribution
to
knowledge
in
a
multi-‐disciplinary
academic
context.
On
Friday
the
25th
of
October
2013,
a
one-‐day
symposium
on
the
subject
of
exhaustion,
funded
by
the
Wellcome
Trust,
was
held
in
Canterbury,
by
the
University
of
Kent.
It
was
organised
by
Dr
Anna
Katharina
Schaffner
(Comparative
Literature,
Kent).
In
regard
to
contribution
to
knowledge,
my
presentation
“The
M.E.thodologies
of
the
Fragmented
Filmmaker”
(an
introduction
to
my
working
methods
of
this
research
project)
was
presented
before
a
panel
of
researchers
from
medical
humanities
and
literature
departments
of
universities
as
well
as
Sir
Simon
Wessely,
Chair
of
Psychological
Medicine,
King’s
College,
London
-‐
and
other
speakers
who
I
will
outline
below.
The
speakers
Dr
Schaffner
opened
the
day
with
an
overview
of
models
of
exhaustion
alongside
definitions
from
the
1880s
to
the
present,
before
culturally
locating
terms
such
as
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
and
‘burnout’
-‐
headings
that
would
be
used
in
many
of
the
papers
presented
in
the
day,
one
of
which
would
be
mine.
In
this
way,
there
was
a
direct
contribution
to
knowledge
–
the
dissemination
of
my
work
into
its
first
academic
audience.
Subsequently,
one
of
the
speakers
Dr
Jenny
Laws
(Durham
University)
has
taken
the
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
as
an
example
of
her
ongoing
lectures
298
on
the
‘active
patient’,
presenting
the
project
as
an
example
to
students69.
During
the
day,
themes
and
questions
emerged
such
as:
Does
exhaustion
have
an
isolated
history?
Is
exhaustion
an
illness
shaped
merely
by
context?
Is
exhaustion
changed
by
place
and
time?
The
keynote,
from
Professor
Sir
Simon
Wessely,
focused
on
the
phenomenon
of
the
syndrome
that
came
to
be
known
as
neurasthenia
in
the
late
1880s
and
how
it
would
likely
be
described
today
as
CFS-‐ME,
(or
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
and
other
aliases).
Wessely
spoke
about
how
neurasthenia
was,
in
its
day,
not
only
a
‘fashionable
disease’
but
also
one
of
some
minor
prestige,
assumed
to
be
caused
by
‘high-‐level’
brain
work.
Contrasting
this
episode
with
a
history
of
exhaustion
(in
western
medicine),
Wessely
then
spoke
about
working
in
the
UK
as
part
of
the
medical
research
into
Chronic
Fatigue
Syndrome
or
CFS-‐ME,
before
finally
speaking
of
the
tension
between
his
psychiatric
research
and
the
sufferers
of
these
complex
conditions.
Some
of
the
day
dealt
with
the
semantic
importance
of
definitions
of
exhaustion
in
regard
to
the
work
place.
Wilmar
Schaufeli
(Social
and
Behavioural
Sciences,
Utrecht)
contrasted
and
evaluated
the
terms
‘burnout’
and
‘exhaustion’,
an
element
of
which
paralleled
with
Wessely’s
talk
on
neurasthenia.
Like
neurasthenia,
the
phenomenon
of
burnout
was
seen
here
as
being
an
almost
honourable
and
69
I
have
since
been
invited
by
Laws
to
be
a
member
of
the
project’s
advisory
panel
at
Durham
University.
299
certainly
socially
accepted
term
of
over-‐work.
Schaufeli
concluded
however,
that
‘burnout’
was
not
an
exchangeable
term
with
exhaustion
and
that
its
main
use
revolves
around
the
legal
implications
of
using
the
term,
and
he
highlighted
to
what
degree
employees
are
legally
vulnerable
or
protected
by
such
terms
and
their
semantics.
I
found
this
contextually
relevant
in
regards
to
the
tide
of
benefit
cuts
currently
being
accelerated
by
the
UK
government
in
2014.
Greta
Wagner
(Sociology,
Frankfurt)
examined
the
stress
and
quickening
of
demands
in
the
work
place
and
also
looked
at
sick
leave
-‐
specifically
in
relation
to
burnout.
Burnout
as
a
term
was
highlighted
here
as
being
very
prevalent
outside
the
UK,
being
the
exhausted
term
of
choice
in
the
German
work
place.
Wagner
also
spoke
of
the
explosion
in
burnout-‐related
sick
days
in
the
last
ten
years.
Julian
Childs
(Anna
Freud
Centre,
University
College
London)
examined
the
perfectionist
ideal
of
‘impossible
standards’
of
achievement
in
the
workplace.
He
also
spent
time
focusing
on
what
happens
when
those
standards
are
imposed
outside
of
the
individual’s
volition.
Angela
Woods
(Medical
Humanities,
Durham)
looked
at
the
relationship
between
depression,
exhaustion
and
labour
via
three
recent
literary
monographs,
and
used
this
three-‐way
dialogue
to
integrate
both
the
biomedical
and
popular
views
of
such
conditions.
An
engaging
presentation
from
Felicity
Callard
(Medical
Humanities,
Durham)
spoke
of
an
ongoing
collaboration
she
had
engineered
with
a
neuroimaging
specialist,
300
and
how
this
could
challenge
the
idea
of
the
‘resting’
mind
and
the
idea
of
‘down-‐time’
or
‘passivity’
of
the
brain.
There
were
two
remaining
speakers,
the
presentations
of
which
I
will
mention
with
higher
magnification
shortly
(Dr
Jenny
Laws
and
Michael
Greaney).
Why
this
was
an
important
event
for
my
research
project
I
was
keen
to
attend
(and
present
a
paper
on
the
vinyl
trilogy)
at
this
Wellcome
Trust
funded
event.
I
had
been
looking
for
articulate
and
scholarly
enquiries
isolating
the
phenomena
of
exhaustion
since
the
start
of
my
research
project
in
order
to
orientate
myself
and
place
my
work
in
the
most
relevant
contexts.
The
Canterbury
symposium
therefore,
was
an
opportunity
to
‘up-‐periscope’
and
look
for
places
in
which
to
land
my
three
vinyl
records
and
experiences
–
and
also
ascertain
if
my
project
did
contribute
to
knowledge
within
the
field
of
medical
humanities.
There
were
many
questions
about
the
project
afterwards
and
Simon
Wessely
and
Angela
Woods
tweeted
aspects
of
my
talk
live
on
twitter
(@bovinelife
is
my
account
name)
–
here
are
four
tweets
from
both
Durham
University’s
Centre
for
Medical
Humanities
and
Simon
Wessely
on
the
day:
Medical
Humanities
@mdiclhumanities
·∙
Oct25:
@bovinelife's
M.E.Thodologies
of
exhausted
practitioner;
exquisite
sounds
from
idioholistic
vinyl
trilogy
http://idioholism.com
#exhaustion
(Woods,
2013)
301
Medical
Humanities
@mdiclhumanities
·∙
Oct
25
Does
predicament
co-‐
author
the
work?
@bovinelife
on
the
arts
practice
of
the
'exhausted
practitioner':
http://idioholism.com
#exhaustion
(ibid)
Simon
Wessely
@WesselyS
·∙
Oct
25
Chris
Dooks
@bovinelife
talking
about
his
art,
illness
and
CFS.
Worth
following.
#exhaustion
(Wessely,
2013)
Simon
Wessely
@WesselyS
·∙
Oct
25
@bovinelife
tells
audience
that
vinyl
record
has
re
emerged
in
popular
culture.
