2HB Vol 26: Hannah Ellul, Daniele Sambo and Mika Conradie (2023)

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CONTENTS

PA G E

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Hannah Ellul

LENIS

PA G E

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Daniele Sambo

A MOUTHFUL OF SMOKE THE NAVARRO PA G E

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Mika Conradie

BEARING PALMS

VOLUME 26 3

LENIS( )

HANNAH ELLUL

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20 23.

Opening

An

Spiritus asper is the rough breathing that inaugurates certain words in Ancient Greek. Asper, meaning ‘rough’, or ‘coarse’, or ‘sharp’.

The mark of the spiritus asper (asper, meaning ‘cruel’, or ‘unrefined’, or ‘savage’) once looked like the left hand half of a capital H, but now hangs above letters like a half moon or the opening of a quotation:

Voicemail

‘

An abrupt cough, twice. The effort of a brief spasm kept in check. The whole body audible in the pause and the release of the breath that follows it.

Clearing of the throat, the first word,

Ha - zh - ll swallowed.

A sigh slips and thickens unexpectedly in the mouth, does not escape through teeth that clamp down quickly. A beginning is chewed and gulped down. Some kind of control is reasserted.

Also the readying sound of the tongue as it unpeels from the palate before coughing. Once, twice.

Another cough—what actually happens is that the next breath explodes, propelled by another small convulsion as the mouth tightens and releases. Then a brief rally. Then sharply, another attempt to heave the first word out—

H

a

n

n

a

h

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Gates The capital letter H is thought to derive from a hieroglyph of a threebarred fence, used in the Sinai Peninsula. It pictures the act of regulated passage. And yet the sigh of the ‘h’ slips from the mouth unchecked. It is not wholly of the larynx or the mouth, neither voice nor noise. It is pure exhalation.

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Tribute

Car park who pays Can not pay Sign’s (Why Pay

2 Back fence (Tribute) 52. Taking Piss Not Her fault Free Home Emergy lights

sperity A The voicemails had accumulated in fits and starts. For years, I watched them arrive without listening to them. His messages had never been easy to follow, because of the drink. But when I at last sat down and tallied them all, it was a shadow song of labouring breath I heard. More and more now when he spoke his words were interrupted by coughing fits, by groans and gasps. Gurgles of outflow.

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And so I found myself listening through the hum of transmission, to the moments between words when the recalcitrant body heaves itself into sound. I had thought that I would hear it happen in the quaver of the drink, the way it thickens and slows the mouth. But something else began making itself audible. Recalcitrare, ‘to kick back’ (of horses, mules, etc)—but that comes later.

I sliced coloured ribbons of soundwaves on screen to find the point at which a kind of falling apart began. To make certain of it. The recordings were so close in their mouth-wet fleshiness, and so distant in their telepresent hum. No acrid smell of him, this time. Just the sound of something like a voice, or the point at which the voice stopped being voice and began to be everything else that makes voice possible but which we learn is not voice. Nothing in the voice that is not made of breath, sloughed off from a body barely held at bay. But we come to understand that voice is a particular sound that has meaning, and not one merely of the in-breathed air, as a cough is. Its territory is the larynx,

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the site of intention. And so this is what we learn to listen for, amid the sputtering mouthfuls of air that propel the voice along.

It was Aristotle who described voice as ensouled sound, because nothing which does not have a soul has a voice. But, he added, voice also requires a certain imagination. Not every sound that an ensouled being might make will necessarily itself have soul in it. Some sounds are empty of soul, and therefore empty of meaning, we are led to understand.

Unensouled sound is psophos. Psophos is noise, a word that began as an exclamation of disgust, or not. Only found a handful of times in all the writing that remains to us. Noise is found in the mouth, the place in which the whole body may be taken up in vocality. The site of the accidental, and extraneous. What I had amassed with the voice stripped out of the recordings was sound unensouled and unmoored, and yet still somehow convulsing with meaning; spasms of unlanguage that thickened and grew heavier with each excision.

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Panting towards the grand apnoea—this is how we find ourselves talking about animals, infirmity, death, and other phenomena we cannot control.

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Psophos is accident rather than intent. And this, I read, is why it is characteristic of animal sound. Elsewhere I am told that silence is what beasts have. Mutus, meaning, that does not speak: silent. But also, creatures who do not possess the faculty of speech, and can utter only inarticulate sounds; mute and mugient. Speech is a marker of human endeavour. The silence imposed by death is not very different from that following metamorphosis, which often reduces its human victims to a state marked by an inability to make comprehensible noise. So noise is voice’s other, but so too is silence; and to be without speech is to be mute, even though still full of noises. But what I am interested in — what keeps me returning to it so compulsively — is how eloquent it is, in its muteness.

