by dean bowen

chased into a no-man’s-land & got lost. i’ve seen its ugly. un-named it border between heart & aching. i’ve known both to cast shadows & there is a viciousness behind these facades. a masking of not a pure thought born from a nagging hunger buried inside this thing fearing its own obsolescence & i tease it out. call it fire. let it embrace me whole as i hold my breath. this is a strategy for survival. a daily death-defying to be shared with others anointed within this blazing, raging & i’ve known this since i was called ‘child, you see too much’. how some shades of dark are axioms, borne. like skin. a shapeshifting dynamic allowed through a dominant gaze. i was bred to maintain within this haunting & i’ve let it drag me into alternative slumbers. a speculative paradigm to shift & maybe this is just some of what was intended for somewhere else. or some time else but do you remember (?) how you too believed in something we both now fail to recall. remember (?) how there’s no unburdened version of boy, considering boy was told to fare light. to bury everything, known or owned within borders of body. yes, sir. no sir, as only valid responses to a routine assault & i do not carry any last demands. no bullets for an impending conflict & hold onto no love letters for no one that got away. sometimes compromise is a pressed ear to hot asphalt. listening for the rumblings of a memory guiding us back to familiarity. a texture reclaimed through a pulsing earth, mimicking my grandfather’s dying & there’s always that rhythm leading us to somewhere, we’ve been before & call a temporary home. i’ve done this too often. made myself at home within someone or somewhere i didn’t belong, too often. try however not to burden any of you. discerned that we all heal in disparate ways, but i’ve got something crimson alive in me & at my pockets. tried presupposing something akin to a god. lost it in a drunken lull & i drink so well. there’s nothing to see here. there’s everything to forget. like how i too remained in the thralls of a mounted beast i call church or chain or endless & aren’t we all endured by something decaying beneath us. birthing a fertile soil cradling all of what we were intended to become & it’s become that time of year again. spring sees colorful the blooming of our histories & that scent is strong. is my momma’ cooking. a season iridescent. booming instruments of a secret second line & a hidden presence talking in too thick a french creole accent laden with whatever was these horrors’ true north. i’ve willed all of it into existence. have scoured the empty of my native lands & brushed them up against the elements eroding everything which was to be called return. to be called…whatever, as long as we kept it intact. now i recognize boy merely as an anatomy to wound before it may emerge again & in doing so, i have painted him an american gothic, revamped. an attempt at entering through a magic sanctioned in the code-switch. every mark is a mark & rests upon something received. a cut through the odd of my ways. reduced to that modality called inbetween & through these meditations i’ve become negative space; an ikebana approach to a wasteful backdrop. a rigorous actualization deterred. i was learning to listen. found only how to hold a tongue. to mold body into attentive gesture. i am softshell pose now, made into distortion like un-naming is a border & am a foregoing of narrative. now ask me. if this is all that’s left of my love. i will say it’s a wanting to hurt so intensely, it is to be understood as a desire for heritage or heresy. i’ve acquired nothing here. this is not that kind of story. not a memory to hold for an expansive generational divide. i wanted to converge in the garden. r.i.p. something apart in the garden but these blossoms are too thick & wild & thorn. i know this to be no escape. nor an active refusal of what was shaped to be origin & isn’t origin merely a mispronunciation of a foreign account. boy is fighting to become boy again, if only to avoid mistakes made & scarred over. in this craquelure, i am very much my father’s son, but a momma’s boy separated by almost one third of a planet’s timelines & battling all my worst instincts. maybe new orleans is a bad instinct or the way of things i’m not able to avoid. a temporality exposed for bargaining chips, because who’s got time for an honest wager? gentlemen play gentle games, but death is a guest too familiar in this playhouse. boys do not grow into gentle men, if guests become native to their home. ‘when?’ is a question i don’t familiarize myself with. ‘when?’ is for those afforded that time. trust only this bullseye of black body, though i have obtained a vocabulary capable of projecting it into future tense. say things like: ‘i will know, what i’ve always wanted to become.’ now tread softly. for you tread on no dream deferred. we won’t disturb the neighbors again. there’s blood we know that was spilt there & we needn’t upset the contrast. preferentially, i’d rather see lover in unsure resurrection become tradition to my mornings. why would anything else matter. we’re sinking away. all of us, sinking away in louisiana swampland. see us now building our castles in the sky & burying our kin on top of land distilled, not for us of hollowed out existence. analog to a variable empty while tipping the vendors of our solace a dollar a drink. i know of nothing to be held self-evident & no one to be created equal. all of it is afflicted. all of it addicted to cold brew, cocaine & bloody mary sainthood. falling is tremendously light glee. trauma the mere impact of aforementioned messiness. i take no delight in baring the lesions in this tongue twisted, like braid of trans-atlantic discomfort & settler neutrality. i was raised by this common era to be an audacious denial of a common cause. to exchange mere pleasantries camouflaging the volatility of my nucleus. this fission of emotional labor, last hoorahs & fuck-what-you-heard dialectics, is resistance to a side-eyeing pig & the old daughter of older men not fit for modern times. i have heard no niggers directed at me, felt more nigger than ever before. yesterday, i was flower sprouting from umbilical cord. a boy sitting under a singing tree. today, i am doubled negation. maybe i’ve done this before. maybe there’s value in collecting these moments of impact depression to sequence from them, a score for orchestral amplification. boy is suspicious man working through some shit, but don’t leave him alone. we’ve been left alone for too long & went rogue. now look at us. don’t we look lost? i’ve been chasing my own shadows. saw in them only possible ways of ending up. an outline for suffering & neighborhood warzones. they’ve accounted for our lesser desires, but who challenges the sentinels on the corners? menacing interludes to a knock-knock joke. let us think at this absurdity. stumble through what is no language for. a violence familiar to a global articulation opened as another echo of theories considered universal. they speak of bell curve & none of it is metaphor. none of it that mania called melancholy. it can’t be. these are no stories for bedtime habits. my dear friend. i’ll try & recall all of our encounters as key episodes of a turbulent life. but how does one talk of wilder days when all we do is clean up after ourselves. we are mixed intentionality. a progressive gesture flaunted on our way back to a homeland being occupied. they’ll grant us our rations of allegory, fatigue & sign-language wielding. such is the ability to repeat our most destructive instincts, but once upon a time, i remembered how presence wasn’t the same as attention. aired out my biases & became two with my nature. now, reimagined through honest eyes, i find myself an unpleasant critique of attitudes held up to the altar of my isolation. ritualizing the differences. ferociously on the move, for a dopamine fix. i have no idea how to distinguish between absence & inadequacy. this being a lifespan already & i’ve used that time to build an ark for missisppi-delta fickleness. say now what you’ve come to say. my time is limited & alchemy is still a new endeavor i’ve yet to explore. do not step on this galaxy-sized tapestry laid out before you. it is all we’ve yet to grow into. dear america, i’ve seen what cherished blackness looks like. my european tainting rendering me safer than boy on corner mobilized. what fictions do we tell ourselves & which ring true in a silence imposed? i’m not optimistic about our chances. how many times will we be allowed to return to this starting point. too much is napalm scorched yesteryear, ignored. years ago, everything changed. now boringly everything still does. we crescent upward into translation. a piercing dialect & who remembers what home sound like anyway. i hold a key to a locked door & find a hidden speakeasy in the backyard. ‘thank you’ for sharing these hidden gems. ‘thank you all’ for reminding me of myself as thing amongst these things. an unconfirmed expectation in a discomforted glance, revealed as the underpinning inertia of not yet despair. whether we were too loud, or they too unconcerned, all of our heavens are unruly & ecstatic possibility. finite nimble boy now tries to decipher the blisters of when he outstretched his arms to an unforgiving sun in thick blanket southern air. boy, as a symbol of a languishing decorum espoused by elegant creatures, makes no attempt at reaching for an ointment of sorts to soothe the sting. bread & games distract from any empathy thrust inward. i too, complicit while an uber-driver drops me off at a maple leaf bar for a pilgrimage to holy ground. a small haven for ragged souls craving the residue of an infectious affirmation. they’re of a similar tribe & amongst these living works, I serve no purpose other than breathing into. all this life as a self-affirming ambition that speaks continuously of other. doug & megan & sky are others & a lineage sung into. maybe we should turn around while we still can. detour past the railway tracks & disappear. ‘when?’ seems an inevitable question, bubbling up, but now i’ve got no strategy for attacking it. maybe, i was wrong before. maybe, all of this out loud thinking is enough. i remember now. this is what I came for. to be reminded, i’m from everywhere else. if i die at the end of this sentence. don’t think it was of a labored life but a fallowed searching in a hungry world, navigated to where we death trapped all angels for political depths. if ever, you were to think of this moment again. crack open a window & whisper ‘I remember that boy.’

The Pig and the Grain of Salt

By Bianca Lucas

I never did well in groups, still don’t. A few years ago my kindergarten librarian had tracked me down on Facebook. She wrote a short message: “I remember you well, always sitting in the corner of the library all by yourself, your head in the clouds”. I too remembered her well. I did not respond. 

Growing up in a relatively affluent environment in post-communist Poland, the worst punishment my parents could ever possibly bestow on me was to introduce me to other children in the hopes of germinating a play session. 

Playgrounds, playrooms- the stuff of horrors to me, the site of inevitable humiliation and loneliness. Still, throughout the years, as my mum flipped through club-med catalogues advertising for perfect, family-appropriate holidays in Tunisia, she would look over at me wistfully: ‘they have a children’s club!’. Fat chance- halfway there, as the child-safe gates came into view, I would double up in the heat, become a stone fixture among the palm trees. Scooped up and taken away, much to my mother’s disappointment, I would never walk down that miniature path again. 

