Tá mé ach aoi ar an saol seo

•September 28, 2014 • Leave a Comment


why do the hundred rivers rush towards the sea?

I am but a guest to this world.


When life begins we are tender and weak.
When life ends we are stiff and rigid.
All things, including the grass and the trees are soft and pliable in life.
dry and brittle in death.


A strong wind does not blow all morning.
a cloudburst does not last all day.


I am but a guest in this world
while others rush about and get things done
I accept what is offered
Oh, my mind is like a fool,
aloof to the clamour of life around me
Everyone seems so bright and alive
with the sharp distinctions of day
I appear dark and dull
I am drifting like an ocean
floating like high winds
Everyone is so rooted in this world
yet I have no place to rest my head.
Perhaps this is difference.

Quiet the restlessness of the mind.

Sharpen a blade too much and its edge will soon be lost.


Can you remain steadfast as the motherbird who sits in her nest?



Wait for the passing wind.


One step, two step, three step four.

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You promised me one step more.


( cas pian I leigheas / Tá mé ach aoi ar an sail seo. is an ongoing conversation with the landscape of Devon. All images and film copyright to Beatrice Jarvis and may not be reproduced without permission.)




cas pian i leigheas | a hómós.

•September 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment


– Tred softly as you tred on my dreams.

but what does the horse chew?

– Memory.

A longing to wander tears my heart,

– Every path leads homeward.

That is home.

| Hold everything dear |




How does the wind listen, and the rain lament.

A quietness that holds memory as a fallen tree.

Another tree looks on, regarding the encounter.

” dont play with dead things’ a thrush chirps.

The tree which lays now next to the earth smiles;

‘When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured’ ( Hesse) 

Red red earth and broken sky

The rock and bones.

Steady in the quest for a moment of silence.




The wind howled, not a lament, but an exhaustion.

The sun asked; ‘why do you hurt so?’ 

The wind paused and sighed. ‘ Though I may journey from place to place, as force, as obstruction, as change, carrying seeds, birds and gulls, changing seas and forms, in my core all I wish for is to settle and to travel no more and to simply stop here and be here and that to be all ‘ 

The sun hid a moment and looked to the cloud for some words to counsel the winds, but by the time the sun had returned the wind had departed leaving no trace other than scattered ferns.




“Perhaps we need not ask”

The tree and the leaves sighed to one another as the day began to hide.

“She will learn”

The tree said very slowly

” Turn pain into medicine” 

The leaves sighed for they had left a long before the tree had finished his sentence, but the roots quaked and the earth turned, holding close the words.



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” Who is she calling too?’

The moss has settled now to watch the scene.

The fern became agitated.

‘ Why should you always ask. These lands leave each to their own quest.’

A horse bounds on.


A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death. ( Hesse)


( cas pian I leigheas is an ongoing conversation with the landscape of Devon. All images and film copyright to Beatrice Jarvis and may not be reproduced without permission.)

cosa succede quando si dimentica la riflessione

•August 20, 2014 • Leave a Comment

cosa succede quando si dimentica la riflessione.



La memoria è un’amante crudele.
La sua pelle è morbida, ma le sue parole mordere e duro.

Quanto ho tempo di ricordare il mio riflesso. ha preso prigioniero e detiene la chiave.



Lei mi tiene così vicino e poi mi butta in un lago di ghiaccio freddo dove mi siedo.






Quanto ho tempo di ricordare il mio riflesso. ha preso prigioniero e detiene la chiave.



Terrò la tua mano.
la tua mano scivola
e io cadere.


Io contare fino a dieci

e dimenticare tutto

e ricordare solo

uno tendrill gara.


Queste immagini ora si sentono stranieri.

il passato è un paese straniero.

il passato è un amante assente.

il passato è il sapore amaro della perdita.

il passato è un relitto che userò la colla a mettere insieme solo per distruggere ancora e ancora.

il passato è un paese straniero.


si prega di avvicinarsi chiese.

voglio guardarti.

(Per cancellare e dimenticare)

Si prega di venire più vicino in modo che io possa ricordare dove è sei.

Ma lei corse.

corse finora che le scarpe rotto. il suo cuore si spezzò.

non ci può essere ritorno.

non ci può essere ritorno.

– –

there can be no return.