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Absence There was a time when, on the phone, deep in drink, he would repeat, ‘I used to be a gangster, you know.’ It began after he was mugged by some adolescents. Havi Carel writes about estrangement of no longer feeling sure that your body can carry you. The dependancy it imposes, new confusions of self and environment. Not imposes, emphasises. It is the experience of oneself not as an intentional subject but as a material object: the disruption of one’s most fundamental sense of being in the world.

The healthy body is ‘transparent’, Drew Leder writes in The Absent

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Body. In illness, it loses its transparency by ‘dys-appearing’. In a state of dysfunction, the body appears: it becomes insistently present to consciousness. We can argue about the optimism of the idea that this only happens in illness, speculate about what kind of body-haver has the privilege of total unselfconsciousness in good health. Nonetheless in illness the body demands our attention in new ways.

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Action for Employment The first object I take from the box file is a wirebound notepad. Its edges are browned. As I lift it I catch the faint smell of stale tobacco. I hold it close to my nose and sniff: the smell is ingrained deep in the fibres of the paper and it fades with every day that it is not in that smoke-filled room. The notepad is thin; most of the pages have been torn out. On the blue cover a team sheet has been drawn up in black ballpoint pen. Team Interpol are Dave, Len, John, and Damien.

The list is more or less centrally aligned. INTERPOL is written in large, capital letters that have been repeatedly traced over, for emphasis. At the end is a doodle of a small rosette with a number 1 on it. Below John, with its ‘H’ caretted in belatedly, two other names have been scrawled out: Anton and Chris. All the names have also been retraced until bold, except for Damien’s, which sits to the side of the others and was probably added late after a reorganisation of team membership. Then, below the names, the slogan: PROBALLY THE BEST TEAM IN A4E! There are some other scribbles on the page, where someone has tried to make the ink flow in two different pens. In the top right hand corner, a smiley face. In the bottom right hand corner, the words SPONSORED BY CARLSBERG. The smell of tobacco becomes stronger as I flip back the cover and look at the first page. My mother always praised his handwriting. The drink had long since discomposed its graceful lines, though, so the beauty of his letters had more of a mythic existence for me as a child afflicted by an inability to be neat. The notebook is full of instructions for an employable life, dutifully recorded.

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Useful information.

URL Webb. Add. 1-1 argos.co.uk Lists. Sometimes neat, mostly on the edge of legibility, sometimes loose scrawls.

An abandoned attempt to write an email address. Then: Hello Doreen.

[ Well].

set up my email account, hope I [it] find well. regards

Len. Another page starts with the single word: Poems.

Voicemail Hello Hannah! Long time no— a tightening no hear.

Smooth breath out.

The ‘tut’ of mouth opening as tongue falls from palate; deep inhalation.

Breath is held for a second. Voices in the background, from television or radio. Clear enough to make out a woman’s voice, the intonation of a question being asked. Endless intermission. His next words are forced, from a tightened kind of swallowing sound like the g held in place, a closing. But also adenoidal, as though the effort of forcing his mouth open has pulled other parts of the mouth and nose into the sound. Stalling; all this less than a second and then, quickly:

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Get back, please.

The Scouse skid of the K. Slight stall before ‘please’.

Pause. No sound comes through. A kind of closed-mouth groan.

A leaky container kind of sound.

Pause, television in background.

Short cough interrupted by intake of breath. Breath catches and then three short coughs fall and rise in pitch. Another groan. Intake of breath.

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Then sharply, through the intermittent static, Get back.

And quickly, as though holding breath: Bye bye.

A long, drawn out breath with a kind of growling sound.

Slight softness to the shape of the mouth, the edges of the words, at the start. Maybe some light drinking.

Ideal Subjects

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I began to transcribe the messages. But that was afterwards, when it was over and I had been given the box of notebooks.

Every time I listened again to be sure of what I have heard, I would notice something I had missed or misinterpreted. I had to keep pulling the cursor back across the same millimetre or two. Sometimes it was in my own throat that I heard the voice. I had to hear the same few seconds again, and again, to be sure that I would be describing it as faithfully as possible. As though this excess of attention might make up for its belatedness.

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Question

Qu.

O

Start from. scratch or carry on.

