We never said that

A writing workshop, by Andreas Liebmann with texts by Nana Anine, Tam Vibberstoft, Sonja Ferdinand and Elizabeth Torres. In collaboration with Den Danske Scenekunstskole.

A writing workshop, by Andreas Liebmann
with texts by Nana Anine, Tam Vibberstoft, Sonja Ferdinand and Elizabeth Torres.

In collaboration with Den Danske Scenekunstskole.


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THAT<br />

A conversation<br />

Texts by Nana Anine, Tam Vibberstoft,<br />

Elizabeth Torres and Sonja Ferdinand.<br />

Workshop facilitated by<br />

Andreas Liebmann.

TABLE<br />



04<br />





16<br />

18<br />

20<br />

24<br />






28<br />

30<br />

32<br />

34<br />

A selection of letters written as part of the writing workshop<br />

by Andreas Liebmann<br />

with the participation of Nana Anine, Tam Vibberstoft, Sonja Ferdinand, Elizabeth Torres<br />

Written in Aarhus at the Danish School of Performing Arts<br />

during the fall of 2022<br />

Published in Copenhagen, Denmark<br />

by RED PRESS<br />

ISBN: 978-87-94003-16-02<br />

All rights reserved by their specific authors.<br />






36<br />

38<br />

40<br />

42<br />



Dear reader...<br />

What you have in front of<br />

your eyes results from<br />

a writing exercise. It is<br />

the result of the third<br />

workshop I had the privilege of doing<br />

with the students Sonja Ferdinand,<br />

Elizabeth Hansen, Tam Vibberstoft,<br />

and Nana Anine. They all are doing<br />

their MA in Performing Arts in the Specialization<br />

of Writing at The Danish National<br />

School Of Performing Arts.<br />

In the fall of 2021, we had our first<br />

workshop. It had the title “People living<br />

here”. The students were encouraged<br />

to sit down on the streets in Aarhus<br />

with a specific question written on a<br />

sign and wait to see who would join<br />

them and have something to say about<br />

<strong>that</strong> question. The workshop was about<br />

the stories surrounding us: Personal<br />

stories <strong>that</strong> we often don’t get to hear -<br />

especially when we already know what<br />

stories we want and get our references<br />

from books or the internet.<br />

The second workshop, “Narrating<br />

Hyperobjects: Climate crisis,” in<br />

the spring of 2022, referred to what<br />

Timothy Morton calls “Hyperobjects”:<br />

Phenomena like the climate crisis. How<br />

can a (theatre) writer relate to objects<br />

too big to grasp? Could it make<br />

sense to find narrative structures <strong>that</strong><br />

resemble landscapes, webs, parallel<br />

strings, or intangible clouds to describe<br />

them and bring them into (a) play?<br />

<strong>We</strong> also referred to Donna Haraway’s<br />

“Staying with the trouble,” especially<br />

the chapter “Awash in Urine”. This<br />

chapter starts with her dog’s peeing<br />

problems, pulls various threads, and<br />

weaves them into medical history,<br />

the history of agriculture, research,<br />

economic inequality, feminist issues,<br />

and self-positioning as a postmenopausal<br />

woman.<br />

Now, in autumn 2022, last but not<br />

least, the third module. The series<br />

felt like a dance in three steps.<br />

Start-jump-land. <strong>We</strong> landed in this<br />

workshop with the title “Yourself as<br />

a writer in the world”. The workshop<br />

addressed the question how the<br />

students want to stand in the world as<br />

writers. How do they see themselves?<br />

How do they want to see themselves?<br />

How do they dream themselves?<br />

Which references matter to them? A<br />

self-positioning: naturally, the most<br />

difficult thing. There is no manual<br />

for this. Questions about poetics<br />

would play a role, but also structural<br />

questions: In which region/city/<br />

landscape do I want to be doing my<br />

profession? How do I relate to existing<br />

(theater) institutions? Do I prefer<br />

to work alone or in groups? What is<br />

my idea of a career?, etc. The selfquestioning<br />

could not avoid involving<br />

the writers’ respective experiences<br />

as students of the MA at the Danish<br />

National School For Performing Arts.<br />

How their teaching was practiced and<br />

organized played into the discourse.<br />

The connection between studies and<br />

life “outside”.<br />

So, before the workshop started, I<br />

wrote a preparatory mail:<br />

Dear all<br />

we will have a short forløb the next<br />

days. this mail is to direct your mind<br />

to it. no preparation needed.<br />

the focus of the course will be the<br />

question of your own and personal<br />

entanglements with the world, existing<br />

aesthetics and practices of writing.<br />

the question will be what your writing<br />

practice is or could be as acts of ...<br />

self-expression<br />

resistance<br />

entertainment...<br />

(to be continued)<br />

in relation to<br />

your personal history and its context<br />

your direct surrounding<br />

the hyperobects <strong>that</strong> infiltrate life and<br />

politics / feelings of..<br />

(to be continued)<br />

you will situate yourself and speculate<br />

about your role and function as a writer,<br />

about your strategies, open spaces,<br />

possibilities, existing and non-existing<br />

practices<br />

we will create lists of references where<br />

you can situate yourself in - as a touch<br />