Shame
that
@clarercgp
threw
ours
out
last
month
#exhaustion
(ibid)
I
was
keen
to
attend
not
only
for
exhaustion
being
explored
in
and
outside
of
medicine
but
equally
important
was
the
sense
that
I
wasn’t
working
in
isolation.
Whilst
being
the
only
arts
PaR
researcher
in
what
was
subtitled
a
‘workshop’
on
exhaustion,
I
was
excited
by
the
idea
that
I
may
even
have
peers
working
in
their
own
disciplines
in
terrain
that
overlapped
with
mine.
My
exhaustion
due
to
CFS-‐ME
increasingly
isolates
me,
so
the
notion
of
having
several
facets
of
the
same
enquiry
discussed
in
one
room
was
very
appealing.
In
terms
of
surveying
the
project’s
relationship
to
new
knowledge
in
academic
terms,
it
may
serve
the
project
to
speak
about
how
artists
(especially
ones
who
are
ill)
encounter
the
institution
per
se.
Of
course,
this
need
for
orientation
does
not
just
affect
sick
artists.
It
appears
to
be
a
likely
route
for
any
creative
doctoral
practitioners
(and
those
of
other
disciplines)
working
within
institutions.
I
think
there
are
a
few
possible
explanations
to
account
for
a
need
for
contextual
relevance
that
may
be
302
different
from
those
researchers
who
are
practicing
through
more
traditional
ranks
of
academia:
(i)
Trajectories:
Artists
often
work
alone,
and
frequently
to
their
own
agendas.
They
are
often
self-‐employed
and,
to
a
degree,
self-‐supported.
Context
helps
steer
work
into
more
steadfast
trajectories.
Context
helps
the
artist-‐researcher
and
those
institutions
that
s/he
is
working
with.
This
is
less
of
a
problem
for
the
artist
who
is
not
pursuing
a
doctoral
project.
At
symposia
like
these,
artist
explorations
may
happily
collide
with
the
progressive
elements
of
academia
as
well
as
traditional
academic
protocols.
To
use
an
exhaustion
antonym,
being
in
the
centre
of
these
oscillations
is
very
energising.
(ii)“The
context
is
half
the
work”
This
‘problem’
of
context,
some
argue,
is
a
direct
part
of
the
work.
The
artist
couple
Barbara
Steveni
and
John
Latham
founded
the
Artist
Placement
Group
(APG)
in
London
in
1966,
to
arrange
invitations
for
artists
to
take
up
residencies
at
various
companies
throughout
Britain.
Alongside
sympathetic
motivations
from
other
members
of
the
APG,
such
as
artist
Robert
Rauschenberg
–
it
was
at
a
show
in
1970,
at
Germany’s
Kunsthalle
Dusseldorf,
that
a
tenet
of
the
group
was
expounded,
stating
that
‘the
context
is
half
the
work’
[of
artists
working
in
specific
places,
residencies
and
organisations]
(Eleey,
2007)
In
producing
my
own
work
under
various
frameworks,
I
have
discovered
that
the
‘contextual
search’
is
part
of
professional
art
practice.
Far
from
it
being
a
distraction,
locating
context
is
probably
a
central
influence
within
the
praxis
of
a
research
project
which
uses
artistic
means.
303
To
return
to
the
symposium,
The
Exhaustion
event
was
framed
as
a
modest
workshop
where
there
was
limited
space
for
the
public.
A
distilled
form
of
my
research
titled
“The
M.E.thodologies
of
the
Fragmented
Filmmaker”
was
accepted
and
the
organisers
made
special
arrangements
for
the
physical
difficulties
of
travel
and
presenting
on
the
day.
I
would
be
the
first
speaker
after
the
keynote,
Prof.
Sir
Simon
Wessely.
I
was
worried
that
a
whole
day
of
these
very
different
discourses
and
perspectives
on
exhaustion
could
be
a
difficult
day
to
for
me
to
process:
not
just
in
the
cognising
and
processing
of
information
on
the
day,
but
in
the
worry
that
I
would
be
too
sick
to
present
my
own
work,
and
have
to
cancel.
It
was
difficult
and
I
was
sick
for
a
month
afterwards,
but
I
was
extremely
keen
to
hear
the
other
voices
in
a
modern
discourse
on
exhaustion,
and
in
a
way
the
event
was
similarly
encountered
as
the
methodology
I
employ
in
my
audio
work.
In
my
own
work,
especially
in
my
LP
CIGA{R}LES,
there
exists
an
exhausted
methodology:
I
use
festivals
and
single
days
(such
as
symposia)
where
variety
is
in
one
place70,
and
is
recorded
in
its
entirety
to
be
unpacked
and
edited
over
several
weeks.
This
is
a
technique
learned
in
filmmaking,
where
as
much
variety
of
shots
as
possible
are
sought
in
one
single
location.
Fiscal
and
energetic
economy
are
linked
here.
A
director
on
a
film
shoot
tries
to
find
variety
of
scenes
as
close
together
as
possible
to
keeps
costs
down:
I
now
do
this
to
keep
energy
down.
This
is
an
M.E.thodology,
as
highlighted
earlier.
If
a
good
location
with
a
variety
of
experience
is
found,
then
although
that
very
difficult
day
is
documented
in
finite
detail
in
a
fairly
low
energy
way
70
The
technique
is
echoed
in
the
sleevenotes
of
CIGA{R}LES
304
by
digital
recorders,
video
and
still
images,
it
can
provide
enough
source
material
for
a
major
artwork
or
several
thousand
written
words.
CIGA{R}LES
and
the
Exhaustion
symposium/workshop
are
related
in
this
way.
In
flagging
the
other
speakers’
presentations
at
this
event,
I
am
also
surveying
other
‘contributions
to
knowledge’
in
relation
to
this
project.
There
were
two
other
contributors
present
at
the
compacted
survey
of
the
field
of
exhaustion.
I
cite
these
examples
because
they
examine
exhaustion
narratives
through
resonant
case-‐studies
(fellow
patients).
They
discuss
patients
being
‘active’
in
a
way
I
have
been
lucky
enough
to
do
in
my
creative
practice,
as
Jennifer
Laws
profiles
in
her
research:
Dr
Jennifer
Laws
University
of
Durham
ENERGY,
EXHUASTION
AND
THE
ACTIVE
PATIENT
From
Laws’
abstract:
Throughout
history,
ideas
about
the
healthy
self
as
an
active
self
have
varied,
yet
in
contemporary
conceptualisations
of
self
and
society,
such
notions
have
acquired
unprecedented
currency:
in
the
context
of
healthcare
we
might
think
for
example
of,
‘active
aging’
or
‘activation
therapy’
or
public
health
campaigns
such
as
the
‘Active
Five
a
Day’,
as
well
as
shifts
in
healthcare
politics
in
which
patients
are
re-‐
conceptualised
as
active
partners
in
doctor-‐patient
relations
and
in
service
planning
and
research
(and
beyond
this
to
Big
Society
and
other
activation
discourses).
Both
in
professional
and
patient-‐led
narratives
of
illness
and
recovery,
two
important
aspects
of
such
discourse
are
305
energy
and
desire
(wanting
to
get
better
and
working
hard
to
do
so).
(Laws,
n.d.)
Dr
Laws’
research
project
explores
the
discourses
and
paradoxes
of
‘active
patients’.
Patients
with
(for
example)
exhaustion-‐orientated
illnesses
are
often
asked
to
pursue
treatments
such
as
‘graded
exercise’
and
take
charge
of
their
recovery.