A Closing Spiritus lenis is the soft breath that makes no sound. Unvoiced. Lenis, meaning smooth, gentle, mild, soft, calm, tender. Meaning temperate, abstinent. Lenis, describing a weakness in speech. Prowling the meanings of a word, prowling the history of a person, no use expecting a flood of light. Human words have no main switch. But all those little kidnaps in the dark. Lenition, with lips and larynx lax. The flow of air meets little resistance, taut sounds dissipate into friction: escape the mouth and slide away.

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References: Gates 1

‘the act of regulated passage’, Steven Connor, Beyond Words: Sobs, Hums, Stutters and Other Vocalizations (London: Reaktion Books, 2014), 45

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‘It is not wholly of the larynx or the mouth, neither voice nor noise’, Connor, Beyond Words, 40

Asperity 3

‘Gurgles of outflow’, Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies, in Samuel Beckett Trilogy: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable (London: Calder Publications, 1994), 289

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‘Nothing in the voice that is not made of breath’, Connor, Beyond Words, 35

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‘voice is a particular sound … as a cough is.’ Aristotle, De Anima Books II and III (With Passages From Book I), ed. and trans. D. W. Hamlyn (Oxford: OUP, 1993), 33

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‘nothing which does not have a soul has a voice’, Aristotle, De Anima, 32

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‘not every sound… will necessarily itself have soul in it.’ Connor, Beyond Words, 8

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‘the place in which, the whole body may be taken up in vocality’, Connor, Beyond Words, 14

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‘Panting towards the grand apnoea’, Samuel Beckett, Texts for Nothing and Other Shorter Prose, 1950-1976, ed. Mark Nixon (London: Faber & Faber, 2010), 35

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‘accident rather than intent […] characteristic of animal sound’, Connor, Beyond Words, 8

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‘silence is what beasts have’/‘Speech is a marker of human endeavour’, Christina S. Kraus, ‘Silence in Roman Literature’, 2012, in The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, ed. Roger S. Bagnall et al, DOI: 10.1002/9781444338386.wbe ah10068

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‘ The silence imposed by death ... comprehensible noise.’ Kraus, ‘Silence in Roman Literature’

Absence 13

‘intentional subject’/‘material object’; ‘the disruption of one’s most fundamental sense of being in the world’, Havi Carel, ‘Bodily Doubt’, in Journal of Consciousness Studies 20 (7-8), 2013, 178-197 11

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Drew Leder, The Absent Body (Chicago: Chicago UP, 1990), 53

I- -I 15

In 1637, William Austin wrote about the letter ‘H’ as a principle of conjunction. ‘For it consists of two severall disjunct, parts of letters: that is to say of two I I: both which are signes of the singular and first person; and are of themselves, both good formes of building too, but unles there come some what, that (after a friendly manner) may joyne them together, they both still remaine singular and alone: and the building can never come into its desired and beautifull forme. […] There is no better way to establish and make them most firmely grow into this well approved forme, then (by the love of their hearts) to reach each other their hands in direct sinceritie, thus, I – – I’. In Connor, Beyond Words, 41

Voicemail 16

‘Breathing is endless intermission’. Steven Connor, ‘Beckett’s Atmospheres’, 2003, http://stevenconnor.com/atmospheres-2.html

Ideal Subjects 17

‘Emphysematous and bronchitic elderly men who smoke heavily do not make ideal subjects.’ Thomas Holmes Sellors (1966), cited in Carsten Timmermann, A History of Lung Cancer: The Recalcitrant Disease (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 6

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‘We hear the voice, in part, with our own throat.’ Miriama Young, Singing the Body Electric: the Human Voice and Sound Technology (Surrey: Ashgate, 2015), 3

A Closing 19

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‘Prowling the meanings of a word… But all those little kidnaps in the dark.’

Anne Carson, Nox 7.1 (NY: New Directions, 2010)

A MOUTHFUL of S M O K E

THE NAVARRO DANIELE SAMBO

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Busy night at the hotel. It must have been some sort of convention. A large crowd was standing in a circle looking at something. All around, steps were moving back and forth from the ballroom, percussions of heels and toes, a pleasant arrangement of sounds. Leather soles and stilettos, descending the wooden staircase to the terrazzo floors of the hall. The myriads of tiny colourful stone fragments, coming from godknows where, somehow ended up trapped underfoot, sealed into the smooth surface. He thought about the floors in his house. Ubique medius caelus est: We all share the same sky…and sometimes the same floor too.