As I grew up, I did have friends, I did become sociable, but the problems I had with being initiated into a group remained. I would become reactive, cold, arrogant, before I eased into the idea that the people surrounding me were not necessarily out to get me, but by that time considerable damage could have been done. I would often miss my chance at becoming ‘one of’ something. One of the family, one of the team, one of US.

See this picture of my kindergarten class all dressed up like princesses and pirates? I am the pig.

All this to say, the prospect of joining a house full of artists (“Wait, what does artist residency mean? I don’t get it”, “It basically means artists living together somewhere for a certain amount of time”, silence) did fill me with some dread. 

Especially since, after years of abhorring anything faith-related (the way in which religion is used as a shaming tool in Poland will do that to you; the predominantly literal interpretation of scriptures anywhere else will too), painstakingly deconstructing anything I came across (without bothering to reassemble it into something that could actually help me function)- I was finally going through a spiritual renaissance of sorts, my own brand of faith, one that I knew I couldn’t easily explain and that would not make any prospective initiation rituals any easier. 

I had come into an unshaken conviction that there is no separation between biology and mysticism, God and us, metaphor and science, right and left, allegiance-fueled identities and tyranny. Prodding the limits of the things you are comfortable to associate yourself with had become a practice to me, engaging with ‘evil’ and understanding its position in a long history of inherited or learned trauma a sort of religion. A return to scriptures which- whether you like it or not- have informed the way our societies have been structured, was in order if I was to understand what archetypes our passive, active and reactive behaviours were infused with. Some anecdotes I found incredibly helpful in understanding human nature, others less. But that is tricky to wear on a name tag: my religious views are nuanced and I believe in God (the cosmos, the spiritual matrix)- but not in icons. The image often denigrates the cause it aspires to serve, banalises the complexity of a belief. If I am anti-anything, I am anti-icon.  

At this stage in my internal development, there was arguably no better place to explore than New Orleans. The residency was both as difficult as I dreaded and a completely natural situation to be in. It felt very fitting given the portals that were opening up in my mind, and yet tough on account of my well-camouflaged social anxiety. 

Not least because of how polarised U.S. society currently is. As I ventured into the streets of New Orleans, with a surprisingly large proportion of encounters I felt- and believe this is not just paranoia- shrewdly scanned for my allegiances. It is as if a whole lot of contemporary Americans are now completely fluent in some form of ‘Newspeak’: the right combination of slogans will unlock approval or disapproval with you interlocutor, depending on their ‘tribe’, and on whether they classify you as part of it or not. Disapproval is invariably synonymous with refusal to engage- or blacklisting, to be blunt. It is exhausting, and it is scary. There is no longer any tolerance for nuanced views, for overt thinking and searching. You may not lend your ear to just anyone, you may not give most people the benefit of inquisitiveness. You are either with us, or against us. 

This is the oldest trick in the book. When you refuse to engage with people who may not share the same political views as you, when you regard them with a mix of superiority and contempt (at best, condescendance), you effectively start dehumanising them. This is the first step to any reign of tyranny, no matter the guise of political or social cause. 

Whilst this polarisation is happening all over the world, the U.S. seems like a particularly vulnerable target for partisan propaganda given its short history and memory.

But I digress. While it was difficult having to hear and at times regurgitate doublespeak, it was invaluable in terms of having to bolster my own sense of sincerity or truth. In short, figuring out how to move through the world with a clear conscience– something  which has, over the years, become the single most important thing to me. 

During our stay at the residency, we were asked to do a presentation of our craft or process. In the context of my works, which contain a healthy dose of anger and cynicism, I decided to do a presentation on Forgiveness. This was met with much, much resistance. Forgiveness, I had forgotten, is still associated in many a mind’s eye with the institution of the Church. For me, part of my individuation (therefore liberation) was to elevate Forgiveness beyond the superficial edifices of any institution. There is a trend, one particularly smack-in-between-the-eyes in the U.S., of victimising oneself and attempting to fight for social justice from that position (and often using it as immunity to criticism). Being a victim is being in chaos. I know, I have been there. To encounter harm at the hands of a person, group or system that has never been brought to justice, or that has permanently affected your sense of worth, is destructive, painful and leads to inner chaos that is very difficult to navigate. And the problem with chaos is, it is a very difficult place from which to make decisions, bestow judgment, and protect yourself- let alone fight for a whole community. I do not want to claim any pretense to having found solid solutions for this predicament. However, for me personally, Forgiveness was key. If I can try to humanise people I deem to be wrongdoers either in the past or present, I can start to understand the probable fear, trauma, complex, manipulation or other self-sabotage they acted out of. If I can understand that, I might stand a chance at stopping that from developing within me, or the people around me. Forgiveness, to me, is about breaking a pattern and resolving inner chaos. And this includes forgiving yourself, as I do believe we all share the responsibility for the here and the now. Because when you forgive, you cease to be relative to one phenomenon, and become relative to a whole universe instead. For me at least, that is a much more expansive and instructive view. 

Deltaworkers was an incubator for all of these reflections. Luckily, not a sanitary one. Messy, intimate and intuitive (not to say impulsive), like human life is and should be allowed to be. But, ultimately, it was practical and led to real developments with boots on the ground, rather than being just another exercise in diplomacy and CV-embellishment. 

The process I underwent did eventually culminate in meetings and friendships I can describe as nothing less than magical. ‘Chance’ is just a nonchalant word for: the natural consequence of the mental labour you put into recalibrating your energies. That, is when your predestined magnet starts working the way it was always meant to. 

During the residency, I started to believe in something God-like again, I shot my first and last gun, my first feature-length film in Mississippi, I drove my first pick-up truck minutes before I crashed into a sports car, and I fell deeply, deeply in love. Oh, the difference two months can make.  


by Kari Robertson

In the beginning it was everywhere

And we embraced it.  
We reached out our arms and extended our fingers to hold the air.
We stole ambergris from beaches and musk from deer and rubbed it on our bodies not to mask but to emphasise our animalic odours.
We sniffed each other like dogs and navigated with our noses as much as our eyes.
We smelled for fear, for sex, for water.
We wanted to be breathed.
We slept outdoors in nests hairy and entwined for warmth where we emitted a collective odour so if all were still we couldn’t sniff where one body ended and another began.

And our dreams all smelled like moss.

But at some point we began to build an inside.
and as we noticed that our odours were different we preferred to sleep alone.
We sheltered, turned our backs against the breeze.

And got afraid of the smell of the outside

Decided it was dirty.

It came in on the night air 
Under doors 
Suspended in the wind
Creeping off the swamp 
From the sea 
From the poor
Rising out of graves 
and came through open windows and orifices 
So by the time you smell it it’s already in your lungs.
We believed that it brought with it yellow fever, clymidia, syphilis, the black plague, cholera, amorality, poverty.

The monks identified the stench of adultery on amoral women.
4 People died from the smell of the prison as they walked by 
from the stench of incarcerated sin.

We tried to use even fouler smells as scent gargoyles to scare off the miasmas. 

We drained civet from otters.
We smoked cigarettes so the smoke made private clouds around our bodies.  We sucked the air out of churches after worship and pumped it into brothels to remoralise the gases. 

The local council made a shaded place in the park where we could safely dispose of miasma we had picked up involuntarily. 
We held our breath as we walked past beggars, criminals or rag-pickers.

When this didn’t work then we started to fight it 
We shot the breeze, fired canons at the swamp to try to kill the air itself. 
We covered up our orifices against possibilities:
infection, impregnation, stagnation. 
We drained the swamp, chlorinated the river and burned the boats because everyone knows that boats are just floating swamps.

We wore scented masks, built air conditioning and double-glazed windows.

We caught the the miasma in filters, shut it out and starved it. 

We weaved our clothes out of lavender and perfumed our food and our lovers with Chanel no 5.

We used Listerine to remove the Miasma from our breath and dislodge it from our molars. 

We declared baths immoral.

We rubbed ourselves all over with lard or Vaseline so the miasma couldn’t collect on the surface of our skin and enter through our pores. 

We deodorised the proletariat and broke the union of the comrades in stench who worked with sweat and trash and sewage.
And apart from the artists and the philosophers everyone was pleasantly odourless.

And after some years we thought we had succeeded, the battle was over and the miasma was gone. 
We declared a new war on Germs.

We could now breathe freely but we couldn’t touch or lick the sweet lead paint from the walls. 
We developed a new vocabulary of plastic gloves, Tupperware, soap and sanitizer and showered daily.

The air lost its elasticity and when you stuck out your tongue you tasted nothing. 

But through all these years the miasma waited in the recesses of the earth
The ground inhaled the fermentations from the surface and accumulated them in foul-smelling vaults and hollow sulfurous, fingers where we had mined for salt. 
Bursts of air spewed forth under the gulf of Mexico and gathered forces in oil refineries, sink holes and sewers
Miasma breathed in by volcanoes was trapped in the hardened lava and waited to be fracked.
It lay evolving, waiting, bubbling.

Swamps bubble.
Toilets bubble.
Freshly watered lawns bubble.

In the peripheries of my nose one day I was aware of a smell of woodsmoke and burning sugars and suddenly I was a kid again toasting marshmallows my hands and face hot from the bonfire.
The next thing I knew I was leaving Walmart with a 14-person tent I purchased for 239 dollars before tax. 