base in an open process<br />

every day will also contain a little<br />

physical training.<br />

looking forward,<br />

Andreas<br />

While planning the workshop, I had<br />

some doubts. It would be good to<br />

make the students describe themselves<br />

as artists „in the world“ (How a general<br />

sentence <strong>that</strong> is!). I thought it a right<br />

thing to give space for self-positioning,<br />

in the line of Donna Haraway’s essay<br />

“Situated knowledges“ from 1988.<br />

This self-positioning should also have<br />

the chance to be poetic, formally<br />

experimental. Not only rational<br />

and argumentative. But - this artist<br />

individual, to which I wanted to return<br />

at the end of an education - what was<br />

it? What would be the narrative of<br />

such a „landing“?: “After two years of<br />

learning together, you are back on the<br />

market alone. “? Critical. Sure, many<br />

aspects of being a writer are a lonely<br />

business. But wouldn’t it be central<br />

to make the idea of dialogue and<br />

solidarity strong, especially at the end<br />

of an education? Wouldn’t it be crucial<br />

to say: It is not natural <strong>that</strong> you are<br />

alone as an individual artist.<br />

Shortly before the beginning of the<br />

course, I came across a booklet by the<br />

researchers Cecilie Ullerup Schmidt<br />

and Solvejg Daugaard “Vi skriver<br />

sammen” published recently at the<br />

royal arts academy / Copenhagen<br />

University. This book describes the<br />

process of a self re-positioning. The<br />

two scholars establish a dialogue in<br />

the form of letters. The starting point<br />

of the first letter is the experience of<br />

Cecilie Ullerup Schmidt as a Northern<br />

European woman reading black<br />

literature. The experience of not<br />

automatically being in the center of the<br />

narratives, not being primarily meant<br />

the rupture this experience creates.<br />

The formal premise for this book is<br />

a writer’s dialogue, which has a long<br />

tradition and is explicitly referenced.<br />

Thinking is different when thinking<br />

together, when thinking for each other,<br />

and with each other.<br />

I am biased here. The booklet did<br />

not “just come into my hands” - I am<br />

married to Cecilie Ullerup Schmidt,<br />

one of the authors. <strong>We</strong> have two<br />

children together. I usually use, when<br />


teaching, references other than those<br />

of my beloved. I take care not to mix<br />

private with professional. But in this<br />

case, I felt it was appropriate to mix it<br />

up for personal, content, and artistic<br />

reasons. The booklet was a perfect<br />

fit for the task of self-situating. The<br />

letter dialogue offered what I had<br />

been looking for (without knowing<br />

it) for the workshop: artistic work as<br />

conversation.<br />

Moreover, it is vital to me in artistic<br />

work and teaching <strong>that</strong> one does not<br />

abstract from oneself. Art making has<br />

no “neutral standpoint”. It is infected<br />

by the whole circumstances of life of the<br />

art workers. One’s personal experience,<br />

one’s own body, one’s own context<br />

co-define the work. It does matter in<br />

which room one works. It does matter<br />

for the work if a family member is sick,<br />

if one has water damage in one’s home<br />

<strong>that</strong> attacks one’s health, or if one has<br />

just fallen in love. Whether or not you<br />

make <strong>that</strong> visible in the artwork itself<br />

is another matter. I do not think <strong>that</strong><br />

one must constantly exchange private<br />

information when working together.<br />

But from my point of view, artists can<br />

not create art if they only have to<br />

function well and do their job on time,<br />

leave their private life outside and<br />

everything else <strong>that</strong> occupies them.<br />

Biljana Tanurovska, curator and friend<br />

from Skopje, a colleague in artistic<br />

research, writes in her letter (!) to Filip<br />

and Ivana, unknown to me, about the<br />

work of freelance artists “Spaces of<br />

Independence”:<br />

“I think it is time to change also this<br />

term (“independent scene”),<br />

and introduce another term, or<br />

propose, and thus hereby propose an<br />

interdependent scene or sector, based<br />

on subverted self-care, or where the<br />

self-care is not for the subject, but to<br />

the body of common, or common body<br />

of togetherness.<br />

(..) it is time to depend on each other,<br />

to create a space of interdependence,<br />

an interdependent cultural and art<br />

scene. Interdependent sector is based<br />

on togetherness brought through<br />

dependence of each other in success<br />

and in failure, in vulnerability, based<br />

on common respect <strong>that</strong> is generated<br />

through working models which enable<br />

redistribution of power.“<br />

The idea of the autonomous artist<br />

often means a business figure who<br />

must make “good art” as separate as<br />

possible from their own needs.<br />

My classes often start with everyone<br />

describing their situation - artistic,<br />

structural, private, professional.<br />

Often it becomes very personal, not<br />

infrequently critical towards our own<br />

institution <strong>that</strong> I represent in <strong>that</strong> very<br />

