Anam Cara

•July 26, 2016 • Leave a Comment




Studies in a changing home
The body as home
An Archive to changed state

Moving now as mother
Moving as being
Moving as body

The landscape listens

softly to lie in the flax

To carry
To hold
To nurse
To heal


On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

( John O’Donohue )


BOG 12

“Human skin is porous; the world flows through you. Your senses are large pores that let the world in. By being attuned to the wisdom of your senses, you will never become an exile in your own life, an outsider lost in an external spiritual place that your will and intellect, have constructed.” ( John O’Donohue )


Perhaps here I arrived again
To find route and to run free
to root and earth
fall and rise

A new form as yet unknown
this dance becoming
a search




My feet wanting to bury deep into the earth
The mind left
Of constellations, the day and its discontent will always fade
How can I move now
Take root


BOG  1


“Your body is your clay home; your body is the only home that you have in this universe. It is in and through your body that your soul becomes visible and real for you. Your body is the home of your soul on earth.”

BOG 11

“Your soul is the priestess of memory, selecting, sifting, and ultimately gathering your vanishing days toward presence.”

Walking now

A new version of home as my body shifts

This form

a Journey

as yet unknown.


This film was made in Donegal in 2016 in collaboration with Dowd Donall Gillespie

B’fhéidir anseo tá mé saor in aisce.

•June 26, 2016 • Leave a Comment

B’fhéidir anseo tá mé saor in aisce.

(A study in the possibility of the sensations of home)


Beatrice jarvis 6.jpg

I lie under the blanket of the forest

I lie in the shield of heather as a ram inspects my feet

I am here

I walk up the steep bank carrying my wares

Handmade twine as treasure

My House

 I build

My body

A Shelter

I will rise with the sun and

Fall between the stream and gorse

Perhaps here I am free.


“As we become a more transient society, we tend to define home by the accumulation of possessions as much as by place.” (Busch: Geography of Home)

Can performance / walking / ritual and entering a dialog with landscape through conscious body awareness become a platform for deconstructive ecopsychology.

As part of Language, Landscape and the Sublime conference I will be hosting a workshop exploring notions of home as personal and spatial embodied methodology.

This workshop has been developed from an experience I had in Poland submerged deep in the forest, attempting to become a part of the forest, attempting to find home.

In this short workshop we shall explore a sample of practice based methodologies to explore notions of home as different internal and external states in relation to landscape; using the concept of home a means to explore how we relate to social and ecological concerns within our environmental frames of reference.

For full details of the symposium please see here:

The füll workshop document can be read below

‘ We are the mirror.

as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are the pain
and what causes pain, both. We are the sweet cold water
and the jar that pours. (Rumi)’

As Stoller indicates; ‘ To accept sensuousness in scholarship is to eject the conceit of control in which the mind and the body, self and other are considered separate.’ This research takes to it core the symbiosis of the connection of mind and body as the ecology of self and place, forming a cohesive site of collaboration between the two. The body is mirror to all experience, each motion and breath an archive to the experience of the living being.

‘The epidermis of the skin is ecologically like a pond’s surface or a forest soil, not a shell so much as a delicate interpenetration. It reveals the self as ennobled and extended, as part of the landscape and the ecosystem.’


Beatrice jarvis 11

Image by Dana Macpherson. Living Collective in Residency at Burdag Studios. Poland. 2015

Ar feadh na Saoirse Ciela Allegra Gillespie-Jarvis.

•April 29, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Screen Shot 2015-12-22 at 01.02.11

Ar feadh na Saoirse Ciela Allegra Gillespie-Jarvis.

A bheannacht fíor.

This forms a part of a new series I made whilst carrying my daughter, exploring how the body changes and shifts as her life formed inside me. Working with familiar movement mediatations from continued somatic embodied techniques, this series explores a new trio, of mother and daughter and landscape.

Music by Natalie Merchant. Nursery Ryhme of Innocence and Experience and Staring Directly Into the Sun (EP) by Tvärvägen

Poems by W.B Yeats and Christina Rossetti.

For Miss Gillespie-Jarvis. Born 17th February 2016.
Filmed in An tSrúibh Co. Donegal.

a théimid ar an de chríoch neamhshubstaintiúla. Táimid i mbun oibre le ceo

•July 26, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Bá Chionn an Ghabha
Iúil 2015
Beatrice Jarvis
Ceol ag Akira Kosemura
Téacs ag Virginia Woolf


We melt into each other with phrases.
We are edged with mist.
We make insubstantial territory.


Everything became softly amorphous, as if the china of the plate flowed, and the steel of the knife were liquid.
Meanwhile the concussion of the waves breaking fell with muffled thuds, like logs falling, on the shore.


what if this moment were to stay forever.