After this things get worse.
The Miasma is an invisible enemy. 
It crawls inside our memories and mines for emotion.
Those who do not have their nostrils stuffed with tissues, spontaneously stop talking mid-sentence, stare into the distance and start to cry. 
It manifests in the chemical combination of your grandfathers cigar smoke and aftershave, in the house you lived in before it got torn down, in the smell of your trauma.

The Miasma travels in on the highway of nasal nerves that circumnavigate the cerebrum. 

It brings armies, weeping to their knees and makes angry police dogs roll over on their backs whimpering like puppies.

It grows stronger
Peaches give off the aroma of burned garlic
Freshly cut grass emits the scent of human sweat
Flowers start to smell like petroleum and babies heads produce a strong odour of flowers so bees land on and try to pollinate them. 
The miasma grows so strong and omnipotent eggs stop being fertilized because sperm can’t smell them. 

We close down our borders and declare a state of emergency but the gases blow over the walls, in through our ears, across the barbed wire, come from above and below.

We try to outsmart it, to breathe only bottled air.
We impart a travel ban on molecules but they just ignore it.

We realize we cannot win and try to surrender to the odours.
The miasma grows, in depth, in strength, in musk it reaches up our noses and shakes our olfactory nerves loose from their sockets.

And in the end all that we smell is the wet green scent of our brains. 

In the end all that we smell is the wet green scent of our brains. 

A mixed blessing / to be brought

by Simon(e) van Saarloos

Residencies are not an easy thing because they are actually an easy thing: you are applying to be invited to visit a space. Thus, those who are lucky enough to be invited are also the ones who get to leave, those who can be present like a tide – coming and going, rising, reclining.

I wonder about using a water metaphor in this city. In 2007 engineers from The Netherlands were awarded 150 million dollar to ‘bring’ their ‘Delta Works (de deltawerken)’ knowledge to ‘help’ improve the levees in New Orleans.

This is a photo I took on the bridge towards the Lower Ninth Ward, where our residency house is based, on a Saturday morning, 7 am. I tried to capture the fog and I tried photographing the broken bridge or maybe it was a pathway but it is obviously broken, and I thought about a line by Adrienne Rich. I googled and found: ‘the thing I came for: / the wreck and not the story of the wreck / the thing itself and not the myth’.
The artists demand to experience something ‘real’. The privileged demand to experience something ‘real’.

While in New Orleans, I got to experience speculative fiction writer N.K. Jemisin reading a story from her book How Long ’Til Black Future Month?. She reads about Tookie living in the Lower Ninth Ward while Katrina hits. Magical dragonlike figures appear in the story, but it was my most real experience of the neighbourhood since being there.

When I just arrived I said New Orleans right. A friend of a friend traveling through Amsterdam had told me it wasn’t New Orleeeens but New Orlahns. I felt happy when this was rewarded with the joy of a ‘real’ New Orleanian. I didn’t appear to be a tourist, I was only a ‘transplant’ (a word I’ve honestly never heard until arriving in New Orleans, where the use of the word surprised me daily, as it refers to a person or people, less than a structure: gentrification). But then, how disguising is the ability to blend? How telling which bodies can blend, just by pronouncing something ‘right’?

I met so many wonderful people. One of them said: it is hard to tell the difference between water and ground, here. The here – where here is located – apparently still clear. Another person said: Nature always wins here.

I’ve sensed a lot of truth in New Orleans because I’ve heard many, many conflicting stories.

Is it nature that wins? During her reading at Tulane University, N.K. Jemisin asked the audience several times whether she pronounced the street names in her stories right. Jemisin has lived in New Orleans several years. She currently lives in NYC. She knew but now she didn’t know how to pronounce those names. Is it nature that takes over or is it layers, added layers that create new shapes, sometimes resulting in forgetfulness?

I’ve met a lot of people involved with oral history. I participated in a workshop by the Oral History Project Louisiana and encountered oral historians discussing different techniques of transcribing and documenting audio files. I’ve listened to all of the Last Call: queer histories / queer futures podcasts, documenting intergenerational conversations on dissolved and reappearing lesbian and genderqueer life in New Orleans. Does water add a layer, fuse what is present or does it wash away loose surface? Does water create listeners?

After her talk Jemisin asked the audience to please come up to her and tell her when she got something wrong in her writing – in this case on New Orleans – but also on transgender experience, disability, cultural heritage. She asked to bring new layers.

In 3,5 weeks, I’ve experienced different layers, while mostly experiencing the haunting presence of so so so many more. This city’s psychopolitical multitudes, this city’s sticky love (as opposed to instant love, nothing feels instant here). I’m swamped.


As a participant in a residency program, I find it hard to believe I haven’t been eating hands while here. 

I did go to see gators. I came across this sign on the do’s and don’ts. I especially stuck to the warning that alligators do not know the difference between a hand and a hand-out.

photo Valerie Gransberg

Is getting lost the most humble thing to do when entering a space, when encountering a body – or bodies? Or is getting lost a colonial romantic notion that accounts for a lack of responsibility?

Speaking of colonial romanticism, I came across this mural in the city. I don’t know what kind of wilderness is assumed here, with the beard and the pyramids, but I’ve heard there is a lot of debate about murals from artists from ‘outside’. Murals made for tourist are made to leave their site – too non-sticky for here.

In 2007 engineers from The Netherlands were awarded 150 million dollar to ‘bring’ their ‘Delta Works / Deltawerken’ knowledge to ‘help’ improve the levees in New Orleans.

The first day I arrived I went for a run on the levee in Holy Cross, in the Lower Ninth Ward. I spotted a line of graffiti that I felt was speaking to me, an arriving Dutch. I thought about taking a picture but refrained: it felt impolite to capture such ephemeral authority. Every day, I’d pass the words. On my last morning, I didn’t feel like running, but went anyway: I wanted to take a picture of the graffiti before leaving. Somehow, suddenly, the letters were obscured. Someone or something had tried to erase: ‘It’s a mixed blessing / to be brought back from the dead.’

Bocas del Tiempo

I like to think of the cracks in between,
the wavering backdoor to every story.
This door is always overlooked, and has come to accept herself this way
but she knows her existence is as necessary as much as it is neglected.
Her opening is the one which lets the breeze in
delivering a sharp relief in the stifling heat of the room.
That breeze which creates the current underneath every word,
swaying each letter, left or right in the cavities of your mind.

These words then create images, and images sounds, and sounds actions,
Or perhaps the other way around…
Do you think differently if you lay on your back or on your side?

I like to dream of houses that never touch the ground,
Of feet that have learnt to glide like fish in water
To the rhythm of the sun
And blood throbbing through veins

I like to think of the things that might have been, but weren’t
of the songs that might be sung but aren’t
of the World with a different kind of tongue
of History with a different face
and in that moment when I look at where they would have stood,
they stand.
Fractures insinuate misunderstandings and estrangements yet
the rifts I found here bloom.
Just like the inverse mirage, eventually you come to see,
all the things which might have been, have been here all along.

Grass roots activism, community initiatives, alternative healers and the making of FREE BIRD RADIO

1.Introducing the 2018 Deltaworkers residents, from left to right: Saskia Janssen, Alma Matthijssen, George Korsmit, Io Cooman, Camp Abundance, 8 maart 2018.

In 2015 we visited New Orleans for the first time. We stayed only a week and we fell in love with the city and her southern vibe. But not only that. We were also shocked by the segregation, the inequality and the poverty that we witnessed here more than anywhere else in the VS. And we were impressed by the people and the many ways of self organization and civil initiatives on many levels. Our intention was definitely to come back one day.

In 2005 we founded the Rainbow Soulclub in the Blaka Watra shelter in Amsterdam, a shelter for homeless people and long term drug addicts, mainly from Surinamese origin.

The Rainbow Soulclub is a collaborative project: artists, art students and clients from the shelter meet each other already 12 years every Friday in the shelter. During those years a whole variety of activities came about. Not only a large art production and many exhibitions, but also field trips, workshops, performances, demonstrations, various publications and a travel to Ghana and Surinam were organized. It didn’t start off with a specific agenda, there was no plan from the beginning, and no idea about the outcome. It started almost as if it were a blind date between two different groups of people. Organically it became a collective of individuals who are interested in each other and undertake activities they wouldn’t do without each other.

For our residency at Deltaworkers we are interested in New Orleans’ citizens’ initiatives, a.o. grass roots movements, civil right activism, alternative ways of healing, small scale methods of raising awareness. How to deal with a racist past and the outcome of that past? How to change the present situation? What role can art play, if at all? How to deal with a government you didn’t vote for? Just a few of the many topical questions we ask ourselves here in New Orleans.

Deltaworkers is a research residency. That means that there is no concrete art production expected and there is no studio space or whatsoever to produce works. At first that feels slightly uncomfortable, as we are always in the mood to make new works and always wish to come home with ‘results’ of a travel, a residency. Producing (and exhibiting) works seems the natural satisfying mode for an artist in general and we are no exception here. But there is definitely something to learn about this attitude, especially in a place like New Orleans. Even though the Rainbow Soulclub changed our mentality already and shaped our awareness during the years; it made clear to us that ‘the path to the goal’ is the goal in itself.