However
examples
such
as
the
‘graded
exercise’
question
in
CFS-‐ME
has
led
to
many
fierce
debates
within
CFS-‐ME
communities
as
to
the
efficacy
and
appropriateness
of
such
prescriptions.
‘Maria’
is
clearly
ill
and
exhausted.
We
do
not
know
the
details
of
her
illness.
She
considers
herself
not
to
be
disabled
(at
least
in
the
afternoon)
and
this
is
a
reasonably
positive
and
optimistic
opening
salvo
full
of
metaphor
–
“Deep
inside
me,
in
here
[points
to
chest].
It’s
dormant
at
the
moment,
to
start
with.
This
is
my
energy”
and
her
account
expands
to
give
the
impression
as
being
one
of
experience.
Maria
seems
to
have
both
control
and
acceptance
to
a
degree,
of
her
condition.
She
sounds
at
ease
with
herself.
It’s
all
about
energy.
I
suppose
I
know
I
have
it,
but
it’s
not
really
doing
anything.
I
make
a
cup
of
tea
and
I
take
it
back
to
bed.
I
read
the
news.
I
fuel
my
body
with
fresh
orange
juice.
The
seed
flickers,
dances,
then
goes
out
again.
(Case
study
‘Maria’
in
Laws,
n.d.)
306
What
Maria
is
talking
about
here
resonates
a
little
with
me.
A
few
minutes
after
waking
each
day,
I
perform
an
‘early
energy
evaluation’
which
I
refer
to
(to
myself)
as
my
‘mid-‐morning
report’
and
I
usually
know
within
a
few
minutes
how
the
day
will
likely
pan-‐out
energy-‐wise,
although
as
I
age
and
my
condition
worsens,
energy
for
me
can
drop
suddenly
at
any
time.
Generally
however,
like
many
people
who
are
exhausted,
afternoons
are
often
the
peak
time
of
the
day.
Maria’s
experience
is
similar:
It
is
mid-‐day
or
early
afternoon
when
I
will
fire
up
and
the
energy
becomes
strong
and
steady.
At
this
point,
I
am
activated,
I
don’t
consider
myself
ill
anymore
because
I
am
not
faking
my
activities,
acting
‘as
if’
I
had
some
enthusiasm,
I’m
just
running
on
what
comes
natural.”
(ibid)
‘Jess’
and
her
story
are
less
clear-‐cut.
It
contrasts
with
the
above,
and
is
fuelled
with
anger
–
she
has
depression,
and
her
counselling
session
has
not
gone
well.
In
fact,
her
counsellor
doesn’t
sound
very
insightful
at
all
and
is
beginning
to
make
me
a
little
angry
at
his/her
dated
rhetoric
‘My
counsellor
told
me
that
if
I
was
depressed
that
must
mean
I
want
to
be
depressed.”
(ibid)
I’m
immediately
taken
back
to
sessions
I’ve
had
with
‘new
age
therapists’
and
certain
health
professionals
telling
me
of
my
‘wanting’
to
be
ill.
When
I
was
newly
diagnosed,
I
recall
a
charismatic
NHS
physiotherapist
telling
me
“I
don’t
think
you
are
ready
to
get
well
yet,
Chris”
–
a
statement
hardly
appropriate
for
anyone
with
a
painfully
debilitating
or
life-‐changing
illness.
It
would
be
hard
to
imagine
this
being
said
to
someone
with
Leukaemia,
but
common
with
‘invisible
illnesses’.
Therefore
Jess’s
307
counsellor
in
this
presentation
piques
my
attention.
The
story
of
health
professionals
‘blaming’
patients
rarely
leaves
the
back
of
my
mind,
reminding
me
of
the
Susan
Sontag
mantra
I
frequently
turn
to
–
because
it
is
continually
necessary
“Any
important
disease
whose
causality
is
murky,
and
for
which
treatment
is
ineffectual,
tends
to
be
awash
in
significance”
(Sontag,
1978,
p62)
Sontag
highlighted
the
dangers
of
ignorance
around
illnesses
where
there
is
lack
of
information
in
both
how
they
arise
and
how
they
operate.
In
Illness
as
Metaphor,
she
shows
how
in
this
vacuum
of
information,
society
risks
filling
the
space
with
ill-‐conceived
conjecture
born
out
of
judgments
and
prejudice,
and
such
is
my
experience
with
CFS-‐ME.
We
saw
this
kind
of
prejudice
arise
in
recent
epidemics,
such
as
in
debates
about
AIDS
in
the
1980s
(i.e.
one’s
illicit
behaviour
results
in
‘karmic
consequences’)
and
also
with
cancer
(where
one’s
illness
follows
a
reverse
path
–
a
tragic
victim
narrative,
but
a
judgment
nevertheless).
Next,
Laws
presents
‘Jack’
and
his
story
as
a
positive
CFS-‐ME
tale
orientated
around
the
support
he
was
getting
for
his
CFS-‐ME
They
offered
me
an
assistance
dog
for
the
CFS-‐ME
–
to
do
the
fetching
and
the
carrying
and
give
me
a
bit
of
pull
on
the
lead,
literally,
you
know,
save
a
bit
of
energy
when
I’m
walking.
Did
you
know
they
did
that?
…When
I’m
stuck
in
bed
sometimes,
I
imagine
machines.
At
first
I
308
thought
of
a
robot
suit
with
rocket
packs
and
huge
mechanical
limbs
so
I
would
be
strong
and
powerful.
(Laws,
n.d.)
Jack
seems
to
have
great
support
and
external
medical
belief
in
his
illness.
What
makes
this
resonate
for
me
is
that
I
have
had
the
same
‘robotic’
dream.
It
might
serve
to
cite
a
couple
of
contemporary
references
here.
This
weakness
of
body
and
imaging
a
kind
of
‘exoskeleton’
to
literally
help
the
sufferer
become
mobile
was
realised
in
two
recent
sci-‐fi
films
Prometheus
(2012)
and
Elysium
(2013)
–
both
saw
people
who
were
very
physically
drained
through
viruses
or
old
age,
plugged
into
an
exoskeleton
with
pneumatic
assistance
coupled
with
a
fast
processor
full
of
data
(Elysium)
connected
into
the
skull.
Dr
Michael
Greaney
Lancaster
University
EXHAUSTION
AND
MODERNIST
LITERATURE
In
On
Being
Ill,
Virginia
Woolf
wrote:
Considering
how
common
illness
is,
how
tremendous
the
spiritual
change
that
it
brings,
how
astonishing,
when
the
lights
of
health
go
down,
the
undiscovered
countries
that
are
then
disclosed,
what
wastes
and
deserts
of
the
soul
a
slight
attack
of
influenza
brings
to
light...it
becomes
strange
indeed
that
illness
has
not
taken
its
place
with
love,
battle,
and
jealousy
among
the
prime
themes
of
literature.
Novels,
one
309
would
have
thought,
would
have
been
devoted
to
influenza;
epic
poems
to
typhoid;
odes
to
pneumonia,
lyrics
to
toothache.
But
no;
...
literature
does
its
best
to
maintain
that
its
concern
is
with
the
mind;
that
the
body
is
a
sheet
of
plain
glass
through
which
the
soul
looks
straight
and
clear.
(Woolf,
1926,
pp.4,
5)
This
presentation
introduced
me
to
Woolf’s
1926
essay
(excerpt
above)
and
was
a
paper
that
concentrated
on
examples
from
the
literary
arts
in
relation
to
exhaustion.
.
Given
that
I
have
flagged
how
difficult
the
written
word
can
be
for
me
I
nevertheless
engaged
with
this
presentation.