moment of the class. Not seldom,<br />

exhaustion and dissatisfaction are<br />

described. This was also the case<br />

in this workshop, which started on<br />

10/25/2022 at 10 am and lasted until<br />

10/27/2022 at 12:30 pm.<br />

The students met in this attic in Aarhus<br />

after a long time working in other<br />

places. No continuity of work space.<br />

In the best neoliberal sense, they were<br />

„flexibilized“. They were encouraged<br />

(and obliged) to work anywhere, travel<br />

a lot, keep their curiosity alive and<br />

being grounded at all times.<br />

I suggested they establish a written<br />

dialogue with each other for the two<br />

and a half days of the workshop.<br />

A dialogue about themselves as<br />

artists, as people, as individuals, as<br />

connected ones and as singular ones.<br />

They were to write letters to each<br />

other and respond to their letters. The<br />

letters could be personal, poetic, or<br />

theoretical - following their voice.<br />

The letters were saved in a “One<br />

Drive” (provided by the Danish<br />

National School for Performing Arts).<br />

Everyone could read all the letters and<br />

include all of them in the conversation.<br />

<strong>We</strong> started on Monday afternoon,<br />

25/10/2022 with an “opening letter”.<br />

Tuesday morning, each responded<br />

to one letter from a colleague.<br />

Then, one of those response letters<br />

was responded to in the afternoon.<br />

Each had the task of referring to the<br />

previous letter but keeping the other<br />

conversations in mind.<br />

What you have now in hand or on the<br />

screen, dear reader, are these letters.<br />

They have not been revised. They are<br />

here as they were written. Unfinished<br />

thoughts, open statements, open<br />

states. It is an invitation for you to<br />

think along. An instant publication.<br />

An exercise. A document of a certain<br />

moment in time.<br />

I wrote the editorial on the second<br />

afternoon after it occurred to me <strong>that</strong> I<br />

also play a role in this structure.<br />

Have fun<br />

Andreas Liebmann<br />



Liebe Lesende<br />

Was Du hier vor Dir hast<br />

ist das Ergebnis einer<br />

Schreibübung. Es ist<br />

das Ergebnis des dritten<br />

Workshops, den ich im Rahmen des<br />

MA Writing an der Danske Scenekunstskole<br />

mit den Studierenden Sonja Ferdinand,<br />

Elisabeth Hansen, Tami Vibberstoft<br />

und Nana Anine gestalten durfte.<br />

Im ersten Workshop „People living<br />

here“, im Herbst 2021 wurden die<br />

Studierenden ermutigt, sich mit<br />

einer bestimmten Frage, die auf ein<br />

Schild geschrieben stand, auf die<br />

Strasse zu setzen, und zu warten, wer<br />

sich zu ihnen setzt, und über diese<br />

Frage etwas zu erzählen hat. Es ging<br />

also um die Geschichten, die uns<br />

umgeben: Persönliche Geschichten,<br />

die wir oft nicht zu hören bekommen<br />

- insbesondere dann nicht, wenn wir<br />

schon wissen, welche Geschichten<br />

wir wollen, und unsere Referenzen<br />

aus Büchern oder aus dem Internet<br />

beziehen.<br />

Der zweite Workshop „Narrating<br />

Hyperobjects: Climate crisis“ im<br />

Frühjarh 2022 bezog sich auf die<br />

von Timothy Morton genannten<br />

„Hyperobjekte“. Phänomene wie<br />

die Klimakrise. Wie kann man sich<br />

als (Theater-)Schriftsteller darauf<br />

beziehen? Kann es Sinn machen<br />

kann, Erzählstrukturen zu finden, die<br />

Landschaften ähneln oder Netzen,<br />

Parallellgeweben, oder ungreifbaren<br />

Wolken? Wir bezogen uns auch auch<br />

auf Donna Haraways „Staying with<br />

the trouble“, insbesondere auf das<br />

Kapitel „Awash in Urine“, wo sie,<br />

angefangen bei Pinkelproblemen<br />

ihrer Hündin, verschiedene<br />

Geschichtenfäden zieht und sie in<br />

Medizingeschichte, die Geschichte<br />

der Landwirtschaft, Forschung,<br />

ökonomische Ungleichheit und<br />

feministische Fragen und eine<br />

Selbspositionierung als Frau nach der<br />

Menopause verwebt.<br />

Und nun, zu guter letzt, als dritter<br />

Workshop, im Dreischritt gleichsam,<br />

die Landung mit dem Titel „Yourself<br />

as writer in the world“. Der Workshop<br />