Already after the first week it doesn’t feel right to arrive here as an outsider and to be quick with gathering ‘results’, hunting for inspiration or trying to find collaboration partners. New Orleans is a magnet for photographers, musicians, filmmakers and what we often hear is: ‘they all come here for inspiration, they earn money by publishing photo books, films, even HBO tv series whatsoever, but what’s in it for us?’ Art is not everywhere high on the agenda, if at all and that is understandable. To be a (white) artist is a privilege and here we feel more white and privileged then ever before.

We decide first to try to understand more of the current New Orleans; the city, the streets, the people, the complex history of the Southern States, Katrina. Every day we walk and bike the streets for hours, meeting people, listening to stories, opinions, experiences, with no intention to transform this all into art works, just listening, being open, receptive, non judgemental, no plans. It appears to us that the majority of visitors stay in the French Quarter around Bourbon street and have no desire to visit the various other neighbourhoods. Partly because they come especially for the booze & the bars and partly because they believe it is too dangerous in many places. Even travel guides advise to avoid a historically and culturally important neighbourhood like Tremé. (Later, a Tremé local will tell us that this is a strategy of the tour guides, in order to keep the tourist money in the French Quarter.)

March 2018
The Backstreet Cultural Museum in Tremé is one of the first places we visit and we will come back here several times. It is a private museum of the Mardi Grass Indian culture, founded in 1999 by Sylvester Francis. Originally it was based in a two-car garage, later it moved to a former funeral home. It is still run by mr. Francis and his family who give personal tours through the rooms.. All displays are self made and the costumes at display are self made by the Black Indians and donated by them. The museum is financed by the entrance fees and by donations. We learn about mr. Ashton Ramsey, a local historian, artist and activist who makes his own activist suits already for years. We will meet him later in a parade where he invites us to visit his studio in the Bywater.

The Backstreet Cultural Museum in the Henriette DeLille st.

The Backstreet Cultural Museum in the Henriette DeLille st.

The Backstreet Cultural Museum in the Henriette DeLille st.

In order to ‘understand’ New Orleans, we join the Sunday Second Lines, the weekly parades that are organized by the different Social Aid & Pleasure clubs in different neighbourhoods. Brassbands, dancers, mobile bars, bbq’s on wheels, bikes, horses, cars, signs, sellers, they’re all rolling and all is self made/self organized. Someone tells us: ‘We don’t have much in Louisiana, but if we don’t have it, we make ourselves’. From our shallow outsider’s perspective the parade looks like a festive exotic Mardi Grass parade. But the more often we are joining in, the more it reveals its deeper value. The Second Line Parades seem to us not just an important celebration and continuation of cultural heritage but also an -almost hypnotizing- weekly relief from daily reality. Perhaps that also explains the absence of tourists?


Sunday Second Line, 17 March, 2018.

Activist/historian/artist mr. Ashton Ramsey in one of his themed suits, Tremé, March 2018.

Sunday Second Line, through the 9th Ward, 18 March 2018


Hands on activism: Street signs- Take’m down Nola- New Orleans Murder map, March 2018
Besides the Sunday Second Lines we walk and bike every day through the neighbourhoods. Poverty, inequality and segregation are more openly visible than anywhere else we have been in the US. But also signs with protests, messages, warnings -placed in public space as an antidote- are very visible here. Every day we pass a profound sign on St.Bernard saying: ‘Think that You might be Wrong’. And another one reads: Always Film the Cops, as above, so below. And we bike along all the empty pedestals of the confederate statues -removed by the Take’m Down Nola Movement– as a pilgrimage to landmarks of change. We hope that it’s not just the removal of symbols, but the start of a real change. Later Maaike (Gouwenberg) shows us the St.Anna’s Episcopal Church, where pastor Terry keeps a record of all victims of violence in the city. On a huge white board in front of the church, he writes all their names with a permanent marker, mentioning their age and cause of death. It is an impressive and confronting monument.

We wonder if it is actually possible for us NOT to make a work of art here in Nola, but just to research. There are so many urgent topics that need to be addressed, and our natural medium to do so is art.

St.Bernard, March 2018

St.Claude, March 2018

Confederate statue removed by the Take’m Down Nola movement, 2018

Part of pastor Terry’s NOLA murder map, St.Anna’s Episcopal Church, 1313 Esplanade Avenue.


Meeting Pea (start of FREE BIRD RADIO)
One day in March we meet Pea for the first time, the peacock who lives in our neighbourhood. Pea used to live in the zoo but was freed from his cage by hurricane Katrina. Originally there were three peacocks, but sadly enough one disappeared and one was -according to rumours-probably killed for his meat and feathers. Already for twelve years Pea lives in a tree on Paris Avenue. Mr. Benny, one of our neighbours, feeds him a daily breakfast of donuts and apples. He is the only one who is able to approach Pea. Mr. Benny thinks that although Pea is a free bird now, he isn’t always happy. Pea always has to watch his feathers as danger is around the corner for him and mr. Benny thinks he’s lonely, looking for a mate. For us, Pea became a (strange) symbol of freedom and he became -without knowing it himself- the starting point of a new work: FREE BIRD RADIO, a political radio show for birds. (later more about this work)

Mr.Pea in Bruxelles Street


Meeting Becca Begnaud in Lafayette
Via Deltaworkers, we get to know Cajun healer Becca Begnaud in Lafayette.

Becca treats her patients according to Cajun tradition, making use of prayers, her bright intuition and rituals from Native Americans. Last years there is an increasing interest in alternative ways of healing, perhaps because of an unaffordable or failing health care system or because one lost trust in the pharmaceutical industry. We hit it off immediately with Becca and we’re all interested in undertaking something together. Next to her house is her healer’s practice, based in a former Beauty Salon, that she wittily calls her Inner Beauty Salon. Becca invites us for a healing session with her clients, who approve our presence in the salon. We take part in a group meditation, a therapeutic drawing session and an emotional group talk. The clients- a mother and her two daughters- are not bothered at all by the presence of these two artists. Even more than that, they see it as a favorable sign. Like many people we meet, they have never been outside the US and find it interesting to meet two people from The Netherlands. The session is intimate, intense and we are grateful that we were part of it. In the evening Becca takes us to a workshop with the curious title How to die well in the local library, a workshop to address taboos around dying. She also takes us to Opelousas, according to her the most impoverished city of Louisiana, where we visit the statue of Amédé Ardoin and learn about his story. And she takes us to a befriended artist, who lives in a social housing project in Houma. A couple of weeks later we will return to Lafayette to conduct a meditation drawing workshop with Becca and other healers in the Inner Beauty Salon.

Memphis & Selma.
We visit the National Museum of Civil Rights in Memphis, to learn about the history of the civil rights movement. We spend almost six hours in the museum, definitely a personal museum record. The museum is based in the former Lorraine Motel where dr. Martin Luther King was shot in 1968. From a building across the street one can look through the window that was used by the assassin. From this window we can also see white bird’s nests hanging peacefully on a rope. They’re probably made by the residents of the building, as if someone wanted to chase away demons from this place.

After Memphis we visit the city of Selma, Alabama. Here we visit the Brown Chapel and the Edmund Pettus Bridge, iconic locations of protest and violence of the Civil Rights Movement. In the evening we start to watch the 14-part documentary Eyes on the Prize, and later we see Spike Lee’s documentary When the Levees Broke another time. There are definitely a lot of demons here that still need to be chased away. Way more then we thought before. It is a very humbling experience.

Memphis, Tenessee, view from the very window that was used by the assassin of dr. Martin Luther King in 1968. The birds’ nests in the work FREE BIRD RADIO are inspired by these.

Recording bird’s sounds for FREE BIRD RADIO on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, Selma, Alabama.


Community Bike Shop RUBARB
We hear about RUBARB (Rusted Up Beyond All Recognition Bike shop), the post-Katrina community bike workshop run by volunteers in the Upper Ninth Ward. After Katrina, they started collecting orphan bikes in the streets to fix and re-use these.

At Rubarb’s you can repair your own bike, or learn how to repair a bike. Kids are encouraged to ride bikes, learn to fix bikes and can get their own bike by earning ‘bike points’. And of course it is a friendly hang-out for anyone, a corner store. That things are not easy in this neighbourhood, we notice when we read a flyer that is casually posted on the wall: an offer for free bus services to various prison facilities, to visit your loved ones, complete with time schedule. We can’t even imagine seeing a flyer like this in a community center in The Netherlands.

At Rubarb they always need more volunteers, there are so many things to do. The walls on the outside need new murals and we volunteer for this task. The kids like drawing and painting so much and we make a drawing table.With them we will try to make a design for the mural. We buy materials and we visit RUBARB every Wednesday from now on. Good to be part of the RUBARB family.

George fixing bikes at RUBARB, Upper Ninth Ward.

Rubarb, post-Katrina bike workshop run by volunteers, Upper Ninth Ward.


27 March
On our search for local healers, Becca Begnaud takes us tot he Louisiana Himalaya Association, the smallest buddhist center of New orleans, where we can attend a
Chöd practice (a ritual for ‘cutting’ through hindrances and obstacles such as ego, ignorance, anger).

We also visit the center’s annual Vision Fest, a gathering for alternative healers where we a.o. meet the Jin Shin Jyutsu healer Eric Pollard, who later gives us a class about Jin Shin Jyutsu in the local Healing Center.

Saskia Janssen, Tom Cox, Becca Begnaud, bij de Louisiana Himalaya Association, maart 2018.