I
am
more
familiar
with
later
twentieth
century
literature
and
prior
to
the
presentation
I
was
keen
to
see
how
the
‘body’
or
‘embodied’
fiction
I’d
read
such
as
William
S
Burroughs’
Naked
Lunch
(Burroughs,
1959)
for
example,
would
compare
with
Greaney’s
focus
on
earlier
modernist
literature.
If
the
quote
from
Virginia
Woolf
reflected
the
situation,
she
seemed
to
be
rather
disparaging
of
the
literature
of
the
time.
In
this
aspect
of
the
symposium
we
discovered
examples
exploring
both
different
types
of
exhaustion
and
we
encountered
how
energy
is
written
about
during
that
period
and
of
the
power
of
the
first-‐person
account
of
such
phenomena.
Retrospectively,
literature
of
this
time
may
be
read
as
an
archive
of
the
ways
in
which
states
of
extreme
tiredness
and
fatigue
have
been
perceived.
Greaney
further
interprets
literature
of
the
time
to
be:
310
…an
imaginative
record
of
the
fears,
desires
and
fantasies
that
have
attached
themselves
to
the
prospect
of
exhaustion.
And
it
can
give
us
vivid
approximations
of
the
phenomenology
of
exhaustion
–
that
is,
the
first-‐person
experience
of
what
it
actually
feels
like
to
be
exhausted.
(Greaney,
n.d.)
Communicating
what
it
‘feels’
like
to
be
exhausted
is
a
central
aspect
of
my
research
and
this
presentation
gave
me
further
confidence
that
the
interest
in
first-‐
person
knowledge
is
spreading
across
academia
and
research
in
the
wider
sense.
For
artists,
hoping
to
root
themselves
academically
in
this
field,
perhaps
investigations
into
phenomenology
will
become
less
esoteric.
Whether
artists
will
embrace
the
term
‘phenomenology’
remains
to
be
seen.
It’s
worth
flagging
that
phenomenology
is
a
term
aligned
to
a
particular
slice
of
emic
or
‘insider’
research,
to
which
writers
can
also
be
seen
as
to
having
access
of,
through
their
individualistic
research
methods.
And
if
the
field
grows
in
acceptance,
perhaps
first-‐person
research
will
develop
also
across
more
fields.
This
'academisation'
of
first
person
experience
is
growing
and
being
debated.
Another
part
of
Greaney’s
presentation
resonated
with
me.
I
have
mentioned
that
I
am
sometimes
gently
goaded
for
being
a
fairly
prolific
artist
whilst
being
ill.
This
appears
to
be
a
contradiction
or
paradox
noticed
by
others.
I
have
made
a
lot
of
work
because
I
have
developed
what
I
describe
here
as
‘idioholistic’
strategies,
so
it’s
interesting
to
me
that
when
Greaney
surveys
a
paradox
of
exhaustion
in
literature
of
311
the
late
nineteenth
and
early
twentieth-‐century
he
finds
it
to
be
“curiously
energised”
by
the
“spectacle”
of
exhaustion.
In
the
talk,
Bram
Stoker’s
Dracula
is
flagged
for
being
seemingly
inexhaustible
and
relentless
“preying
on
his
victims
for
a
good
half
a
millennium”
and
the
Martians
in
HG
Wells’
War
of
the
Worlds
never
sleep.
Meanwhile,
Oscar
Wilde’s
Dorian
Gray
grants
his
own
body
immunity
from
exhaustion.
It’s
an
interesting
paradox,
that
literature
in
the
wider
sense
was
‘passionate’
or
obsessed
with
exhaustion
and
the
examples
he
flags
do
back
up
this
‘enthusiasm’
for
articulating
exhaustion
in
what
must
have
been
idiosyncratic
narratives
of
the
time.
And
it
is
this
idiosyncrasy
that
held
my
attention.
The
end
of
the
paper
is
very
familiar
territory
to
me
also:
What
is
exhausting
about
exhaustion
is
its
non-‐finality;
it
seems
to
draw
on
perverse
reserves
of
energy,
to
prolong
itself
beyond
its
natural
life-‐
span,
producing
an
excruciating
state
of
sleepiness
without
sleep;
tiredness
without
repose.
(Greaney,
n.d.)
These
‘perverse
reserves
of
energy’
form
kinds
of
paradoxes
in
my
own
life,
hinted
in
the
preface
to
this
exegesis
such
as
being
‘too
exhausted
to
sleep’
or
‘hyper
aroused’,
concepts
that
are
not
culturally
very
well
understood.
Greaney
noted
that
there
are
‘inequalities
in
exhaustion’
before
concluding
and
emphasising
(as
I
began
in
312
this
chapter)
a
further
need
for
cultural
context
in
which
to
read
this
literary
history
of
the
subject.
Not
everyone
gets
to
be
exhausted
in
the
same
way;
not
everyone
gets
to
take
ownership
of
the
meaning
of
his
or
her
own
exhaustion.
An
aesthetic
of
exhaustion
thus
needs
to
be
accompanied
by
a
politics
of
exhaustion,
and
modernist
literature
might
provide
a
valuable
resource
for
formulating
both.
(Greaney,
n.d.)
313
6.
Conclusion:
A
self-‐reflective
account
of
the
successes
and
failures
of
the
project
At
the
start
of
this
chapter
on
the
project’s
contribution
to
knowledge
we
discovered
that:
Heidegger
argues
that
we
do
not
come
to
“know”
the
world
theoretically
through
contemplative
knowledge
in
the
first
instance.
Rather,
we
come
to
know
the
world
theoretically
only
after
we
have
come
to
understand
it
through
handling.
(Boldt,
in
Barrett
and
Boldt,
2010,
p30)
…and
that,
in
research
methods
such
as
bricolage
there
is
an
“undetermined
quality
to
creative
activity,
in
which
the
end
is
not
specified
in
advance”(Sim,
2005,
p178).
Artists’
research
does
not
always
answer
a
neat
proposition.
Instead,
given
the
exploratory
nature
of
PaR
doctorates,
and
in
particular
in
the
conceptual
ambition
and
breadth
of
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy,
it
is
no
surprise
to
see
that
questions
lead
to
other
questions
–
in
a
sense
forming
what
was
described
in
the
chapter
on
holism
as
types
of
‘metatrajectory’
(Tarnass
1996,
p
440).
So
what
are
some
of
these
questions?
Some
thoughts
drawing
the
process
to
a
close
could
be:
a)
What
applications
of
idiosyncratic
strategies
drawn
from
contemporary
art
methodologies
(such
as
this
one)
might
enable
CFS-‐ME
sufferers
to
enjoy
everyday
life
in
more
satisfying
and
integrated
ways?
314
b)
At
the
end
of
the
research
will
the
contemporary
art
practitioner
have
forged
a
kind
of
‘holism’
through
art
methodologies
–
the
term
understood
in
complementary
health
care
for
example?
c)
How
can
the
kind
of
pain,
exhaustion
and
cognitive
difficulties
of
the
illness
which
usually
prevents
activity
of
many
kinds,
be
usurped,
negated
or
negotiated
with?
In
a
sense
only
individuals
practicing
their
own
‘idioholism’
can
answer
these
questions,
and
moreover,
my
project
is
not
directly
located
in
‘self-‐help’
culture.
This
is
despite
suggesting
a
little
instruction
to
follow
the
exercises
I
have
expounded
in
the
sleevenotes
or
in
the
chapter
on
bricolage,
or
with
greater
magnification
in
the
chapter
on
idioholism.