handelte also davon, auszulegen, wie<br />

die Studierenden als Schriftsteller<br />

in der <strong>We</strong>lt stehen wollen. Es ging<br />

um die Studierenden selbst und<br />

ihr Verhältnis zu ihrem Beruf, wie<br />

sie sich sehen und sehen möchten.<br />

Wie sie sich einschätzen und sich<br />

träumen. Es ging um ihre Referenzen,<br />

ihre Position: Naturgemäss das<br />

Schwierigste. Es gibt dafür keine<br />

Anleitung. Es geht in dieser Frage<br />

nicht nur im eine eigene Poetik,<br />

sondern auch um strukturelle Fragen:<br />

Wo will ich tätig sein? Wie verhalte<br />

ich mich zu den existierenden<br />

(Theater-)Institutionen? Arbeite<br />

ich lieber alleine oder in Gruppen?<br />

Was ist meine Idee von Karriere?,<br />

etc. Nicht zu ignorieren war bei<br />

der Selbstbefragung das jeweilige<br />

Erleben der Studierenden der<br />

Institution MA an der Dänischen<br />

Theaterhochschule. Die Art und<br />

<strong>We</strong>ise, wie da ihr Unterricht<br />

praktiziert und organisiert wurde,<br />

wie Gemeinschaften gebildet<br />

wurden und wie künstlerisches<br />

Arbeiten vermittelt wurde, wie der<br />

Zusammenhang zwischen Arbeit und<br />

Lebensumständen organisiert und<br />

gedacht wurde, spielte hier mit.<br />

Eine Selbstpositionierung ist<br />

immer berührt von den aktuellen<br />

Gegegbenheiten.<br />

Ich schrieb also eine Mail zur<br />

Vorbereitung:<br />

dear all<br />

we will have a short forløb the next<br />

days. this mail is to direct your mind<br />

to it. no preparation needed.<br />

the focus of the course will be the<br />

question of your own and personal<br />

entanglements with the world,<br />

existing aesthetics and practices of<br />

writing.<br />

the question will be what your writing<br />

practice is or could be as acts of …<br />

self-expression<br />

resistance<br />

entertainment…<br />

(to be continued)<br />

in relation to<br />

your personal history and its context<br />

your direct surrounding<br />

the hyperobects <strong>that</strong> infiltrate life and<br />

politics<br />

feelings of..<br />

(to be continued)<br />

you will situate yourself and speculate<br />

about your role and function as a<br />

writer, about your strategies, open<br />

spaces, possibilitites, existing and<br />

non-existing practices<br />

we will create lists of references<br />

where you can situate yourself in - as<br />

a a touch base in an open process<br />

every day will also contain a little<br />

physical training.<br />

looking forward,<br />

Andreas<br />

Bei der Planung des Workshops hatte<br />

ich dann allerdings doch ein paar<br />

Zweifel. Eine Selbstbeschreibung<br />

als Künstler fand ich gut. Ich fand<br />

es wichtig, Raum zu geben für<br />

eine Selbstpositionierung. Diese<br />

Selbstpositionierung sollte durchaus<br />

auch dichterisch sein. Nicht nur rational<br />

und argumentativ. Aber - was war das,<br />

dieses Künstlerindividuum, auf das ich<br />

dann am Ende einer Ausbildung wieder<br />

zurückkommen wollte. Was wäre das<br />

Narrativ einer solchen Landung? „Nach<br />

zwei Jahren gemeinsamer Ausbildung<br />

seid ihr wieder allein auf dem Markt.“?<br />

Kritisch.<br />

Klar, viele Aspekte des Berufs der<br />

Schriftstellerin muss man mit sich selbst<br />

ausmachen. Aber wäre es nicht zentral,<br />

den Gedanken des Dialogs und der<br />

Solidarität stark zu machen - zumal<br />

am Ende einer Ausbildung? Wäre es<br />

nicht sehr wichtig zu sagen: Es ist nicht<br />

naturgegeben, dass Du alleine bist als<br />

KünstlerInnenindividuum.<br />

Kurz vor Beginn des Kurses kam<br />

mir dann ein Büchlein in die Hände<br />

der Forscherinnen Cecilie Ullerup<br />

Schmidt und Solvejg Daugaard „Vi<br />

skriver sammen.“, das vor kurzem<br />

von der Universität Kopenhagen<br />

und der „Königlichen Dänischen<br />

Kunstakademie“ herausgekommen<br />

war. Dieses Buch veröffentlicht den<br />

Prozess einer Selbstneubestimmung.<br />

Die beiden Wissenschaftlierinnen<br />

etablieren einen Dialog in Briefform,<br />

in dem es als Ausgangspunkt um die<br />

Leseerfahrung einer Nordeuropäerin<br />

mit dem Lesen schwarzer Literatur<br />

geht. Darum, nicht automatisch im<br />