In between all activities we make field recordings for a new work; a radio show for birds for the sound exhibition Lûd in a forest (the Rijsterbos in Friesland) in The Netherlands. Initially the plan was to create a musical radio show for birds, with music especially composed and played for birds by musicians from New Orleans. The idea was to connect two very different places in the world via music and via migratory birds. Probably many of the birds in the forest in The Netherlands frequent the Southern States where important breeding areas for migratory birds are.The idea was also to create an exercise of putting oneself in the position of ‘the other’, even if that other is a bird. Will birds like listening to human music in the same way as humans can enjoy bird sounds? And if they do, what would they like to listen to? Is it possible to compose music for birds?

However, during our stay in New Orleans, the concept of the work is gradually shifting. It becomes more political. It becomes a radio show for birds with an underlying message for humans. The subject becomes Freedom & Captivity, rather big subjects, but in the context of the history of New Orleans, the southern states, the police brutality and the Black Lives Matter movement it is an essential and, unfortunately, topical theme. And birds seem a good metaphor too, they’re often used by humans as symbols of peace or freedom, though also locked in cages by humans.

From now on we also make field recordings of birds on places of interest for birds ánd humans connected tot this subject and we start to collect material to make bird’s nests from, mainly protest flyers. Pea, the neighbourhood peacock that was freed from the zoo, seems a very symbolical starting point.

Mr. Pea, the free peacock, on the porch of mr. Eddy, Bruxelles st., April, 2018

Recording in Chicot State Park, bird sanctuary, April 2018


Making drawings at Becca’s Inner Beauty Salon
We are going to Lafayette for the mediation drawing workshop that we organise together with Becca Begnaud. Together with Becca’s guests we will copy classical, anonymous meditation drawings from the Tantric Hinduism tradition. There is not much known about these drawings, but what we do know is that these were used as tools to meditate and to train one’s mind, centuries ago in India. They were not considered as works of art, nor is there a traceable author or designer. The designs are passed on by generations of painters in a time there was no mechanical way of reproduction available and therefore the making of the drawings seems -in the perspective of art- an ego less practice.

At Becca’s we are not making individual drawings but we pass the paper and collectively work on each drawing. Calmly we produce a supply of drawings together, for each other. Meanwhile we talk about ego, authorship, motivation, intention and appropriation. Can we do this? Can we ‘use’ something from a culture that isn’t ours in order to meditate, to cure, or just to have a collective moment of reflection while painting these? Will all these positive things justify copying these drawings, if we don’t consider these as art works and do not exhibit these?

At the end of the afternoon we all pick a drawing and the other drawings will be given to patients of Becca or to whoever needs them by. One is for the Inner Beauty Salon and will be hanging in between other power objects. Becca’s thinks it is not a coincidence that this ancient drawing travelled all the way through distance and time to her practice. Her intention is to incorporate this way of meditation in her own healer’s practice. Drawing was already a vital part of it; it is very direct, meditative and if it fails, so what, throw it away! And actually, by working collectively on drawings, there is no failing, the drawing becomes merely a cherished memory of a collective moment.

Drawing meditation at Becca Begnaud’s Inner Beauty Salon, April, 2018

Drawing meditation at Becca Begnaud’s Inner Beauty Salon, April, 2018

Saskia, Bonny, Becca, in Becca’s kitchen, Lafayette, April 2018


The longer we are in Louisiana, the more we understand why Deltaworkers is a research residency and the more we appreciate that. It is so different from the other cities in the US where we have been.

There seems to be more segregation, more inequality, or at least this is more visible, on the surface.

For years already we love working together with locals, with ‘non artists’. Here that is not a natural thing to do specially when the (foreign) artist is white and the local is black. Here in New Orleans we feel more white privileged artists than ever before. Basic questions are: who wants what from who, and who will benefit from it in the end? What is the artist’s underlying motivation? And is the ‘collaboration partner’ not just part of the artist’s agenda? Fair questions and even after our long term experience with the Rainbow Soulclub, it is very essential for us to rethink these questions. When we attend lectures and artist talks in New Orleans, the audience seems always alert and keen to ask critical, confronting questions as many subjects are seen -and taken for granted- only from a white perspective.

Our (white) fellow resident Io Cooman, photographer from Belgium, would like to make portraits at the (black) Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs but despite her efforts she doesn’t manage to get access tot he clubs, partly because people are hesitant to help her and try to convince her that this is not a good idea at all for a white photographer. “Who will benefit from this at the end?” is the rhetorical question. Of course that is a more than fair question especially here in the context of Louisiana, with the long history of inequality and exploitation of the African Americans. But the thing that bothers Io the most is that she can not ask the people herself, whether they would be photographed or not. The fact that other (white) people think for them, and decide that ‘they will not like it’, without even asking them also doesn’t feel right. Isn’t that called white paternalism?

At the end, Io doesn’t succeed to make portraits at the Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs. But because she spends so much time in the streets, meets so many people ánd because she is sincerely interested, she finally finds interested people. At the Sojourner Truth Community Center she is allowed to install a make shift photo studio. The elderly ladies who frequent the center are in for it; it’s entertainment for them and also a chance to get free and professional portraits. Saskia joins Io to assist. No one in the center is bothered by the photo studio or by Io, it’s the opposite. The ladies are truly surprised by the professional and cheerful quality of the photos and some of them request a second shooting, in a different outfit, or to improve their way of posing.

Assisting fellow resident and photographer Io Cooman with making portraits at the Sojourner Truth Center. (photos by Io Cooman)


Newcomb Art Department of Tulane University
On 17 April we give a collective talk together with Maaike Gouwenberg for the students of Tulane University on a.o. collaboration, Deltaworkers and Rainbow Soulclub. Two days later we visit the MA students in their studios for individual talks about their works. It’s a small but very engaged group of students. We invite some of them to join our next meditation drawing workshop.


In the meantime we continue our weekly activities at Rubarb. We brainstorm about the mural and we organise a spray-paint-your-bike workshop because that’s by far what the kids like to do the most. We also join the annual Jazz Fest field trip, as the festival gives out free tickets to the Rubarb kids and volunteers and for every kid one chaperon is needed.

With R.U.B.A.R.B.’s Courtney en Byron at the Jazz Fest, visiting Black Indian Ronald Lewis of the House of Dance and Feathers.

Courtney en Chris, after the spray can workshop at R.U.B.A.R.B. Favourite colors: gold and silver.

On 24 April we are invited for Janneke’s radio show Outspoken at the local radio station WHIV, the radio station dedicated to human rights and social justice. During one hour we speak about local politics and gentrification in New Orleans and in Amsterdam and about Rainbow Soulclub, our inevitable subject when it comes to politics.


5 May, meditation drawings at Camp Abundance.
We conduct a second meditation drawing session. This time it takes place in the garden of Camp Abundance with the students of Tulane University, Becca Begnaud and newly arrived Deltaworkers resident Alexandra Martens. In a calm and concentrated manner we produce the drawings while the neighbours across the street are cutting and braiding hair at their porch, meanwhile looking at our activities with interest. We talk about inviting them over to join in but somehow none of us does dare to do so, thinking that they might be suspicious about our plans, or just simply think we’re crazy. (Saskia: I still wonder why I didn’t invite the neighbours that day, usually I’m quick and spontaneous to invite people to join in. Am I discouraged by the segregation situation here and therefor I am suspicious of other people being suspicious about me?)


May- Mexican border- Terlingua
We decide to go for another road trip, to feel more of the Southern vibes. We will drive through Texas, along the Mexican border to off-the-grid Terlingua and to Marfa where we will visit the Judd and Chinati Foundation and via San Antonio we will drive back to New Orleans.

Along the Mexican border at the Rio Grande, we find the social routes in the corn fields that are used by migrants. Here we record bird sounds for the FREE BIRD RADIO.

We learn about the various organisations called Border Angels who set out bottles of drinking water in the desert for exhausted migrants. Unfortunately there are other organisations who are searching for bottles in order to take them away. We also learn that there are many people living off-the-grid in a self sustainable way in the Texas deserts. Some of them have no desire to be part of current society and decided to turn their back to it. Others think that this is even worse, and they try to take all action they can to help migrants and fight racism.

The Rio Grande is much smaller than we thought, at some points only a couple of meters wide and very shallow. It is easy to cross by foot. We see many border patrol cars driving around in search of suspicious situations. We are very aware of being here on this location as again -privileged- artists and not as migrants. Recording birds seems not very important here and now, but hopefully the meaning will emerge later from the finished work. And doing nothing because it all seems useless is not our attitude.

Rio Grande, Texas, Mexican border, recording birds for FREE BIRD RADIO.

visiting Gary-off the grid- in Terlingua, Texas

Protest sign at the Mexican border, Terlingua, May 2018

Border Angels water droppings, Texas. (anonymous internet photo) (The water bottle will be of inspiration for a-message-in-a-bottle, later in May.)

George recording bird sounds on migrant routes, Mexican border, May 2018


Back in New Orleans
We continue recording for the bird radio, meanwhile entitled FREE BIRD RADIO. Via Maaike we’re in contact with local musicianTom McDermott. We record at his place: loosely he improvises four pieces especially for birds. One of them played in the ‘butterfly’ spirt of the late James Booker, one of his favourite New Orleans piano players. (described by Dr.John as ‘the best black, gay, one-eyed junkie piano genius New Orleans has ever produced’.)

In Royal street we find more musicians who are interested in making music for birds. It seems that musicians have a natural appreciation for birds and their songs. Musicians Anton, Jonny, Max, Perikles and Blandine will come a couple of times to Camp Abundance for recordings.

May 15, recording with Tom McDermott. (who has a paper bird hanging above his piano)

With musicians Perikles Dazy, Blandine Laroche and Anton Kerkhof at Camp Abundance, 15 May 2018.