Essentially,
despite
flagging
the
breadth
of
the
project,
a
simple
question
which
led
to
the
entire
research,
was
posited
in
chapter
one
as:
If
three
idiosyncratic
contemporary
art
projects
were
developed
by
an
averagely
affected
sufferer
of
CFS-‐ME,
across
three
different,
even
divergent
subject
areas,
what
process
and
shape
would
such
projects
need
to
take
in
order
to
foster
the
practitioner
with
a
more
satisfyingly
engaged
existence?
PaR
research
questions
are
not
unanswerable.
Indeed
this
exegesis
has
attempted
to
partner
the
art-‐objects
that
form
part
of
the
response
to
the
above
question.
Rather,
PaR
outcomes
will
be
difficult
to
answer
through
any
kind
of
‘objective
knowledge’,
as
we
laid
out
at
the
start
of
this
chapter.
In
a
sense,
any
315
transferability
of
the
ideas
in
the
research
will
be
completed
by
the
audience
of
the
project.
This
hopefully
happens
in
two
ways.
1.
On
the
LPs,
the
audience
‘unify’
the
‘fragmented
films’
–
in
other
words,
the
audience
make
their
own
links,
synaptic
pathways,
connections
and
unifications
of
the
personal
‘whole’
I
present
as
such
fragments.
There
is
a
degree
of
interpretation
required,
or
light
interaction
with
the
records
-‐
whether
the
audience
has
CFS-‐ME
or
not.
2.
Secondly,
for
those
with
CFS-‐ME,
there
may
be
opportunities
to
forge
their
own
idioholism
based
on
the
simple
research
question
and
perhaps
some
of
the
writing
on
the
idea
of
triangulation
(chapter
1
and
chapter
7).
In
this
project,
I’ve
developed
several
experimental
exercises
designed
to
offset
my
illness
and
keep
me
working
as
an
artist.
The
process
and
the
objects
themselves
explored
both
the
conceptual
value
of
the
ideas
and
the
actualisation
of
those
ideas
into
art-‐objects.
This
has
been
a
large
project
and
not
without
problems.
One
of
the
problems
has
been
one
of
public
‘suspicion’
that
I’m
not
really
unwell.
I
noted
earlier
that
music
magazine
The
Wire
questions
me
as
someone
‘who
describes
themselves
as
an
exhausted
artist
should
be
making
so
much’
(Bell,
2013,
p
51)
Ironically,
as
I
conclude
this
project,
perhaps
it
simply
means
some
of
it
may
have
worked,
or
that
I
have
managed
to
temporarily
out-‐fox
my
symptoms.
Let
us
briefly
outline
how
someone
with
an
exhaustion-‐related
illness,
or
another
kind
of
disadvantage
/
disability
may
be
a
prolific
art-‐maker.
316
We
may
find
it
helpful
to
look
at
the
idea
that
art
is
a
form
of
bias.
Artists
can
claim
with
some
certainty,
that
by
its
nature,
artistic
practice
necessitates
a
kind
of
discrimination.
As
we
encountered
in
the
sleevenotes
of
CIGA{R}LES,
no
facet
of
art
or
music
(or
any
other
facet
of
life
for
that
matter),
can
contain
the
sum
of
all
phenomena,
-‐
although
the
desire
may
exist
in
some
practitioners
to
create
a
‘magnum
opus’
to
explain
and
investigate
the
known
and
even
unknown.
That
aside,
the
arts
generally
follow
a
trajectory;
be
it
aesthetic,
conceptual,
sensory,
or
intellectual.
If
we
agree
that
neither
human
life
nor
art
can
contain
everything,
it
follows
that
the
practice
of
any
cultural
construction
involves
isolating
and
editing
down
fragments
of
phenomena
into
written,
sonic,
photographed
or
drawn
creations.
The
word
creation
might
also
be
misleading.
One
may
equally
think
of
an
art
practice
as
skilful
‘removals’
-‐
selecting
or
peeling
back
a
particular
line
of
enquiry
to
reveal
the
core
of
the
work.
Artworks
are
created
by
biases
and
discriminations,
both
intentional
and
not.
To
reiterate
a
phrase
in
the
sleevenotes
of
CIGA{R}LES,
art
is
bias.
Given
that
we
know
little
of
the
universe…
…it
is
reasonable
to
assume
human
perception
itself
is
a
form
of
bias
-‐
unless
one
is
omnipotent.
So
even
before
we
start
to
make
anything,
only
a
slither
of
life
is
going
to
fit
on
the
page,
on
the
soundtrack,
within
the
sculpture,
in
the
frame
and
so
on
–
this
is
the
practical
architecture
317
which
will
influence
the
kind
of
bias,
constraints,
process
and
outcome
of
any
work.
(CIGA{R}LES,
Dooks,
2013)
Added
to
this,
there
are
unpredictable
events
that
will
sculpt
the
work
further
before
any
artistic
gesture
occurs:
…Everyday
life
will
impose
limitations
onto
artists;
problems
with
budgets,
ability,
time
frame,
and
so
on.
(ibid)
It
would
be
reasonable
to
assume
that
the
factors
above,
combined
with
severe
exhaustion
must
limit
the
development
or
opportunities
of
an
artist
afflicted
by
CFS-‐
ME
but
is
this
really
the
case?
Returning
to
CIGA{R}LES,
I
asked:
To
what
extent
is
there
any
benefit
in
welcoming
unpleasant
and
inconvenient
limitations
as
part
of
the
process
of
making
a
piece?
Additionally,
does
‘predicament’
(such
as
illness)
itself
co-‐author
work?
[If
our
cultural
definitions
are
inclusive
enough]
…perhaps
predicament
need
not
be
an
enemy
of
the
sick
or
disabled
practitioner.
(ibid)
If
we
think
of
predicament
as
an
active
agent
in
the
process
when
placed
within
a
reliably
persistent
illness,
then
this
predicament
–
of
time,
attention
and
energy
limited
by
illness
-‐
is
already
doing
a
lot
of
the
work
of
editing.
This
aspect
alone
318
permits
some
energy
saving
and
underpins
the
research
project.
So
much
of
life
is
removed
from
the
exhausted
artist
already,
so
much
is
impossible,
that
it
reveals
a
limited
horizon.
However,
a
limited
horizon
is
no
less
of
a
horizon
than
what
passes
for
a
‘full’
and
satisfactory
human
life.
To
make
cultural
works
under
constraints
and
restrictions
is
in
keeping
with
both
the
mainstream
history
of
western
art
(where,
for
example,
Da
Vinci
and
Michelangelo
had
miserable
health
for
much
of
their
lives)
but
also
in
other
narratives
and
sources
where
restrictions
are
part
of
the
process.
In
Chapter
3,
I
discussed
the
French
writer
Georges
Perec
writing
an
entire
novel
without
the
letter
‘e’
(A
Void)
(Perec,
2008)
and
I
referred
to
the
Temporary
Services
project
Prisoners’
Inventions,
(Angelo
and
Score,
2003)
where
a
kettle
can
be
made
resourcefully
from
a
paperclip
and
a
plastic
cup,
then
translated,
through
the
agency
of
‘art’,
from
the
context
of
imprisonment
into
public
exhibition
and
debate.
I
count
Prisoners’
Inventions
as
high-‐level
research
into
resourcefulness.
Perhaps
it
is
not
simply
a
romantic
myth
to
suggest
that
creativity
arises
out
of
adversity
or
shackles,
or
appears
when
it
is
needed.
In
this
light,
perhaps
those
constrained
by
illness
or
individualistic
symptoms
might
have
already
encountered
a
sense
of
editing
and
shaping
of
their
cultural
constructions
because
those
who
are
experienced
with
illness
–
a
little
like
Illich’s
concept
of
the
‘art
of
suffering’
(Illich,
1976,
pp.131-‐132).