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Another whiskey sour, the low glass topped by a thin cloud. It was calming to stare at those thousands of tiny bubbles floating, he could almost feel them popping… while the cherry was sinking at the bottom.

V. lit one more cigarette before getting in the elevator, he was looking forward to getting some peace and quiet. In his pocket the key was attached to a round piece of leather, his room number was marked on it, branded by fire…cowboys’ stuff.

The automatic doors opened and a boy was standing inside. Reasonably tall, he was still wearing his work clothes: a pair of overalls, denim and paint stains. Eyes on the ground, they acknowledged each other’s presence with a brief mechanical tilting of the head forward. When V. finally got to his room the speakers were playing the hotel background music. A low-pitched voice introduced a song. Double bass and a mellow piano. Strange fruit.

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The following morning, the wind was starting to pick up outside. Poached eggs.

Tasting coffee triggered the compulsive necessity of smelling fresh ink. He picked up a complementary newspaper from the stand. After breakfast, in the street, outside the barbershop, V. saw the young man again. He recognised the shoes: laced up leather boots (or what was left of them anyways). They were at eye height today, on the top of a ladder.

He could tell a lot about a person by looking at their shoes and those definitely spent a long time away from home, in the elements. On the floor, by the paint tins, a large bag containing what looked like clothes, brushes and some assorted pieces of timber.

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V. stopped and leaned in close to the wall, trying to find some shelter from the wind to light up. It required a couple of tries. A grey-brown blanket of dust was covering the horizon. There was probably a storm coming. It was as if white cotton wool and daubs of smoke from the oil fields mixed in the sky. Fruits of these lands. Dead matches flying left and right, landing on the ground. He got closer, stepping towards the shop window. Inside, through the glass among the reflections, he could see the revolving chair sitting in the middle of the room and a row of bottles on a shelf behind it. Everything around was overlaid by the mirror image of the street. Then looking back at the work the boy was doing.

The half-finished sign read: Collin Street Barber Shop. While the boy was busy working away, V. picked up one of those wooden panels poking out of the sack on the sidewalk. A brief look at it and his expression changed into a smirk of surprise. He quickly lifted out a couple of dollars from his wallet and stuck them inside one of the shoes up the steps. The boy, suddenly distracted from his meticulous work, politely protested in some language, V. kept walking away while wrapping his newly acquired souvenir in the newspaper, he couldn’t understand a word of it anyway.

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V. took another sip of his Dry Martini. It was a Sunday, this international mixture was a part of his weekend ritual and whilst travelling today, he would make no exception. Today was his third intercontinental trip in just two years.

The babel of voices from the other passengers mixed with the deep humming of the powerful engine. He put a hand in his pocket, took out the cigarette case and a matchbook. He had 5 matches left. He drew a mouthful of smoke and closed his eyes; in an instant he was back at home; The light haze in the air, the long bridge of Freedom, the fondamenta; He could see the internal stairs, with African masks on the wall; the mezzanine landing, where the children’s rooms are and the wooden cabinet, above which the greenish lake landscape hangs. In his mind, he opened the left drawer, took the matchbook out and gently put it away, together with the others, finally safe. V slowly opened his eyes, shook his head slightly and smiled.

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Notes: A Mouthful of Smoke. 27 matchbooks from 12 different countries found in the cabinet drawer of a Venetian travel agent active in the 1960s.

Page 14 - 25:

Design and Layout by Dan Sambo, typeset by Nat Walpole

Page 15:

Navarro Hotel Postcard, front

Page 16:

Navarro Hotel Postcard, back

Page 19:

The Navarro matchbook, from V.’s collection, front

Page 20:

The Navarro matchbook, from V.’s collection, back

Page 22: Navarro Hotel demolition, 15 June 1980, Photo courtesy of David Croom Page 22:

Background image, Corsicana Postcard courtesy of DeGolyer Library, SMU

Page 24: Navarro Hotel demolition, 15 June 1980, Photo courtesy of David Croom Thank you to Brenna Croom and the Croom family in Corsicana.

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BEARING. * PALMS MIKA CONRADIE

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1.

The soil has a shocking and satisfying secret life that will only be revealed to you in increments. These increments are called ‘plants’.

I am such an increment - languid and ferocious in my own growing. In me you find no rings to count: if you cut me, you won’t find time.

I am a singular secret life

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projected into billions.

Simurgh of fable, we exist in concert with all our selves.