( she clicked her gold heels)

fragmentorum plenos sustulistis

•July 3, 2014 • Leave a Comment


•June 30, 2014 • Leave a Comment

1. a piece broken off or detached: fragments of rock.
2. an incomplete piece; portion: fragments of a novel.
3. a scrap; morsel; bit
4. to break or cause to break into fragments
[C15: from Latin fragmentum, from frangere to break]

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Sometimes memory is a game

selective enchantment.

Lost in sea of boiled asphalt.

Chasing dreams I wish I had written down.

Promises I wish I had written down.

Other peoples footsteps.

I have to draw in my own shadow.

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Realities I passed in brief duet

Now feel more like home than worn out shoes.

The egg timer will not stop

as I will not sleep to turn it over,

so you can dream and I will let time give us a room.

Let us take time and sit with it.

To sail a sea that has not been crossed yet.

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

“Lets run to Hollywood. and count pigeons.

Or we could sit.

And you could tell me a story.”

The lady has lost her teeth again.

So she just smiles and nods at me.

“Seems like lately that things are changin”

He won’t finish his sentences and keeps eating kippers

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

“But Beatrice, one day you have to sit still”

The egg timer is blue.

The sky blue.

My socks blue.

At least there is some synergy.

“What becomes of broken hearted?”

A new jar of kippers and its day break again.

The lady puts on her boxing gloves and the parrot grins.

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Where we were, where we are. These things have no meaning now.

To find an exhaustion.
We dance again in silence.

Blood. Sweat. Tears.

” Thats all you need” she said handing me a map on a napkin to a bakery.


Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

” Your in Hollywood now”

i wish I could remember what it smelt like.

Spaces of faded grandeur, that perhaps never existed.

Chasing my own tale ( tail)

The book is soaked in water.

I can read my words.

Can we forget feelings in the same way?

To submerge my head in water?

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

I want to be a fish

To live under the under sea.

to stay hidden in seaweed all day.

to count the sea birds which fly overhead.

And say nothing.

To know nothing of this world and its absurdity.

” Perhaps you would help me cross the road? ”

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

” Perhaps you would help me cross the road? ”

in simplicitate

•June 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

because sometimes we forget:
to breathe in itself is quite a miracle.


This complicated series of cells and passages we call the body.

it hold us.


sometimes when it is quiet i like to dance fiercely.

and get so exhausted i fall over.

and then i get up again.

and i start again.

I have gone back to ballet and minimalism for a brief affair.

Discipline. Rigour. restraint. abundance.

DSC09784 ballet

Such classicism confuses me at points.

Learning another’s language.

“There is more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy.”

Yet how do we learn it?

How do we repeat it?

How can we teach it?


“The body is a great intelligence, a multiplicity with one sense, a war and a peace, a herd and a herdsman.”

Yet how hard it is to gather, form, calibrate, when speaking another language.


sometimes i give up

and listen to the rise of fall and breath.


then i go back what makes sense.


and i leave the studio and walk and run.



“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

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“We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.”

Other peoples voices. Other peoples vocabularies.

What then is left to say?

back to the beginning

because sometimes i fall over and forget to count the grass stalks.

•June 16, 2014 • Leave a Comment

” landscape is a way of seeing that has its own history ”

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I suppose sometimes to be only in the body

one can escape the mind.

when there are moments when nothing quite seems to make sense.
landscape and power.

landscape is an exhausted. ( form)
landscape is ( not ) an exhausted medium

no longer a mode of artistic expression. perhaps fallen.

routine. testing. practice. exhaustion.


can we see landscape not a form of art but as a medium?
a medium of exchange
between human and natural
The other and the self.

Landscape as a social hieroglyph
Landscape as perhaps our own commonality

yet I have no idea what you feel when the soil is between your fingers.


we are surrounded by things we have not made.

landscape as ideology

landscape as method of power

landscape as escape from humanity

i want to count the grass stalks and not say one word.


stressing the disjuncture between spectacle and their subjects
one cannot own ‘ place ‘
The affect is not yet clear.

System. abstraction/ order.


and then.



perhaps i run
to run away
perhaps i dance
to dance away

perhaps one should count each blade of grass
I like to talk to sheep.
I like to watch clouds.