19 May- Studio visit with mr. Ashton Ramsey
We are visiting mr. Ashton Ramsey, who we have met already in march during a Second Line, and who invited us over to his studio. Mr. Ramsey calls himself a historian/storyteller/activist/folk artist.

Already for years he is making paper suits. Every suit has another theme that usually is related to the current events. Previous themes include: Katrina, Black & White, Survival food, Earrings, Food coupons, Money etc. Originally mr.Ramsey wanted to become a Black Indian, like his brother who was making a new suit every year. But because he couldn’t afford the materials, the beads, the feathers, he decided to make low cost collage suits, decorated with meaningful newspaper clippings. Every suit has a matching paper hat and a pair of glasses spelling the title of the suit backwards.

His studio is in a small cabin in the backyard of his house in the Bywater.

Some of the paper costumes are in the Backstreet Cultural Museum, but unfortunately most of his costumes and his large newspaper clippings archive are stored here, in the humid climate. After years of making these incredible suits there is still no museum who is able to/or has the desire to conserve the suits. (for us hard to understand!) Because of negative experiences with journalists, mr. Ramsey doesn’t like to be interviewed anymore. Too many times people took advantage of him and his work.

But he likes to have visitors over and enjoys talking about his work. He has a mission too: he aims to keep the youngest generation off the streets and out of trouble, away from all criminal activities.

He still conducts workshops at schools and if his health allows him, he rides his bike in the parades, dressed in one of his suits, talking to everyone. Mr. Ramsey also talks about the neighbourhood, the gentrification. How it used to be a black neighbourhood with a lot of kids, who always came by. But these days the neighbourhood is completely white. Mrs. Ramsey mentions: ‘We really miss the kids, there are almost no kids anymore, all white couples now, but it’s good because they all like us and we like them all.’

Mr. Ashton Ramsey in his studio in the Bywater.

We also visit the Tremé Petit Jazz Museum several times. An initiative of jazz historian mr.Alvin Jackson who founded the museum in his home in Tremé because he was not satisfied with the mainstream museums. According to him these museums are not telling the true history of jazz, but are more of a tourist attraction. Mr. Jackson is a member of the Social Aid and Pleasure Club called The Black Men of Labour (‘because we work for our money, we don’t sell drugs’) In the museum every visitor gets a personal tour along the timeline on the wall while learning how jazz originated from different cultures all around the world. All the displays are self made, with love. Like mr. Ramsey and like the Backstreet Cultural Museum, mr. Jackson still can’t count on support of the city government, though all of them are obviously valuable for local cultural heritage.

In order to keep his museum open, mr. Jackson rents a room above the museum to tourists. While we visit his museum, a ‘Tremé tour group’ with a guide passes by. We’re surprised they don’t make a stop at the museum at all. Mr. Jackson explains to us that the big tour organisations from the French Quarter are not willing to share their proceedings with him, they rather simply skip the museum.


Back at RUBARB – mid May
On a Wednesday afternoon we arrive at RUBARB with boxes full of materials for a.o. the mural, but RUBARB is closed. More than closed, the doors and windows are boarded up with wood and there is a note on the door saying that the shop is ‘closed due to ungrateful and irresponsible behaviour of some’. We call the other volunteers and learn there have been violent incidents and it seemed to dangerous to keep the shop open. The rest of the afternoon we spend in font of the closed door, chatting with other people who came to repair their bikes. A week later there is also an incident in our own street, a drive-by shooting that kills a 20-year old man, one and a half block away from Camp abundance. Reality is approaching during these three months.

Rubarb with boarded up windows, 17 May 2018.


Talk with Dawn DeDeaux at Camp Abundance
On 22 May we give a public artist talk together with Dawn DeDeaux, visual artist and founder of Camp Abundance. We feel kinship with Dawn and we have interest in similar subjects in our works. Together we decide on the title No Walls/ Flowers from the Cardboard Hotel. We will mainly speak about Rainbow Soulclub and Dawn will speak about the works she made in collaboration with young adults in a prison facility.

The Rainbow Soulclub, an initiative of Saskia Janssen and George Korsmit, involves collaborative projects between artists, art students and clients of The Rainbow Foundation, which provides shelter and care for homeless people and for long term drug addicts in Amsterdam. 

Dawn DeDeaux has implemented experimental art programming for a 6000-inmate prison facility including projects for for juvenile offenders, which led to a long-term collaboration with the Hardy boys, two of New Orleans’ most notorious gang leaders of the late 80s through the early 90s.

Janssen, Korsmit and DeDeaux will show the work that was made during these partnerships and go into a conversation about their experiences they’ve shared with their collaborators.

Artist talk at Camp Abundance, Saskia, George, Dawn.

Artist and founder of Camp Abundance Dawn DeDeaux showing the Book of Judgements, May 2018

Dawn DeDeaux’ Book of Judgements.

No Walls/ Flowers from the Cardboard Hotelmade, artist talk at Camp Abundance (poster made by Erik Kiesewetter)

The Post-Racial Negro Green Book

In the Community Book Center we find the Post-Racial Negro Green Book, published by Brown Birds Books. It is a book that holds a collection of occurrences, information, and data that document a pattern of racial bias against black people in the 21st century. There is no commentary included in the book, just factual information. The format of the book, however, is commentary: it is based on the 20th-century Negro Motorist Green Book, which was published from 1936 to 1966. This segregation-era guide helped black travellers find safe harbors and services in a United States that did not welcome them as equal citizens. To us, outsiders to the US, the book reads like a horrifying history book.

The introduction of the book reads:

A traveler happened upon a small bird lying on its back in the road, its tiny claws pointing skyward. “Little sparrwow,” said the traveler, “what are you doing?”

“I have heard that the sky is going to fall,” replied the bird.

“And you expect that your spindly legs will prevent this?”

The little brown bird was silent for a moment, and then it answered:

“one does what one can”


To New Orleans
During the last week of our stay we decide to a give -symbolically- a piece to the city. New Orleans gave us so much during the three months. This city and her residents have showed us so much and made us think about many topics. We decide to send a message in a bottle to whoever stranger will find it, in the same spirit as the bottles left at the Mexican border by the Border Angels. We put a  meditation drawing, a personal letter and a 20 dollar bill-for-a-drink in an empty water bottle. We attach the bottle to two jumbo balloons and head to Tremé. At first it’s not easy to find a spot, as wires and trees are everywhere in the way, but once released the balloons go up quickly and until they disappear as tiny black dots at the horizon, while some neighbors are watching.

Message in a bottle, to New Orleans, May, 2018

To New Orleans. Letter, drawing and 20 dollar note in plastic water bottle, May 2018.


For the exhibition LÛD we made a installation/sound piece in a tree in the Rijsterbos, (a forest in Friesland, The Netherlands) and a riso-printed pamphlet. The installation consists of fourteen birdhouses made of gourds and protest posters. Above the birdhouses is a speaker attached with the radio show for birds called: FREE BIRD RADIO.

Saskia Janssen, FREE BIRD RADIO, 2018
Free Bird Radio is a radio show on freedom and captivity, especially made for birds. It consists of field recordings made on specific locations in the Southern States of the US, and music especially composed and played for birds. In the South of the US, where people have to deal with ‘human problems’ such as migration, racism, borders, the slavery past, incarceration and poverty, birds seem to be free from this while migrating high above all from continent to continent. However while their images are being used by humans as symbols of peace and freedom, birds are still locked up in cages and in zoo’s by humans. Free Bird Radio is also an exercise to put one self in the position of the other, even though the other is  a bird. If birds could listen tot he radio, what would they be interested in? Would they like to listen to other birds, at the other side of the world? En could they enjoy human music, like humans enjoy bird sounds?

Free Bird Radio is dedicated Pea, the peacock who was freed by hurricane Katrina from the New Orleans zoo. Since 2005 Pea lives in a tree on Paris Avenue. Free Bird radio is also dedicated to Mr.Eddy, the neighbour who ever since feeds him a daily breakfast of apples and donuts.

Riso printed program pamphlet of Free Bird Radio

Installing FREE BIRD RADIO, Rijsterbos, 4 Augustus 2018

We would like to thank Maaike Gouwenberg and Joris Lindhout for founding Deltaworkers in this incredible city and for taking care of our amazing stay at Camp Abundance. We would like to thank Dawn DeDeaux for founding Camp Abundance and for being the best host in the world. And A BIG thanks tot the Mondriaan Foundation for generously supporting our residency at Deltaworkers.

Saskia Janssen and George Korsmit,  24 October 2018.

Riso printed pamphlet for FREE BIRD RADIO


This is a story about pride, although it started out with guilt.

Photographing New Orleans is easy, and that’s why it’s difficult.
Crooked streets, colorful houses and people on porches. It’s ugliness is one of the most beautiful in its kind.

I have a black box of almost 1kg with a 35mm lens wrapped around my neck. The tool I use to open many invisible doors, but leaves at least as many closed. I wandered around the streets and let me lead by wonder.

I’m a stranger with a camera.
Nobody invited me.
Here I am.

In the beginning of my stay I hardly made any images. Curious, lovesick and determined I absorbed everything New Orleans has to offer.

A place to be handled with care.

I saw a lonely man with a mullet drinking beer outside an abandoned gas station. He made me realise that it’s a privilege to be drawn to rawness as a visual tool.

An afternoon of drinking coffee with loads of sugar, talking, and looking at genealogies and ancestry websites in the Treme Jazz museum taught me that it is a privilege not to care about your heritage.