Zentrum der Narrative zu stehen, nicht<br />

in erster Linie gemeint zu sein.<br />


Die formale Voraussetzung für dieses<br />

Buch ist der Dialog in Schriftform, der<br />

eine lange Tradition hat, und auf den<br />

explizit Bezug genommen wird. Man<br />

denkt anders, wenn man zusammen<br />

denkt, wenn man fürenander und<br />

miteinander denkt.<br />

Ich bin hier biased. Das Büchlein kam<br />

mir nicht „einfach so in die Hände“ -<br />

mit Cecilie Ullerup Schmidt bin ich<br />

verheiratet. Wir haben zwei Kinder<br />

zusammen. Ich nutze normalerweise<br />

andere Referenzen als die meiner<br />

Geliebten im Unterricht, und<br />

achte drauf, persönliches nicht mit<br />

beruflichem zu vermischen. Aber<br />

in diesem Fall fand ich es gerade<br />

angebracht, diese Vermischung<br />

zu betreiben, aus persönlichen,<br />

inhaltlichen und künstlerischen<br />

Gründen. Das Büchlein passte perfekt<br />

zur Aufgabe der Selbstsituierung,<br />

zudem bot es mit dem Briefdialog<br />

genau das an, was ich für den<br />

Workshop (ohne es zu wissen) gesucht<br />

hatte: Denken und künstlerische Arbeit<br />

als Gespräch.<br />

Zudem ist es mir in künstlerischer<br />

Arbeit und auch im Unterricht<br />

sehr wichtig, dass man nicht von<br />

sich abstrahiert. Im Gegenteil. Die<br />

persönliche Erfahrung, der eigene<br />

Körper, die eigenen Lebensumstände<br />

definieren die Arbeit prägend mit.<br />

Es ist nicht egal, in welchem Raum<br />

man arbeitet. Es ist für die Arbeit<br />

nicht egal, wenn ein Familienmitglied<br />

krank ist, oder ob man in der eigenen<br />

Wohnung einen Wasserschaden hat<br />

der die Gesundheit angreift, oder<br />

ob man sich gerade verliebt hat. Ob<br />

man das am Ende für die Lesenden<br />

sichtbar macht oder nicht, ist eine<br />

andere Sache. Ich bin hier nicht der<br />

Meinung, dass man sich ständig über<br />

privates Austauschen muss, wenn man<br />

zusammenarbeitet - im Gegenteil.<br />

Aber Kunst kann aus meiner Sicht nicht<br />

entstehen, wenn die Künstlerinnen nur<br />

gut funktionieren müssen und gelernt<br />

haben, pünktlich ihren Job zu machen<br />

und ihr Privatleben und alles, was sie<br />

sonst noch beschäftigt, möglichst<br />

draussen zu halten. Biljana Tanurovska,<br />

befreundete Kuratorin aus Skopje und<br />

Kollegin in künstlerischer Forschung,<br />

schreibt in ihrem Brief (!) an die mir<br />

unbekannten Filip and Ivana über die<br />

Arbeit freischaffender Künstler „Spaces<br />

of Intedependence“:<br />

„I think it is time to change also<br />

this term („independent scene“),<br />

and introduce another term, or<br />

propose, and thus hereby propose an<br />

interdependent scene or sector, based<br />

on subverted self-care, or where the<br />

self-care is not for the subject, but to<br />

the body of common, or common body<br />

of togetherness.<br />

(..) it is time to depend on each other,<br />

to create a space of interdependence,<br />

and interdependent cultural and art<br />

scene. Interdependent sector is based<br />

on togetherness brought through<br />

dependence of each other in success<br />

and in failure, in vulnerability, based<br />

on common respect <strong>that</strong> is generated<br />

through working models which enable<br />

redistribution of power.“<br />

Die Idee der autonomen Künstler*In<br />

bedeutet nur zu oft eine Businessfigur,<br />

die von ihren eigenen Bedürfnissen<br />

möglichst unabhängig „gute Kunst“<br />

machen muss. Das muss nicht sein.<br />

Mein Unterricht fängt oft damit<br />

an, dass jede*r seine Situtation<br />

beschreiben kann. Dabei wird es oft<br />

auch sehr persönlich, nicht selten<br />

institutionskritisch. Nicht selten<br />

werden Erschöpfungen beschrieben,<br />

Unzufriedenheiten. So war das auch in<br />

diesem Workshop, der am 25.10.2022<br />

um 10 Uhr anfing und bis zum<br />

27.10.2022 um 12.30 dauerte.<br />

Die Studierenden trafen sich wieder<br />

einmal nach längerer Zeit an anderen<br />

Orten in diesem Dachgeschoss in der<br />

Theaterhochschule in Aarhus. Eine<br />

Kontinuität eines Arbeitsraums gab es<br />

für sie nicht. Im besten neoliberalen<br />