Such
sufferers
are
aware
of
what
both
is
and
isn’t
achievable.
In
the
‘healthy’
perhaps
there
is
more
of
a
risk
of
procrastination
because
so
much
is
possible.
As
I
phrased
it
in
CIGA{R}LES
sleevenotes:
Could
this
be
one
of
the
few
advantages
of
being
an
ill
practitioner?
319
Sick
artists
may
not
earn
much
money
for
their
output,
so
a
project
like
this
perhaps
is
better
seen
to
be
about
the
value
of
art
processes
and
of
empowerment,
and
of
the
value
of
an
art
practice
as
a
source
of
nourishment
and
information.
LP3
was
the
final
record
to
be
produced,
and
probably
represents
the
most
reflexive
practice
I
had
developed
during
the
process.
In
the
final
chapter
of
the
trilogy
of
objects
I
made
for
the
work…
‘I
was
able
to
exploit
and
refine
limitations.
Whilst
this
[degree
of
adaptation]
won’t
be
possible
for
all
ill
practitioners,
I
did
manage
to
implement
my
limitations
into
a
collection
of
individualistic
wellbeing
methodologies’
(ibid).
Because
of
the
production
of
these
three
records,
I
have
been
able
to
refine
a
suite
of
behavioural
techniques
aimed
at
emancipating
myself
-‐
but
with
an
eye
on
the
exhausted
individuals
who
also
have
an
art
practice,
or
would
like
one.
My
future
goal
is
to
design
projects
that
are
neither
for
the
exhausted
or
the
well:
simply
approachable
projects
aimed
at
the
curious.
Let
us
finally
sum
up
the
narrative
of
the
project.
I
described
how
I
was
a
film
maker,
how
my
career
was
going
well
just
before
I
became
ill.
I
had
just
completed
my
first
big
project,
a
South
Bank
Show
I
had
written
and
directed
before
I
was
due
to
make
a
six-‐week
documentary
on
Native
American
Rock
Art
in
California.
I
then
examined
my
relationship
with
bricolage
and
the
‘downfall’
and
re-‐
assembling
of
my
career.
I
wrote
of
how
when
I
was
an
‘independent’
director,
I
may
have
been
a
kind
of
‘holist’
in
my
work
(some
say
control
freak),
frequently
writing,
320
shooting
and
editing
all
my
material,
including
writing
the
music
and
mixing
the
soundtrack.
I
described
how
my
ambition
led
to
a
cluster
of
broadcast
television
commissions
in
the
late
1990s
before
I
fell
ill.
Then
I
reflected
that:
When
the
filmmaker
falls
apart,
his
films
fall
apart
too.
My
films
drifted
apart
or
fragmented
-‐
in
the
sense
of
my
only
being
able
to
pursue
very
small
clusters
of
audio,
music,
writing
and
photographic
works.
When
I
initially
became
ill,
my
megalomania
still
existed,
but
I
couldn’t
attempt
another
film.
So
I
redefined
myself
as
an
artist.
Adaptations
began
to
evolve,
such
as
a
bricolage
methodology
and
using
timers
to
make
more
modular
works,
and
at
the
same
time
although
I
wasn’t
making
works
over
a
large
breadth
of
time,
I
was
developing
more
depth
in
projects
that
I
hadn’t
uncovered
before.
Before
the
research
project
there
wasn’t
much
‘academically
reflexive’
work
in
my
history
-‐
I
was
making
photographs,
sonic
art
pieces
and
microfiction.
I
needed
to
unpick
how
it
was
possible
for
me
to
be
active
in
this
way.
I
certainly
didn’t
feel
like
a
filmmaker.
At
the
start
of
this
project,
I
expounded
my
reflexive
processes
as
“M.E.thodologies”
across
aggregates
of
sound,
photography,
graphics
and
writing.
As
I
progressed
deeper
into
the
project,
it
led
to
my
awareness
that
sound,
photography,
graphics
and
writing
happened
to
be
the
building
blocks
of
films.
An
epiphany
followed;
I
was
still
a
kind
of
filmmaker,
but
one
who
can
only
work
with
fragments
of
his
previously
healthy
life.
A
fragmented
filmmaker.
Immediately,
the
search
was
on
for
the
ideal
‘container’
of
this
fragmented
life
to
present
and
investigate
it.
It
required
321
incorporating
the
artwork,
the
sound
and
music
projects,
and
somewhere
to
place
a
kind
of
textual
element
and
principal
photography.
The
re-‐emergence
of
the
vinyl
record
into
popular
culture
allowed
for
all
of
these
elements
of
the
fragmented
film
to
be
presented.
The
timing
was
excellent
to
make
three
records
about
exhaustion
–
as
records.
In
this
text,
I
covered
how
my
pursuing
of
three
projects,
different
enough
from
each
other,
may
lead
to
a
return
to
living
a
kind
of
varied
holistic
life,
despite
not
being
able
to
leave
the
house
much.
I
outlined
a
rough
template
of
mind/body/soul
as
shorthand
for
these
records
and
their
branches
of
research,
a
blunt
metaphor
for
the
aspects
of
my
psyche
affected
by
my
illness.
CFS-‐ME
affects
the
full
strata
of
the
individual.
As
a
result,
a
minimum
of
three
headings
became
the
foundation
for
my
‘proto-‐syllabus’
of
complementary
projects,
which
arose
out
of
my
behavioural
methods
for
daily
living
-‐
under
both
the
illness
and
my
art
practice.
We
may
remind
ourselves
of
the
headings.
They
arose
out
of
where
I
felt
it
hurt
most
for
CFS-‐ME
sufferers;
they
are
excluded
from
society,
from
disability
funding,
from
being
treated
fairly
in
capacity
for
work
tests
–
a
long
list
could
easily
be
generated,
but
I
generated
three
personal
headings
for
areas
which
could
serve
the
artist
with
CFS-‐ME
well:
-‐
1. Art
as
‘Immediate
Triage’
2. Art
as
‘Cosmological
Portal’
3. Art
as
‘Perceptual
Enhancer
and
Appropriator’
322
As
we
conclude,
let
us
again
unpick
these
strange
headings.
Here
I
survey
them
for
the
last
time
in
the
order
they
were
made.
M.E.thodology
1
-‐
Art
as
‘Immediate
Triage’
As
with
the
striking
association
one
has
with
the
image
of
a
red
cross,
blood-‐
red
vinyl
was
chosen
here
as
an
ideal
colour
for
‘first
aid
by
art’
or
‘art
as
immediate
triage’
as
I
termed
it
in
chapter
1
-‐
and
the
record
was
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium.
These
were
sound
works
which
both
had
an
influence
on
my
nervous
system
but
also
works
that
helped
me
make
metaphors
about
my
collapsing
life.
So
the
first
record,
about
a
decaying
harmonium
in
Eskdalemuir,
was
produced.
This
helped
me
investigate
atrophy,
torpor
and
loss
–
and
allowed
me
to
exercise
a
little
whilst
making
sonic
balms
that
required
the
gentle
use
of
my
pedalling
feet
to
power
the
harmonium.
This
research
attracted
some
attention
and
it
soon
got
published
–
in
Canada.
At
the
time
of
writing,
it
is
still
for
sale
with
the
electronic
download
included.
If
I
were
to
criticise
myself,
this
one
record
could
have
been
a
research
project
in
itself,
but
I
set
on
the
idea
of
widening
the
benefits
of
my
bricolage
practice
across
other
aspects
of
my
life
and
I
continued
to
make
more
work.