I like not knowing where i will end up
but to keep going

i like exhausting myself.

even in dreams there has to be a quietness, the hearing nature is still alert.

“the waking have one world in common, sleepers have each a private world of his own.”

i like to hide behind trees
when no one will ever come

and imagine its hide and seek.


this could be a conversation.

but we have sealed our mouths.

leave only footsteps.

.. to perhaps nothing at all.


because sometimes i fall over and forget to count the grass stalks.

In gratitude.

•June 11, 2014 • Leave a Comment


‘ Love in a hut, with water and a crust,

Is – Love, forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust; 

Love in a palace is perhaps at last 

More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast: – 
That is a doubtful tale from faery land.’
Keats. ( 1884) Lamina.

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The body collects landscape, gathering, forming, collecting, sharing, revealing, fragmenting, traces and lines of terrain shadowing the body. The body as archive. Each day an experience granted. Each day, a need to give thanks.


To stand. As still as still as the deer who is watching me.
To move as swiftly as the foal who fears me.
To move my arms like the eagle who tracks my path.
To want somehow to allow this flesh to become a part of this scene.



When sat in the root of tree struck down by lightning
I watch woodlice make a new home
In the site of such disaster.
A wise man fallen.
The leaves lay and weep.



I sit silent, even my breath too loud,
Such stillness
Then such symphony
As nature will always agitate.



My clothes get covered in red mud.
Beetles in my hair.
Sand in my fingernails,
Mud between the creases.
This feels better.
As though somehow I am being let in to this world.

To want to hide in the shadows of dawn.
To battle with the blazing sun.
To allow the tide to take one at will.

To be alone in the moors
Is a falsehood.
One is never alone.
A cow laughs at me as I get stuck in a fence.

And know for now this is all.

In gratitude.

Beidh an cladach a shealbhú dúinn.

•May 30, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Nothing can be seen to match the rapidity of the thoughts which the mind produces and Initiates .

The mind is swifter than anything which the nature of our eyes allows them to see.

I held your hand. (ĭ-nĭsh′ē-āt′)
Holding your barnacles.

Take me to the sea.
Take me to a place so deep that even the waves will not disturb us.

The wanderer.

He who has come only in part to a freedom of reason cannot feel on earth otherwise than as a wanderer-though not as a traveler towards a final goal, for this does not exist. But he does want to observe, and keep his eyes open for everything that actually occurs in the world; therefore he must not attach his heart too firmly to any individual thing; there must be something wandering within him, which takes its joy in change and transitoriness. To be sure, such a man will have bad nights, when he is tired and finds closed the gates to the city that should offer him rest; perhaps in addition..

The seashore will hold us.

Perhaps it will only let us drift further into a realm of the unknown.

Our emotions will not be canned. No words or language for this moment.
the failure of our tongues. we become as fish.

We fall in.

For all dreams are muddled in the grasp of helping you to cross the road.


This video is a part of wider series of initial explorations for ULANDiv Performance Series; Denmark June 2014 and forms a visual notebook of the experience of body as it traverses landscape. For more information about this project please email beatricemaryjarvis@googlemail.com

With thanks to Pam Jarvis and Bob Jarvis.

formas in abstractione et oblitus.

•May 30, 2014 • Leave a Comment


The price of potatoes has increased.

“ You ma would eat a horse”

He left his socks in the pub

“ Another cup of tea”

The scones are fresh.

The window was locked

A smashed bottle grows where the daffodils lie.

A light two-step in the rain.


What is to perform?

A man walks in a circle.

A lady screams.


A boy kicks the wall.


A woman stands in her dressing gown with curlers in talking to the milkman.

The density of daily troubles me at present. An endless complication as to what the performance may mean; a sodden battle entrenched with ambiguity, uncertainty and inner conflict. We should perform better. What an amazing performance. That was shocking. I haven’t seen a performance like that for a long time.

I would like to digress from the term performance and perhaps lean towards terms of enactment, embodiment and even exorcism. The act of enabling and facilitating the body; using movement as medium to enact, explore, respond and recreate the issues, complexities and realities of everyday life. I call everyday life; ‘Practice.’ In this sense all experiences we are granted, which we endure, protest against, fight for, these form the substance of the reality in which we situate ourselves. I am keen to see this term; ‘Performing Practice’ as in reality; a strategy of performing life. A means of communicating and finding strategies, which convey a means to explore the nature of daily experience.