Sinne waren sie „flexibilisiert“ - geübt<br />

und aufgefordert, überall arbeiten zu<br />

können, viel zu reisen, und dabei die<br />

Neugierde und ihr „Grounding“ zu<br />

behalten.<br />

Ich schlug ihnen vor, im Verlauf der<br />

nächsten zweieinhalb Tage einen<br />

schriftlichen Dialog zu etablieren. Einen<br />

Dialog über sich als Künstlerinnen,<br />

als Menschen, als Indvididuen, als<br />

Verbundene und als Singuläre. Sie<br />

sollten sich Briefe schreiben, auf ihre<br />

Briefe antworten. Die Briefe konnten<br />

persönlich, poetisch, theoretisch sein -<br />

der eigenen Stimme folgend.<br />

Die Briefe wurden gesammelt in einer<br />

„One Drive“ (zur Verfügung gestellt<br />

von der Dänischen Nationalen Schule<br />

für Performing Arts).<br />

Jede konnte alle Briefe lesen und in ihr<br />

Gespräch einbeziehen. Wir fingen am<br />

Montag Nachmittag, den 25.10.2022<br />

mit einem „Eröffnungsbrief” an.<br />

Dienstag, morgens, antwortete jede<br />

auf einen Brief einer Kollegin, und am<br />

Nachmittag wurde dann wiederum<br />

eine dieser Antwortbriefe beantwortet.<br />

Jede hatte die Aufgabe, sich immer<br />

als erstes auf den vorherigen Brief<br />

zu beziehen, aber die anderen<br />

Gesprächsverläufe im Auge zu haben.<br />

Was nun vor Dir liegt, liebe*r Leser*in,<br />

sind diese Briefe. Sie wurden nicht<br />

mehr überarbeitet. Sie sind so in<br />

diesem Dokument, wie sie entstanden<br />

sind. Unfertige Gedanken, offene<br />

Zustände. Eine Einladung zum<br />

Mitdenken. Eine Instantpublikation.<br />

Eine Übung. Ein Zeitdokument.<br />

Das Editorial habe ich am zweiten<br />

Nachmittag geschrieben, nachdem<br />

mir aufgefallen war, dass ich in diesem<br />

Gefüge auch eine Rolle spiele.<br />

Viel Vergnügen<br />

Andreas Liebmann<br />



“A letter always seemed to me like immortality<br />

because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.”<br />

-Emily Dickinson<br />





Dear Cochlea,<br />

Thank you for warning me through<br />

noise-making when my head was<br />

overheated.<br />

Dear Writer,<br />

I<br />

invite you to take up time<br />

to write your own or a<br />

body a letter...<br />

Your body in specific processes<br />

Your body in certain situations<br />

Your body in the aftermath of certain<br />

situations<br />

Your body as your institution<br />

Your body as the local manifestation of<br />

a hyperobject<br />

Your body as the front runner<br />

Your body as the straggler<br />

Let this be our common language on<br />

the following pages.<br />

You can freely interpret the form and<br />

perspective of this task.<br />

A listed letter of great gratitude<br />

to a bruised body<br />

stuck in someone else’s process:<br />

Dear Tongue,<br />

Thank you for knotting yourself<br />

together when I wanted to speak up.<br />

Dear Ribcage,<br />

Thank you for embracing me<br />

throughout the process.<br />

Dear Lungs,<br />

Thank you for constantly providing me<br />

with oxygen even when the room felt<br />

poor on air.<br />

Dear Confidence (*Orbitofrontal<br />

Cortex),<br />

Thank you for not mixing up my selfworth<br />

with another person’s selfesteem.<br />

Dear Feet,<br />

Thank you for each step you carried my<br />

stacked bones and inflamed flesh.<br />

Dear Jar,<br />

Thank you for reacting when I thought<br />

I was empty.<br />

Dear Finger Tips,<br />

Thank you for constantly reaching out<br />

and paving multiple directions for me<br />

to follow.<br />

Dear Index Fingers,<br />

Thank you for showing me the<br />

connection between body and mind<br />

by placing one of you in the cavity of<br />

my navel and one of you in the gap<br />

between my eyebrows.<br />

Dear Heart,<br />

Thank you for giving me the strength<br />

to avoid the execution of sudden other<br />

index finger movements.<br />

Dear stomach acid,<br />

Thank you for being loud when this<br />

body needed to let go of carrying the<br />

principles of social responsibility.<br />

Dear Blue Eyes,<br />

Thank you for carefully observing as an<br />

artistic response.<br />

Dear WoMan,<br />

Thank you for staying true to the<br />

multiple genders within you even when<br />

you felt reduced to your genitals.<br />