I
wanted
the
project
to
be
as
‘holistic’
as
possible
and
experiment
with
the
idea
of
triangulation.
It
would
be
amiss
not
to
speak
about
the
risk
between
depth
of
idea
versus
breadth
of
enterprise,
but
I
felt
it
would
be
a
mistake
not
to
pursue
the
project
with
what
I
felt
were
the
minimum
constituent
parts
to
qualify
my
pursuit
as
remotely
‘holistic.’
As
a
result,
although
the
works
appear
sequential,
as
we
discovered
in
the
chapter
on
holism,
whole
and
part
may
be
considered
as
indivisible
perspectives
regarding
one
entity.
323
M.E.thodology
2
-‐
Art
as
‘Cosmological
Portal’
Blue
vinyl
was
the
core
of
the
next
record,
the
colour
chosen
to
mirror
the
visible
atmosphere
of
the
earth.
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
was
published
jointly
by
Woodend
Barn
Arts
in
Banchory
and
the
University
of
the
West
of
Scotland.
The
hypothesis
that
informed
this
record
was
that
if
society
bypasses
the
CFS-‐ME
sufferer,
the
sufferer
could
simply
bypass
society
and
learn
about
the
stars.
This
album
features
economical
aphorisms
about
the
universe
and
international
voices
(some
of
the
record
is
in
Polish
and
also
Japanese).
I
was
doing
a
little
research
on
how
my
memory
is
improved
when
data
is
set
to
music
and
on
that
theme,
I
was
looking
at
Oliver
Sacks’
work
in
the
field
where
dementia
sufferers
may
recall
music
and
songs
verbatim.
In
retrospect,
this
record
has
failings:
perhaps
I
should
have
set
more
of
the
statements
to
music
as
songs.
On
the
positive
side
there
are
other
M.E.thodologies
within
the
sleevenotes
to
have
made
it
a
worthwhile,
‘cosmic’
segment
of
the
trilogy.
M.E.thodology
3
–
Art
as
‘Perceptual
Enhancer’
and
‘Appropriator.’
Finally,
on
yellow
vinyl,
chosen
for
a
literal
emphasis
on
the
sun
(e.g.
in
Provence
where
I
recorded
insects
in
hot
climates)
CIGA[R]LES
looked
at
how
the
exhausted
practitioner
can
author
work
simply
by
choosing
where
to
point
a
microphone
(sonic
appropriation)
and
use
the
microphone
as
a
kind
of
instrument.
Applied
both
to
my
home
and
in
Provence,
the
‘perceptual
enhancer’
aspect
comes
from
an
experiment
where
I
placed
a
field
recorder
on
a
window
for
eight
hours
a
day
recording
my
environment,
when
I
was
too
ill
to
leave
the
house.
I
then
spent
the
evenings
listening
back
to
the
day,
and
when
my
condition
hit
a
good
spell,
I
would
324
start
to
edit
this
material
into
compositions
and
reflect
on
any
insights.
The
idea
of
deliberately
going
to
a
place
where
within
one
square
kilometre,
one
could
find
representatives
from
several
nations,
allowed
me
to
develop
a
related
international
soundscape
–
without
travelling
to
those
locales
themselves.
By
the
time
I
had
reached
this
final
record,
I
felt
I
had
become
deeply
immersed
in
strategies
in
which
unwell
artists
like
myself
can
make
conceptual
work
and
remain
authors
of
cultural
projects.
Sometimes
this
is
a
very
subtle
and
contemplative
process,
negating
needing
a
lot
of
energy
for
such
projects
or
without
interfering
with
the
subject
too
much.
These
self-‐reflexive
projects,
brought
together
within
a
set
of
art
behaviours
and
principles
are
ready
for
further
testing
and
exploration.
The
three
records,
with
their
extended
downloads
are
the
summation
of
many
hours
worth
of
such
explorations
and
as
a
result,
the
‘risk’
I
spoke
of
in
producing
three
records
has
produced
an
expansive
archive
in
and
of
itself.
In
the
prologue
of
this
writing
I
talked
about
how
I’d
started
buying
vinyl
again
after
a
huge
gap
of
twenty-‐five
years.
How
when
I
now
pick
up
a
handful
of
records,
I
can
barely
lift
them,
but
they
are
worth
the
effort.
I
spoke
about
how
there
is
something
in
the
format,
in
the
weight,
the
physicality
and
the
gravitas
of
vinyl
records
that
would
ultimately
serve
as
my
witness
–
even
an
epitaph
to
me
after
I
am
gone,
and
I
smiled
as
I
wrote
they
don’t
call
them
records
for
nothing.
325
326
Bibliography
1.
Books
2.
Journal,
Magazine
and
Newspaper
Articles
3.
Music
and
Recordings
4.
Artworks,
Film,
DVD
and
Video
5.
Conference
Proceedings
6.
Websites
7.
Archive
Material
327
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7.
Archive
Material72
Dooks/Clare,
P.
(n.d.)
Field
Notes
recorded
by
Chris
Dooks,
Ayr
Dooks/Kossoff,
G.
(n.d.)
Field
Notes
recorded
by
Chris
Dooks,
Ayr
72
These
two
field
notes
entries
are
simply
my
personal
notes
from
direct
contact
with
the
named
individuals.
When
I
have
quoted
said
individuals,
it
has
been
from
these
sources.
343
Acknowledgements
I’d
like
to
thank:
Graham
Jeffery
at
the
University
of
The
West
of
Scotland
for
his
mentoring
of
this
project
for
half
a
decade.
Artist’s
PhDs
may
follow
a
fairly
exploratory
trajectory
and
they
often
need
professionally
tethering.
This
doctoral
project
has
been
a
labyrinthine
enterprise
and
it
has
been
invaluably
grounded
and
guided
by
Graham.
My
wife
Ellie
and
my
children
Ivor
and
Oona
for
allowing
daddy
to
spend
weeks
away
in
his
office
and
on
field
trips,
for
elated
and
grumpy
moods
and
for
allowing
me
to
build
special
shelves
to
store
a
thousand
12”
records
in
the
house.
At
the
time
of
writing,
Ivor
is
more
or
less
the
same
age
as
this
project,
and
features
in
subtle
ways
across
all
three
LPs
and
I
hope
he
had
fun
working
with
me.
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
Thanks:
1. Rutger
Zuyderveldt
(aka
Machinefabriek)
for
his
sonic
and
design
collaboration
on
the
record.
2. Ita
and
family
in
Eskdalemuir
for
allowing
me
into
their
life,
to
record
their
instruments,
family
and
photograph
their
environment.
The
‘radio
documentary’
on
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
about
Ita’s
father
is
one
of
my
personal
highlights
of
the
work.
3. Alex
Durlak
and
Damian
Valles
for
having
the
confidence
to
release
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium
on
their
Komino
Records
label
4. Chicago
Mastering
Service,
Chicago,
USA
5. Standardform.org,
Toronto
for
print
work
6. Quality
Record
Pressings,
Kansas,
USA
7. Staff
at
Norman
Records
and
Stashed
Goods
UK,
Ian
at
Big
Sparra
Vinyl
in
Ayr,
also
Aye-‐Aye
books
and
Monorail
in
Glasgow
for
selling
the
work
along
with
stores
in
Berlin;
image-‐movement.de
in
Mitte,
Rumpsti
Pumsti
in
Neukölln.
8. I’d
also
like
to
thank
Samye
Ling
Monastery
in
Eskdalemuir
for
allowing
my
similar
freedoms
of
photography
and
field
recording:
Om
Mani
Padme
Hung.