The waves broke and spread their waters swiftly over the shore. One after another they massed themselves and they fell; the spray tossed itself back with the energy of their fall. The waves were steeped deep blue save for a pattern of diamond pointed light on their backs which rippled as the backs of great horses ripple with muscles as they move. The waves fell, withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.


How does light return to the world to the world after the eclipse of the sun? Miraculously. Frailly. In thin stripes it hangs like a glass cage. There is a spark there. Next moment of a flash of dun. Then a vapour as if earth were breathing out for the first time.


And in me too the wave rises. It swells: it arches its back. I am aware one more of a new desire.

I am quite alone, here, for the first time.


comhrá idir neamhláithreachta agus raithneach

•July 23, 2015 • Leave a Comment


comhrá idir neamhláithreachta agus raithneach
scannán ag Beatrice Jarvis
Ceol le Marek Iwaszkiewicz
Éire Iúil 2015


a conversation between absence and fern.
how to make present such absence
perhaps I have left myself in the heather
shot down by a quivering blue
I fall into an abyss



rising with each wave
hère I shall remain
departed with the cloud
light driving darkness
before it spilt itself properly into the corners

I am broken into separate pieces
I am no longer one
in this silence it seems as though
no leaf would fall
no bird would ever fly
oppose ourselves


to this illimitable chaos
this formless imbecility
the still mood

this disembodied mode
is upon us
we must
enjoy this momentary isolation
let us stay
for a moment
simply here




comhrá a idir an an péarla ‘agus an oisrí

•July 21, 2015 • Leave a Comment

ag siúl ó Malin go cúig snáithe finger.

Iúil 2015.

Scannán ag: Beatrice Jarvis

Ceol le Evgeny Grinko: Faulkner’s Sleep (D-Moll)


the pearl did not ask the limpet

his name

they sat

watching mussels

absorb the ocean

the sea


as the waves

took hold

thrashing a fury

a playful glee

taken down

risen with the sky

the sun and the blanket

could have

no silence

between the stars

wave  2





perhaps the sun and moon
will dance
and the stars
will not ask
the end
only to breathe
someone else’s house
depart the road to the weather station
to see the clouds chase blue
soup and stares
synthetic vegetable
what will I become?
dreaming of potatoes.

the dawn ochre
green urchin
the day walks
a squashed sandwich
to dance the sun down
gannets shearwaters auks
the shipping news
heralds the rains
nothing remains
untouched by water.


perhaps this is all the waves will ask.


we are not [ listening]

•June 9, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Screen Shot 2015-06-08 at 15.49.06

A film for Big Noise Festival 2015.
Music: Ohara Hale. The Reeds ( in Moonlight)
Text: Beatrice Jarvis
Film by Beatrice Jarvis
Berlin footage: Benjamin Bailey

we are not [ listening ] where does memory hide. It comes early and we are late. It takes us and wrecks us. Dust. Ash. Rubble. All to moss. We are not

it is a matter of attention and memory in this quiet place that neither you nor I know. Such richness we destroy. Dust passes through our hands. We are lost. Lost for a sense of never quite becoming and we shall never know.

this is the land we cannot forget. Everything underfoot has a name. Is named. Each anonymous grass, repeats a history. I gather your fragments and store them in the pocket of my man made smock. To be an imitation, to cover the old façade with breezeblock and stop it from telling any secrets.
with measured steps, with deliberation, to walk a quiet path, between time and the grey fold. Hide me here, and I will sit, naked and think of marble and skin. Whose voice is this, beneath the shoals of our measured steps, the ship wreck of ambiguity, I am clutching at you, you fall, out, and out back to the place.
[my] deepest breath will bring no more air, the walls are departed, where does memory hide, what do these walls contain. The tree speaks, enlarged and bulbous with such acquisition. I will not beg you, the soil wraps me, the sky melts in hot pool of darkness. Unclench your teeth and loosen your jaw, do you continually bare this need, are you entertainment, clap, clap your hands.

Tell me a secret.

where are you. the stars have broken into pieces and they still clap. The man has no voice and he does not speak my name. The stars in spasm, the stars in cloud are still present. Do not touch this memory. My flesh crawls with it. Writhing in pastness and forgotten intimacies.

The candles have all burnt down and the palace falls to moss and ruin. Who are you. I walk beside the swing of your pulse and your heart pumps in both directions at once, the lines of my body and your heart, does memory have soul. The construction will not cease to frown. The asphalt courses through thick blood, progress will stop nothing . I breathe cement.

[my] self falls into marble and the crowds relinquish. This show has always been over. The hill takes me and the sky hits me. Where does memory hide. The man sits against the fresco and rubs it off with his nylon shirt. This is where the heart is.

we are not [ listening ] and

the day breaks again.

[Beatrice Jarvis]