Dear Motor Neurones,<br />

Thank you for not tensing my muscles<br />

on your journeys up and down my<br />

spine even when I felt stuck on<br />

someone else’s path.<br />

Dear Vocal Chords,<br />

Thank you for supporting my voice<br />

with volume when I finally unknotted<br />

my Dear Tongue.<br />

Dear Teeth,<br />

Thank you for bearing with the pain<br />

it must have cost you when my jar<br />

reacted because I thought I was empty.<br />

Dear Nervous System,<br />

Thank you for providing me with<br />

precious liquids which kept me from<br />

drying out.<br />

Dear Diafragma,<br />

Thank you for guiding me through<br />

hyperventilations and panic attacks<br />

when I felt the smallest.<br />

Dear Sensory Neurons,<br />

Thank you for the ability to sense<br />

my surroundings even when the<br />

surroundings seemed loaded with<br />

unspoken smog.<br />

https://time.com/3398699/<br />

confidence-in-the-brain/<br />


MIND<br />


Dear you,<br />

I sharpen my writing tools<br />

here in our office in Aarhus<br />

on a rainy October day,<br />

thinking of what it is <strong>that</strong> I want to share<br />

with you. What it is <strong>that</strong> you must know.<br />

<strong>We</strong>’ve had a day of pouring; emotions,<br />

thoughts, concerns, fears, <strong>that</strong> which<br />

is of public interest, <strong>that</strong> which is not<br />

to be mentioned, future, perspective,<br />

empathy. A common theme of space<br />

and intimacy, relationships, purpose.<br />

The brain tends to absorb all of this<br />

and become mushy, but it is in this<br />

state <strong>that</strong> I must continue writing,<br />

before I foget how we got here.<br />

I must search for the points of<br />

connection. What I really want you to<br />

see. Like in photographs, we must look<br />

at the negatives before we can see the<br />

positives. The heavy contrasts. The<br />

hidden beauty... To fully see. Isn’t <strong>that</strong><br />

the role of the writer?<br />

All of this we discussed today, can<br />

be concentrated into the theme of<br />

identity. It is central in our personal<br />

lives, as it is in the image of ourselves,<br />

we present to the world, and in return<br />

what we expect from it. Identity is<br />

exactly <strong>that</strong> point of awareness Donna<br />

Haraway speaks of in her Situational<br />

Knowledges article (1988) <strong>that</strong> Andreas<br />

mentioned today:<br />

‘A commitment to mobile positioning<br />

and to passionate detachment is<br />

dependent on the impossibility<br />

of entertaining innocent “identity”<br />

politics and epistemologies as<br />

strategies for seeing from the<br />

standpoints of the subjugated in<br />

order to see well. One cannot “be”<br />

either a cell or molecule- or a woman,<br />

colonized person, laborer, and so on- if<br />

one intends to see, and see from these<br />

positions critically.<br />

“Being” is much more problematic and<br />

contingent. Also, one cannot relocate<br />

in any possible vantage point without<br />

being accountable for <strong>that</strong> movement.<br />

Vision is always a question of the power<br />

to see-and perhaps of the violence<br />

implicit in our visualizing practices.<br />

With whose blood were my eyes<br />

crafted? These points also apply<br />

to testimony from the position of<br />

“oneself.” <strong>We</strong> are not immediately<br />

present to ourselves.’<br />

Honestly, I think it’s precisely these<br />

words <strong>that</strong> sum up what we’ve been<br />

experiencing during our masters<br />

program, as part of an institution whose<br />

many eyes are so homogeneous, so<br />

fixated specifically in one audience<br />

for its act, <strong>that</strong> it fails to see its urgent<br />

need for repositioning (<strong>that</strong> is to<br />

say, with new eyes), for strategical<br />

representation of voices, of stories, and<br />

by default of embodied knowledge;<br />

a loss which greatly reflects in the<br />

education we receive, and <strong>that</strong> which<br />

we as a body of students return to the<br />

world, equally flat, flaccid and lacking<br />