‘The goal of performance installation is, therefore, to uncover spaces of experience and transformations of bodily states that raise questions about physical and mental conditions.”


I trace traces. Liminal form, perhaps to avoid the duet with humanity which performance creates. To conceal and to reveal. An endless guise.


The body in the city acts as vessel; to carry, contains and interacts; forming routes and navigations through the immediacies of its encounter. The body in the city becomes a means to extend the discourses of the mind and architecture to a frontal physical plane. The experience of the body as it moves through its decided and undecided routes of the complex labyrinth becomes synthesis; forming in such modes of encounter a reflection as to the physical landscape it temporally habits. (Meo tamen iterum dico)

To consider the body an artifice for reflection as to the affects of urbanisation; modern progress and development allows a humanist discourse to form around the concrete slabs which form the densely textured urban scene. How the body is positioned in space; how it occupies and passes through various plaza, streets and passage ways can function as means for discourse as to the nature of affect the city may have on the psychology of urban human behaviour and simultaneously affords insight as to how the city is formed and cemented by the very patterns which human occupancy projects. This mutual dialectical relationship becomes synonymous to concepts as to how far cities are designed for people and how people essentially redesign and augment the fabric of urban texture. The embodiment of the urban experience by the human form becomes focus for this research; how far can the body enter a state of conscious reflection as to its use and positioning within the built environment to observe and how can such conscious observations be then potentially be reapplied to generate shifts in land use patterning and generate possible realms of progress within discourses of spatial planning.




To make performance, to choreograph is perhaps to form a logic to the system and construction which the body experiences. The experience of place which site specific performance may allow can present a dynamic reinterpretation of location, which allows both the performer and the audience to re-calibrate their relationship to the sensitivity of landscape. Performance can act as a social and spatial filter, systematically crafting the conditions in which the choreographer wishes their conceptions of site. In this sense the site specific choreographer becomes a social facilitator, creating and crafting specific conditions by which an audience can experience or re-experience the site in question.



Perhaps my work aims to explore how far dance can become a valid and logical system for the investigation of various sites and experiences in our environment, as perhaps outside of choreographic contexts the dissemination of place and its various strata’s of activity remain too complex for the dancers body to encapsulate in any form of totality; yet one can argue the living, thinking, perceptive body has the ability to narrate the site by means of engaged critical discourse;



How far can a performance subvert or alter the experience and reality of the fabric of a site, more specifically a studio or theatre space? As a performance begins to ‘overtake’ a studio or theatre and infiltrate the daily realities of its existence; how far does the space and adapt and change to this intervention? Can a neutral performance space ever truly encapsulate the experience of a memory of a location?

The body in the construct allows us a means to wager the city battles and torments; to reflect itself as the power it holds or desires. The body becomes emblem, endlessly attempting to symbolize its endeavors. It’s dwelling becomes an extension of such will; the abode in which the body surrenders to society’s surmount.



How far it is possible for dance as spatial medium and embodied form of expression of the experience of space to transmit received and gathered information as to the context and history of an experience to an audience. The reliance on the body in this process becomes seminal, in order to create a performance experience for an audience which strives to facillate the heightened understanding of the context in question, which in this piece is post conflict Belfast, the dancer must be confident in their body’s ability to act a viable social transmitter. In this context, the actions and capabilities of the body run in tandem to the perception of performance to create a spatial and psychological experience of space which will allow, for them, to revisit their preconceptions of the socio-political context in question.








The search for a past perhaps, a haunting nostalgia for a past, which I had no physical place in, only sounds of memories which are not my own; yet somehow through bloodline I feel drawn too.

A desire to mend my bike on Innis Mor, another lost bicycle. A desire to live in a small house, with love and a crust. A place of dreams. 

A desire to feel the sea each morning and to fix the roof of the cottage the man said no one wanted on the edge of the Island. The desire to become a hermit.The desire to run a dance class on the Island and that to be all. 

I keep its photograph in my pocket and wonder if I can thatch and what that would mean.

A questioning if it possible to fall in love with a landscape with all its faults and somehow seeing its anger and pain only end up wanting to love and nurture more. A concern as to what this feeling is and wondering why this gut feeling has never gone away..