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.

DSC09473 bb

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

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..




Nach mbeidh an fharraige a shealbhú ar mo bhád páipéir.

•May 26, 2014 • Leave a Comment


i bhfolach i garlands na feamainne.


Nach mbeidh an fharraige a shealbhú ar mo bhád páipéir.








we are all invisible men.


A human account of man.


we are all crazy creatures.


we can glimpse but not adopt.



The authentic vision of man. The madness of mad men. Our alienation goes to the root.

Idioms of union.
We are bemused crazy creatures.


We are born into a world where alienation awaits us.



Even facts become fictions.


We demand evidence.


The others behaviour is quite unknown. The true field of inter experience.


To watch the courses of the stars.


Evidence. Falling into the sea.






The experience of the other.


To be like a rock, that the waves crashing over.


To give up without complaint.


Forget everything else.


Each of us lives only now.


There cannot be time, only now.


Forget everything else.


The now. This brief instant.


Nothing but change.


The sky knows longing.







To be like a rock that the waves keep crashing over.

It stands unmoved and the raging of the sea falls still around it.


The world is nothing but change. Our life is only perception.




Perhaps this is failure and perhaps this is the dream.


Let us be driven back into the ocean.


Without Melody.


Without order and simply seeking form.


Each of us lives only now.


A conversation with a tree root at dawn.

•May 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

A conversation with a tree root at dawn.




Perhaps if I were to lie here long enough

It might be possible to undertstand what the sensation of the earth might be like.


Perhaps if I hide here long enough

The speed of the world will soften


Perhaps if I try to conceal myself here for long enough

The skies will change.


A fleeting instant, I don’t think you know those?


The power of reason, you have seen too much to know all its inevitability.


Fails. Falls. Faulters.


Why did they cut you down?


The power of understanding?


Leaves. Leaf. The damp. The sodden. Washed up in dew.


Stillness comes in waves. Do you miss your branches as limbs?


I wish I did not have this language.


The dawn chases the night, grabbing its tail and holding it to account. I can hear you laughing. All of this is repetition, you know that originality does not exist.


The responsive and the responsible mind, and your mind.


To determine the weight of labour.


The doing and being, The spectator of passivity and action.


The habit of unconscious consciousness, refining the process of participation in the spheres about one.


To create or to enter a space where one can begin to understand human nature.


What if you have never seen a circle? How then would you know of beginning and endings? The potential for the infinite could then still exist.


Who is the lady with the sea weed in her hair? What of this matters?


I wish I could understand you.


Flashes of images, silence of reason, determination of spirit, modes of display, a personal strategy for engagement, we will not define empowerment for fear it will bring tears to your markings.



Buttermilk and beetroot soup.


You were there.


Perhaps you are not.


The little bird sits on my shoulder and tells me to pretend that tears are raindrops.


Only two things are certain, that everything comes to pass and everything changes.




Washed up in dew.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Washed up in dew.

Leaves. Leaf. The damp. The sodden. Washed up in dew.

The doing and being, The spectator of passivity and action.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

The doing and being, The spectator of passivity and action.

Stillness comes in waves.

Le creideamh.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

ar nádúr
ar súil
ar ghrá
ar íonachta
ar buíochas.
Le creideamh.

Beatrice Jarvis
Inis Mór. Márta 2014

auf Nostalgie

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Reflections on explorations of the city as studio.
We are living in an age where the ground is shifting and the foundations are shaking. I canont answer for other times and places. Perhaps it has always been true.
Not a dancer but a wrestler, waiting poised, and dug in for sudden assaults.
We slowly going forwards to the end. and each idea that easily arises suggests the next idea. The pleasure of the familiar can guide us through any landscape, including the landscape of language.

Reflections and annotations.
With thanks to EGFK – European Society for Research and Art / Europäische Gesellschaft für Forschung und Kunst and Benjamin Bailey.

Níl ort ach anseo.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Níl a fhios agam cad.
Níl a fhios agam cén áit.
Níl a fhios agam conas a.
Níl ort ach anseo.
B’fhéidir imeacht.

{ beatrice jarvis }

I know not what.
I know not where.
I know not how.
Simply here.
Perhaps to depart.