9. Francis
McKee
at
the
CCA
and
all
the
technical
staff
who
made
the
launch
of
LP1
so
successful.
10. Jonathan
Lees
at
Hibernate
Recordings
for
releasing
a
limited
version
of
some
of
the
tracks
that
feature
on
Non-‐Linear
Responses
to
Self
Excited
Harmoniums,
the
digital
sister
E.P.
to
The
Eskdalemuir
Harmonium.
344
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards
Thanks:
1. Rutger
Zuyderveldt
for
his
design
collaboration
on
the
record.
2. Dr
Nick
Campion
and
Bristol
University
for
inviting
me
to
speak
at
the
Heavenly
Discourses
conference
and
for
publishing
the
paper
given
at
the
event.
3. Kate
Namous,
editor
for
Sophia
Press
4. Ayrshire
Astronomical
Society
5. Students
of
Stuart
Hepburn
at
the
University
of
The
West
of
Scotland
for
allowing
me
to
record
them
about
the
night
sky.
6. Students
of
Ayr
Academy
for
allowing
me
to
record
them
about
the
night
sky.
7. Members
of
Ayr
Film
Society
for
allowing
me
to
record
them
about
the
night
sky.
8. Mark
Ferrier,
Troon-‐based
photographer
9. Woodend
Barn,
Banchory
10. Eileen
Frater
and
Jackson
Frater
of
Prancing
Jack
Productions,
Ayr
11. Alberth
MG
of
Elgato
Film
Productions
12. Nicola
Henderson,
formerly
of
Woodend
Barn,
Banchory
alongside
David
Officer
for
facilitating
the
launch
of
this
LP
and
for
financing
the
initial
residency
that
became
the
Gardening
as
Astronomy
track
on
300
Square
Miles
of
Upwards.
13. Other
thanks
during
this
session
are
due
to
Elizabeth
Pye
and
Alexina
Gray,
John
Berry
14. Ayr
location:
pupils
of
Ayr
Academy,
Marta
Adamowicz
for
the
Polish
work,
Anna
Ryan
Kennedy,
Jamie
Jiei
Uchima
and
father
for
the
Japanese
work.
15. Glasgow
Planetarium
16. Mandy
McIntosh
and
Kaffe
Matthews
17. Scottish
Dark
Sky
Observatory,
Dalmellington
18. Staff
at
Galloway
Forest
Park
19. Jan
Hogarth
and
Wide-‐Open
20. Marcus
Chown
and
Govert
Schilling
authors
of
Tweeting
The
Universe
21. Jodie
Noble
and
Catstrand
for
profiling
the
records
in
a
live
presentation,
all
at
Catstrand
Arts
Centre,
New
Galloway
22. Helen
Wilson
of
Elgin
who
generously
helped
part-‐finance
this
record
345
CIGA{R}LES
Thanks
1. Rutger
Zuyderveldt
for
his
design
collaboration
on
the
records.
2. Taylor
Deupree
for
the
mastering
of
CIGA{R}LES
and
for
his
patience
and
professionalism.
3. William
and
Betsy
Thom
who
generously
helped
part-‐finance
this
record
4. Yves
Damin
for
help
on
Parisian
elements
on
CIGA{R}LES
5. www.whatsthatbug.com
for
help
in
identifying
cicadae
genus
6. Chris
Watson
7. Touch
Records
8. Alliance
Française
de
Glasgow
9. Institut
Français
d’Ecosse
Edinburgh
10. Les
Suds
à
Arles
11. Les
Rencontres
D'Arles
12. Musée
Réattu
Arles
13. Pipes
in
The
Park
Ayr
14. The
Royal
Scottish
Pipe
Band
Association
15. Hospitel-‐Hotel
at
Hotel
Dieu
de
Paris
and
Hotel
Dieu
itself
16. Prestwick
Airport
17. Action
for
M.E.
18. In
The
Field
Symposium
19. Luke
Jerram
20. Customer-‐realations
staff
at
Prestwick
Airport
Thanks
also
to:
Philip
Spitler
of
Bonfire
Labs
San
Francisco
for
laser
cutting
the
parts
and
adapting
my
designs
for
the
box.
Penny
Clare
for
allowing
me
to
profile
her
amazing
work,
Sound
Thought
2014,
Glasgow’s
Minimal
Festival,
Professor
Willy
Maley,
Dr
Gideon
Kossoff,
Dr
Jenny
Laws,
Sir
Professor
Simon
Wessely,
Dr
Emma
Lunan,
Dr
Ellie
Conway,
Ross
Sinclair,
Clive
Bell
and
The
Wire
Magazine,
Ewan
Morrison,
Lianne
Hackett
and
family,
The
M.E.
Association,
Action
for
M.E.,
Chris
Freemantle,
Jackie
Sands,
Dr
David
Manderson,
The
Drouth
magazine
and
Mitch
Miller
who
partly
distributed
LP2,
Emma
Lennox,
Joelle
Marlow,
Enabling
Support
staff
at
the
University
of
The
West
of
Scotland,
and
also
I’d
like
to
thank
Lesley-‐Anne
Niven
and
Marie
McEwan
for
their
support
within
the
CCI
department
at
the
University
of
The
West
of
Scotland.
Also
my
fellow
researchers
Alison
Bell,
Jennifer
Jones
and
Rachel
Flynn
who
are
producing
amazing
work.
More
thanks
to
my
extended
family,
Curved
Pressings
in
Hackney
who
did
an
incredible
job
on
the
printing
of
the
records
and
lacquers
of
LP2
and
LP3
which
resulted
in
a
excellent
pressings
in
consistent
colours,
Jeremy
Bible
of
Experimedia,
Thanks
also
to
Cheryl
Tipp
at
The
British
Library
Sound
Archive
for
purchasing
the
entire
project
and
for
general
support
regarding
the
project.
Jez
Riley
French
for
hydrophone
and
contact
microphone
advice
and
supply.
Thanks
to
staff
at
Norman
346
Records
and
Stashed
Goods,
Ian
at
Big
Sparra
Vinyl
in
Ayr
for
selling
the
work.
Shaun
Blythell
at
The
Bookshop,
Wigtown.
Dr
Anna
Schaffner,
Department
of
Comparative
Literature
at
The
University
of
Kent
for
inviting
me
to
Canterbury
to
present
the
project
in
the
UK
at
the
one
day
symposium
/
conference
on
exhaustion.
For
the
Berlin
launch,
I’d
like
to
thank
Andreas
Reihse
(of
the
band
Kreidler)
and
staff
of
image-‐
movement.de
for
their
support
and
short-‐notice
launch
of
the
event.
Francis
McKee
at
the
CCA
and
all
the
technical
staff
who
made
the
launch
of
LP1
so
successful.
Special
thanks
to
staff
at
Crosshouse
Hospital
Kilmarnock
and
Yorkhill
Children’s
Hospital,
Glasgow.
Thank
you
to
all
the
supporters
and
customers
of
the
records
and
those
who
took
the
time
to
review
the
work.
It
is
the
nature
of
CFS-‐ME
to
forget
names,
and
whilst
this
doesn’t
excuse
any
omissions,
I
am
sure
I
will
have
made
some
–
and
ask
for
your
understanding
regarding
my
occasionally
ineffective
recall.
Kind
regards
and
I
hope
you
enjoyed
the
research
project.
Chris
M
Dooks,
Alloway,
Ayr,
Scotland
November
2014
Contact:
chris@dooks.org
347
The
Idioholism
Vinyl
Trilogy
©
Chris
Dooks
2014
348