My camera became heavier and heavier with every book I read, every documentary I watched and every story I heard.

Not making a photo is as important as making one.

But there is a thin line between guilt and pride.

You can hear it in the music, taste it in the food, feel it when dancing. It comes through the cracks in the streets, is written on t-shirts, hidden in the beads tied around the doorknobs.


Would you like to have your portrait taken by a professional photographer?

An open call to the city. And a small personal chapter in a story that is a lot bigger than me.

I printed this question on 150 flyers and spread them around town. It’s how I met Gloria. She told me “In New Orleans you have to talk to people, if you are waiting for the phone call, you’re gonna wait for the rest of your life!” She talked about the joy of getting your taxes done right, about how the renovations at her church were going, about the new houses in the Lafitte area. We ate cake together and she introduced me to the seniors at the community centre where she works.

Somebody told me making a portrait is like a dance. You give and you take.

I danced with Edith, Andre, Diana, Wavine, Mary, Joann, Jackie, Emma, Berenice, and other women of the Treme and Lafitte area. In a self-made photo studio in between two bingo sessions, we talked about pride, love, dishwashing tablets, beauty and thought about why people always want to smile on photos.

You give and you take. I took some pride with me back home.

Jesmyn Ward

There is beauty to be found in the lives of my characters

The latest novel from the awarded writer Jesmyn Ward is a sinister road trip through the poor South of the United States. Sing, Unburied, Sing is the first of her novels to be translated into Dutch. I meet her in a coffee shop close to her favorite bookstore in New Orleans.

One of your favorite quotes is by William Faulkner: “To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.” After reading Sing, unburied, Sing I think I understand life in America’s poorest state a little bit better. Is this what you set out to do?

One of the reasons I appreciate that quote so much is because I’m a black writer from Mississippi. There are stories there that need to be heard. I want to tell the forgotten stories. That’s why I had to write this book.

You tell the story of Leonie, an addicted black mother from Mississippi. She has two bi-racial children: Jojo and Kayla, for whom she’s doesn’t care very well. That’s the job of her parents. Leonie, Jojo, Kayla and Misty (a friend of Leonie) set out on a road trip to pick up the children’s white father Michael, who has been released from Parchman Farm Prison. This goes against the will of the grandparents, because the trip takes place during schooldays. What sparked the idea for this story?

I wanted to write about a road trip through modern Mississippi, where strange things would happen to a family. Then I started to do research, and soon I read more about Parchman. The story that I initially set out to make wasn’t enough. That wasn’t where the fire was. It was in Parchmen. Black people were detained for the smallest things, like vagrancy, and forced to work. They were enslaved. Amongst these people were also minors, children like Richie. I just had to write about them, I realized the moment I started reading about them.

Richie is a spirit from the past who was brutally murdered as child, like many inmates. He’s a ghost from Parchman Farm Prison who travels back with the family after they pick up Micheal. What was it like to embody him?

I wanted to give him a voice. I wanted it to be believable. I wanted it to take place in the present. To do all those things I had to make him into a ghost. I had to construct a world where ghosts exist. As real, as vivid as possible. Never before had I used magical realism in my work. I had to do it. I wanted to show that the past still resonates in the present. That’s why he had to be a ghost. Only in the tenth revision I dared to do it.

Why then?

I had to embody a child that really existed, knowing that the child was tortured and died a horrifying death. That had to be done right. Personally it was hard because of my brother [Ward’s brother died at nineteen in a car accident; killed by a white man who was drunk driving. She wrote about it in her memoir Men We Reaped, Ed.] In everything I write I create a shadow of my brother, to keep him alive in a certain way. If I don’t write about him, who will? Richie is the most important character for me. He brings the past and the present together.

You have revised the novel fifteen times. What changed with every draft?

First I write a rough draft. If I discover a flaw four chapters in, I keep writing forward. I don’t go back to the beginning. Then I let it sit for two to three weeks. After that period of time I make a list of improvements. I go over the list one by one. I go back and do a complete revision with just the first point. That’s how I work through the list. My fear is that I mess up if I deal with all of them together at once. Only when that’s done I’ll ask a group of writer friends to please read it. I’ll give them three months. After I have revised their feedback, I’ll send it to my editor. I was lucky with Salvage the Bones; there were not a lot of notes. It didn’t go like that with Sing. On almost every page there was a note. With every book I write, I fear “how do I get all of this in?” I’m in no way a confident person, especially when it comes to my work. I feel inadequate.

You won the National Book Award twice, for Salvage the Bones and Sing, Unburied, Sing, last year you received the MacArthur Genius Grant. How is it possible that you still feel insecure? And how do you cope with feeling that way?

It’s who I am. I can’t change that. I feel so desperate to tell stories. The need to do so is bigger then my insecurity. That wins.

On the way back from the road trip the family is being pulled over by the police. Almost everything that can go wrong, goes wrong. How did you set up this chapter?

During the writing of this novel, almost every month a black man was being killed by a policeman. I knew from the beginning that they had to be pulled over. They’re poor, they drive a shitty car, the mom is black. I knew that scene was coming, but still I wasn’t emotionally prepared. I don’t plot, I’m a pantser. That moment was important; I didn’t know what would happen. I wrote blindly. Maybe Jojo would die. I know the characters well, they lead me. I think it’s important that I didn’t know. I think the reader feels that.

The contrast between the poetic prose and the harsh environment of the story is very distinctive. Was that a deliberate choice?

My prose is poetic because of that. I’m not sure if this also counts for the Netherlands, but in the US there is a trend to write clean, straight forward, without adjectives, no metaphors. That’s not what attracted me to literature. Those things made me love reading. I think my work would be very hard to read if the prose was spare. I feel like there has to be some beauty to endure. It also shows that there is beauty to be found in the lives of my characters. Leonie might be a bad mom, but in her heart she has love for her brother.

Even though Leonie neglects her children, I did feel sympathy for her. How was that for you?

In the beginning, I had a hard time writing from her perspective. Jojo came to me first. He demanded that I tell his story. Leonie was difficult. She’s awful to the people who love her. Still I can’t change her, she is who she is. What if she lost a brother, I thought. Is it possible she’s so horrible to everyone because of grief? Then I wrote about how her brother had lived and how he died. Then Leonie made sense. She can’t sit with loss. She glances at it, but can’t sit with it. In order to be healing you have to learn how to sit with it. Leonie keeps running away from it. Everyone who has lost someone knows it won’t go away. You have to accept the pain. You hurt, you cry.

You say you can’t change Leonie even though you are the writer. Could you explain that?

It’s hard actually to explain. A character presents itself. As a writer I can build on that, but the core will remain the same. That’s impossible for me to change.

Do you know women like Leonie?

Unfortunately, yes. I come from a really small town in Mississippi where mostly working class or poor people live. It’s a very tight community, generations after generations keep living there. A lot of the people have to walk a tightrope. They live from hustle to hustle, being hungry and poor. Lots of them fall prey to addiction. Age range from teens to elderly. Everything comes later to Mississippi. For a long time it, was crack cocaine. Now it’s meth and opiates. It’s not an easy thing to try to solve. There’s so much behind addictions, like poverty, stress of racism, bad education, so many factors. Drugs are a secret relief. That’s what it is to Leonie.

In your acceptance speech for your already second National Book Award you started with a rejection from a publisher early on in your career: “People will not read your work, because these are not universal stories.” Thousands of people read your work, it will be translated into many languages. Your stories prove to be very universal. What is it in your stories that make them indeed so very universal?

The publication of my first novel was a battle. The first reaction often was: why is this relevant? If your characters don’t look like the majority, your work is not recognizable. People are looking for similarities. After winning the first National Book Award, people started to see something. What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to maintain relationships? What does it mean to love someone and lose them? Yes, these are stories about black poor people, and they are just as relevant. They are universal.

Narrated botany

Plants narrate. They tell us stories about ourselves. They create our fiction and illustrate our imagination. They tell stories in words we inflicted on them, but which we forgot how to read. In the 1868 November issue of Science Gossip (a monthly British popular-science magazine), an unknown author (signed H. C. Richter) wrote an article entitled “Vulgar names” in which he states that vulgar names of plants present ‘a complete language of meaningless nonsense, almost impossible to retain and certainly worse than useless when remembered – a vast vocabulary of names, many of which signify that which is false, and most of which mean nothing at all’.

I find vernacular plant names fascinating. They present our languages at their richest, most vibrating and imaginative. Common names of plants need not be formed according to any rule and can change as language, or the user of language, dictates. There is no convention governing the way common names can be written or applied. In fact, in their truest form, common names arise from common use by people in contact with the plants – most often by people who are not aware of the scientific naming of plants. These true ‘common names’ are therefore in a range of different languages, different scripts and not codified in any way. The same species of plant can have very different names in different places, and could have different names in the same place according to different groups of people. Sometimes names used by some people are adopted by others, sometimes the pronunciation gets corrupted in the process and the meaning of the words shifts. This makes the language of plants’ common names the freest language there is. The whole story of vernacular nomenclature is about misspelling, misunderstanding, mistranslating, construing, confounding, confabulating, transforming, transmuting, transposing, twisting, twiddling and turning. The language we use for plants pushes language to its limit, to its outside, to its silence. It seems to have a “foreign language within”, because it is in a constant process of overcoming itself, becoming-other or becoming-foreign to itself, perhaps becoming its own future and its own past.