The Assyrian palm that connects heaven to earth leans against the Mesopotamian palm that feeds fertility which leans against the Tamil palm of celestial use which leans against the Egyptian palm of eternal life that leans against the Roman palm of victory leaning against the Sudanese palm of endurance leaning up against the Greek palm of victory leaning on the Igbo palm of sacred restraint leaning into a palm-pledge of celibacy in Sanskrit A palm tree like we is a conference of dreams.

I lean into I.

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Once I was in a forest and I witnessed.

Once I was in a forest and we witnessed.

Once I was a forest and I witnessed.

The mowing-over of the ground around.

Once they shot a man on that clean clean ground. They cleaned the ground of that man, then they shot another.

Settlement is the invention of blank space. Blank space is not useful, except for growing over.

You think we do not move. Our lives are not adjacent to soil. We do not have feet but we move two feet a year. Your feet cross over ground. We must move through it.

*An ekphrastic reading of Lucas Odahara’s ‘Os Sons Deles Ecoando Entre Eu E Você (Their Sounds Echoing Between You and Me)’ (2017), Sebastian Mejia’s ‘Quasi Oasis’ (2012), Yto Barrada’s ‘Beau Geste’ (2009) and ‘Mobilier Urbain’ (2010), Ravelle Pillay’s body of work ‘Idyll’ (2023) and James Webb’s ‘Three Dreams of the Sinking World’ (2018).

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3.

We could not leave, we could not leave. But we were moved. We were moved by the wind. The wind witnessed us and we were moved by it.

We were moved by ascending birds.

When they shot the men dead you did not see us shudder. But the birds quickly left our boughs - that was a shudder.

4.

Birds are a sort of leaving leaf.

We are not romantic, we are somatic. We are formed through senses insensible to you. roots: wish to be leaves and so behave like both. They are not content with partition. They are for the materiality of soil and the abstraction of air.

They will be under and they will be above. They will do as they see fit.

The language you have to describe this is insufficient. stem:

a practice and home of all new forms of knowing - the leaf, the bud, the fruit.

These are sensible limbs.

We are not being romantic when we say our stems have a single origin, a soft organ which you call a heart.

All my sensible parts grow from it. I am not romantic, I am somatic - death of the heart results in the death of me.

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I am intimation: here is life.

When you first thought of architecture, you thought of me. On every side of me you place a city. Look at all the cities I have been.

We remember you calling us life, we remember you forgetting our lives.

A fatal notch becomes me. It becomes perennial. A palm tree can’t lie. If you cut me you won’t find time - but time will find me.

Something loftier takes my place: look at all the cities I have been.

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My body is the apparatus of plot.

6.

My body is the apparatus of plot.

You plot us in relation to your body: Palmae, you say, are named after the flat of your hand. Think of the flat hand flattening us: I am a gesture, a place and a direction.

Birds hold in our palms and crooks.

Footless for flying, we are feet for them too.

A swallow will home under a frond. A frond is my soft greenish hand. I will home them in my palm, and they will become palm.

(You christen them palm-swift) A bird of prey will feed on my fruit. Rest in the cup of all my nested hands. They become palm.

(You christen them palm-nut vulture) We are moved by descending birds.

7.

My body is the apparatus of plot.

You have plotted our collection, you have plotted us in relation.

I am a body, not a figure.

But you try to figure us.

You must cut a fragment. You must divide me into parts. You must invent a name.

I am christened.

My baptism involves a cutting: I am

generalised palm morphology, cross-section, surface slice, Figure 7.

My baptism involves a photograph: I am proximal leaflet, Holotype CH54-33, Scale bars : 10 mm, Palmae.

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This garden is the plotting of us.

This garden is inauthentic belonging.

We have met, and you have made archives of us. Oh, but your archive is not ours.

Replant me in a city and the birds descend. They widen their path toward me. I am the aim, a grail. I am not a proposition.

8.

A city is a strategy. It is solid gesture.

I was a palm, now I am hedge.

We were palm, now we are wall.

We were palm, now we are property.

Now I am proposition.

Bisecting the suburb, my figure cuts an agreeable shape.

That shape is the limit of your imagination.

(We were languid and ferocious in our own growing) When you remake this land, you make it in your image.

I am not in your image, you remake the image.

I was palm, now I am utopia. I was palm, now I am pleasant. We were palm, now we are temperate.

(Settlement is the invention of blank space) The low scrub, the high dry grass - you remove. They are bare life to you.

(Settlement is the invention of scenery)

9.

Johannesburg, 198-: The roof plan shall include two warm pools, scooped out of the top-most layer of the hotel.