Naughty-man’s playing1 careless2 with wind3, thunder-and-lightning4, shooting stars5, snow-balls6 and fire balls7, smoke of the earth8. Jupiter’s beard9 bristles10.
Its11 prior12 madness13 quickens14.
It-brings-the-frost15, snow in summer16.
Poor man’s weather glass17.


1. Urtica dioica
2. Amaranthus retroflexus
3. Convolvulus arvensis
4. Ajuga reptans
5. Dodecatheon meadia
6. Cephalanthus occidentalis
7. Lychnis chalcedonica
8. Fumaria officinalis
9. Centranthus ruber
10. Setaria
11. Apios americana
12. Nicotiana tabacum
13. Heracleum maximum
14. Agropyron repens
15. Aster L
16. Cerastium tomentosum
17. Anagalis arvensis

The subtropical climate of New Orleans fosters an unending cycle of massive vegetation, dwarfing man and architecture by the vigour of its growth. Vegetal life thrives there without intention, builds without planning, takes over, adapts and feeds on fields, swamps, houses, roads and paths. The stupendous flora both colonizes and is colonized, controls and is controlled. Surrounding landscape can be seen as a microcosm of the global environment, manifesting both the challenges and possibilities inherent in the ways humans interact with urban and natural ecosystems. My interest in plants was fuelled by the saturated green environment of New Orleans region and is motivated till today by my curiosity to explore new disciplines along with the plasticity of language. During my 4 weeks residency Deltaworkers provided me access to information about plants and local vegetation. One of the most enticing places I visited with them was A Studio in the Woods, a nonprofit artist retreat and learning center near New Orleans, formed with the mission to protect and preserve the Mississippi River bottomland hardwood forest and to provide a tranquil haven where artists can reconnect with universal creative energy and work in the middle of woods. I hope to get back there for a stay and to observe and collect plants. I’m dreaming of compiling poetry-herbariums from different locations. The Louisiana one would start like this: “Devil and angel stick tight. Pricking monsters bind black nightshade with morning glory and purple daydream with ruby moon.” And would end like this: “Drunk Indian shot farmer’s friend. White sage’s long beard bristle with wind.”

I am interested in the subject of plant life, and, by extension, in the relationship humans have with plants as reflected in language. The general classification of plants as dangerous or useful, invasive or native, forming a “green Hell” or, instead, mirroring the “earthly Paradise” testifies to the political nature of our engagement with flora. Humans have forged strategic alliances with plants which are echoed in their naming, reflected by the words associated with them and by the expressive linguistic combinations used to identify various types of plants.

Yellow rockets1 poke2 yellow cosmos3,
Yellow sundrops4 spike5.
Silver comet6 rapes7 the blue of heavens8,
White false indigo9 sweeps10 thousand stars11.
All die12.


1. Barbarea vulgaris
2. Phytolacca americana
3. Cosmos sulphureus
4. Oenothera serrulata
5. Lavandula
6. Cortaderia selloana
7. Brassica napus
8. Allium caeruleum
9. Baptisia alba
10. Centaurea nigra
11. Aster tripolium
12. Oenanthe crocata

Yet, what botanical nomenclature tells us is that we look at plants with a certain human bias. We anthropomorphize them. We give them attribution of human traits, emotions, and intentions. Plant names illustrate human characteristics or associations connected to human assumptions. The associative element in vernacular plant naming drew upon comparisons with parts of the human body and with bodily functions, upon their uses, taste, behaviour, effects on us, etc. Fanciful ideas of a plant’s association with animals, ailments and festivities, and observations of plant structures, perfumes, colours, habitats and seasonality have all contributed to their naming. However, all common names mostly refer to plant’s character in relation to humans, rather than to anything about the plant itself. The names we gave plants (mostly stuttering cultural meanings, patriarchal interpretations and assumptions in relation to our senses) are fascinating because of the malleability of our languages, but also because they are discerning facets of how narrowly we understand and communicate nature and reality.

Devil’s tongues1 speak2: look up and kiss me3.
Devil’s head4 and angel’s trumpet5 consound6.
Youth and old age7 bind8 with holly9 sin dew10.
world’s wonders11 live forever12.


1. Sansevieria
2. Lavandula
3. Viola tricolor
4. Linaria vulgaris
5. Brugmansia
6. Symphytum officinale
7. Zinnia elegans
8. Convolvulus arvensis
9. Ilex aquifolium
10. Drosera
11. Mirabilis jalapa
12. Sempervivum

It is captivating to look at plants as texts. All of a sudden vegetation becomes a big dispersed chronicle containing information and an affective assemblage, a biosocial becoming, a biophysical landscape with which human actors are entangled. New Orleans was the perfect place to start to built a “plant thesaurus”, a bank of phrases, expressions and words of many variations with information about the corresponding plants.

Mother of thousands1, mistress of the night2, pulling3 dead man’s hands4.
Corps candles5 and organs6 stink7.
Dead man’s bones8 speed well9.
Rush10, rush skeleton11! Rush like Timothy12!


1. Achillea millefolium
2. Polianthes tuberosa
3. Eriophorum spp
4. Dryopteris filix-mas
5. Verbascum
6. Origanum vulgare
7. Datura stramonium
8. Linaria vulgaris
9. Veronica chamaedrys
10. Equisetum hyemale
11. Chondrilla juncea
12. Crypsis schoenoides

Now back in Europe, I still collect vernacular plant names and I am trying to link them within a narrative. I also try to “read” them as they grow. Reading any green spot through vernacular terminology politicises and romanticises nature more than one would expect and we, humans, are always present in the story. When decoded into words, vegetation becomes a mirror, refracting our mental projections on the natural world. The words we use for it seems to unify the world of botany with the world of human nature, culture and language by creating a “strange inversion of reasoning”.

Field reading: Devil’s playing1 melancholy2, wind bent3 sword and spears4 all heal5, love leaves6 priest’s crown7.


Field reading: Lady’s slippers1 couch2 ranty-tanty3 passions4, fox’s foot5 and floating foxtail6.

Love lies bleeding1 speak2 sorrow3.
Password4: love in idleness5.
Fairies’ clocks6 rattle7 crazy8 time9,
True love10 trickles11 bleeding hearts12,
Melancholy13 cheats14 innocence15.


1. Amaranthus caudatus
2. Lavandula
3. Rumex acetosa
4. Primula veris
5. Viola tricolor
6. Adoxa moschatellina
7. Pedicularis palustris
8. Rununculus acris
9. Thymus vulgaris
10. Trillium cernuum
11. Cardamine diphylla
12. Fuchsia magellanica
13. Achillea millefolium
14. Bromus
15. Collinsia

I try to unscramble (more or less) coherent “materialized texts” the syntax of which, in turn, is finding expression in the random growing of wild plants or in herbaria arrangements. Taking the plants’ highly allusive common names as a point of departure, I’m trying to unfold a (visual) anthology of stories, using the (names of) plants as “organs” of language. I like how filtering the human language through plants and the appearances they have generates some sort of weird poetry, both visual and linguistic; it is a language we can also see, rather than only a language as phonemes; plants can be visible logos, connecting words to the essence of being.

Black man’s posies1 ripple2 white man’s footprint3.
White archangel4 chuckles5.
None such6 crazy7 smart ass8 couch9 life everlasting10 patience11.
Remembrance12 cures all13 malice14. Mind your own business15.


1. Lamium purpureum
2. Plantago lanceolata
3. Plantago major
4. Lamium album
5. Aquilegia canadensis
6. Medicago lupulina
7. Rununculus acris
8. Persicaria hydropiper
9. Arrhenatherum elatius
10. Sedum telephium
11. Impatiens
12. Lathyrus odoratus
13. Melissa
14. Malva sylvestris
15. Soleirolia soleirolii

I am often seduced to think there’s an etymological connection between the words “plant” and “planet”. There is none, but the connection between the two is much deeper than a linguistic one. The plants ARE our planet. They are perhaps the most fundamental form of life, providing sustenance, and thus enabling the existence of all animals, including us humans. But although they are everywhere – dead or alive, wood or food, grown or wild, meds or cloths, paper or ink – we only notice them in passing, mostly as a green background. Even if we do look at plants we don’t know much about them. There are relatively few plants known to the majority of people, in most cases they are anonymous and mute. I am trying to recover from this pandemic “plant blindness” and to understand how can learning about them teach us about ourselves. The idea of narrated botany is concerned with the nature and meaning of difference. Tales, legends, poetry, history, politics, are embedded in the names of plants, in the fields, forests, meadows, gardens… If observed in time, the fluidity of language is dissolved even more by the plants themselves. They are constantly “interpreting” and remixing any linguistic connections we can think of through their own language and behaviour (the way they dry, die, grow, colonize the space around or overtake each other’s territories), they underline or discard certain parts/words – some lines grow bolder, some flower in silence, some die out. Inhabiting the language and overlapping various modes of communication eventually develops into a “biosemiotic turn”, into a third, unpredictable message, a “text” out of control, a phyto-poem with surprising spirit.

Love entangled1 blind eyes2 see bright3.
Leap up and kiss me4.
Kiss me quick5, kiss me quick, mother’s coming6.
Kiss me over the garden gate7,
Blow me down8,
Touch me not9,
Forget me not10.


1. Sedum acre
2. Papaver dubium
3. Salvia sclarea
4. Viola tricolor
5. Euphorbia cyparissias
6. Centranthus ruber
7. Polygonum orientale
8. Dianthus barbatus
9. Mimosa pudica
10. Brunnera macrophylla