It shall include mosaic tiles that bring to mind, but not to body, some exotic

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yet leisurely garden oasis.

Attached to cover all negative space will be a soft green astroturfing.

A glass structure is to be built over this scene, so as to keep birds and inclement weather at bay.

One live palm tree will be hoisted to the 30th floor. It will be planted atop the highest building in all Africa.

Here she overlooks a paradise.

My body is the apparatus of plot: I am plotted into leisure. I look down onto the divided land.

You don’t look down, you look at us.

You don’t look down, you look at your utopia.

A manufactured idyll is not an idyll. Settlement is the invention of scenography.

(Our hotel palm leans against 1973’s Midnight at the Oasis palm)

10.

Many petrol bombs make their point 30 floors below. I do not shudder. Birds hit glass when they descend. They cannot ascend to shudder.

You misread me as lofty. I am not lofty, I am alone.

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When you are swept away for the cruelties of your idyll, you leave so many bodies.

In a glass chamber on an abandoned island in the sky: I am no body. I am generalised palm morphology, dead decoration, insensible.

I am the future of that ancient decree: if you try to kill a man and kill a tree instead, you will be absolved of your sin.

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You do not see me breathing - but I draw breath. I am the heavy, soft, exasperated breath of forgetting.

If you kill me, you won’t find time.

Your time finds me.

Still of an expired palm tree on the roof of the Carlton Hotel in Johannesburg, from James Webb, 3 Dreams of the Sinking World. 5 channel installation. 2018.

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WRITER’S BIOS

HANNAH ELLUL is a Glasgow-based artist and musician working primarily in sound, publishing and performance. She often works collaboratively, including as part of the project Psykick Dancehall, which produced cross-disciplinary explorations of sound and aural experience with different organisations and artists.

Recent projects have included a collaboration with Rebecca Wilcox for the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra’s Tectonics Festival, and new video work for a Nottingham Contemporary online series of artists’ moving image at the intersection of textual, visual, and sonic performance. Ellul has presented performances for the Experimental Sound Studio, Chicago, and ODD Gallery, Bucharest; and undertaken residencies at Klangendum sound studio, Rotterdam; Titanik, a gallery focused on the intersection of sound and contemporary art in Turku, Finland; and Q-O2, a workspace for experimental music and sound art in Brussels. A solo commission for Radiophrenia, ‘Breathless’, drew on a preoccupation with the materiality and corporeality of the voice, that has in turn shaped this current project.

DANIELE SAMBO is an artist based in Glasgow. In the past decade he has

been the recipient of numerous awards and residencies across the UK and internationally, taking part in events and exhibitions with many institutions and organisations such as Viborg Kunsthal, Venice Biennale, British School at Rome, Rijeka Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, FOAM Amsterdam, Malmö Fotobiennal, Copenhagen Photo Festival, Cardiff Contemporary, Pépinières Européennes.

He is the co-founder of Beato Edizioni, a small independent publishing project in Glasgow. His work Nove Viste (2022) was recently exhibited in Venice and acquired by the Bevilacqua la Masa Foundation.

MIKA CONRADIE is a South African writer and researcher. She has pro-

duced editorial and curatorial projects with and for the Lagos Biennale, Jakarta Biennale, GALA Queer Archive and Re-Directing East, amongst others. Conradie was a 2022 Writing Fellow at the Johannesburg Institute of Advanced Studies. Her writing on art, design and visual culture has appeared in artist monographs for Yinka Shonibare and Bianca Baldi, and is published by K. Verlag, Transnational Dialogues, Art South Africa and Gdańska Galeria Miejska. She is a co-founder of POOL (http://www.pool.org.za), a project space that she co-directed from 2015 to 2021.

She lives and works in Johannesburg.

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2HB is a journal published twice a year by the Centre for Contemporary Arts, Glasgow. Experimental and creative writing in contemporary art practice are central to the concerns of 2HB. Open-call selection by Alaya Ang and Francis McKee. Edited by Alaya Ang. Designed and typeset by Nat Walpole.

2HB was cofounded by Francis McKee and Louise Shelley in 2009.

ISBN 978-1-9162676-0-2 © 2023, Centre for Contemporary Arts, the artists, the writers Published November 2023 in an edition of 300 by Centre for Contemporary Arts, Glasgow www.cca-glasgow.com CCA is supported by Creative Scotland and Glasgow City Council. CCA is a company limited by guarantee with charitable status. Registered Company No: SC140944

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