of eyes, mouths, soul and color.<br />

I would be lying to you if I <strong>said</strong> <strong>that</strong>,<br />

from the vantage point of a colonized<br />

body, a survivor’s body from war and<br />

capitalism, from loss and grief and class<br />

and racism, these daily situations and<br />

responses haven’t gone far beyond the<br />

feeling of nuances. They’ve permeated<br />

themselves in my skin, to the point<br />

where I stand now: Where I wish<br />

I could talk to you of poetry, I<br />

speak of segmentation, separation,<br />

systematic irresponsibility... Conscious<br />

negligence. Where I wish I could<br />

show you beauty and possibility,<br />

collaborations, and collective power, I<br />

instead go mute, I grow doubtful and<br />

exhausted, I often return to my cave<br />

with frustrated pessimism, digging<br />

further in the dark for answers.<br />

I’ve become tired of this, and my eyes<br />

too have become tired... but you’re<br />

right... I embrace the possibility of<br />

bonding and nurturing through these<br />

uncertainties, which has become a<br />

practice in our current lives.<br />

I do not want to talk to you of the<br />

notions of diversity and multiculturalism<br />

<strong>that</strong> I wish were implemented in our<br />

environment, for you well know where<br />

the bar is set in our current times<br />

and in our industry. What I can share<br />

with you, is this. In the mesh of these<br />

conflicts and unanswered questions,<br />

one thing has remained a constant:<br />

knowledge is liquid.<br />

It is true <strong>that</strong> our individual identities<br />

are very specifically positioned based<br />

on our lived experiences and life<br />

lessons, and it is true <strong>that</strong> for you<br />

to pretend to be in my boots is as<br />

incoherent as for me to pretend to<br />

be in yours, but it is also true <strong>that</strong> our<br />

brain is always absorbing information<br />

and helping us expand our vision of<br />

ourselves and our surroundings in<br />

order to process and survive, as well<br />

as to respond, to what we interpret<br />

as our reality. Is this also how you<br />

feel? A shared mirror, where we can<br />

reflect in each other’s knowledge?<br />

I cherish the opportunity of sharpening<br />

my vision and redefining my position<br />

in this world, in part based on the<br />

responses to your feedback, your<br />

conversations, your own struggles and<br />

reactions.<br />

When we were talking of intimacy in<br />

public spaces, you reminded me of the<br />

conversations we had the previous days<br />

in Odense, preparing the performance<br />

Entrance for a Cave at HC Andersens<br />

Hus, and trying to find exactly <strong>that</strong>: A<br />

way to disconnect from the mainstream<br />

message so as to find the connections<br />

between us and our audience,<br />

individually. Can you imagine, how<br />

scary, intimidating, sensual and<br />

beautiful it was to write a poem to an<br />

absolute stranger in a dark room? I<br />

have very little to compare to <strong>that</strong> in<br />

recent times.<br />

When I was preparing my performance,<br />

researching queerness and attempting<br />

to find transgressive ways of<br />

connecting with the museum and its<br />

expectations, I found this phrase which<br />

I thought might also connect with you.<br />

Ed Cohen writes: “If we can begin<br />

to gather together on the basis of<br />

constructions <strong>that</strong> ‘we’ are constantly<br />

and self-consciously in the process of<br />

inventing, multiplying, and modifying,<br />

then perhaps ‘we’ can obviate the<br />

need for continuing to reiterate the<br />

fragmenting oscillations between<br />

identity and difference’. (1998).<br />

See? I’ve found what I needed to tell<br />

you. What I meant for your eyes to<br />

focus on in this letter was this new<br />

identity, of an us, rather than an I,<br />

where our different stories and voices<br />

make us capable of tackling these<br />

challenges instead of hiding and<br />

withering or walking away. Fear<br />

has room in this story, but it is not<br />

the protagonist. <strong>We</strong> are the writers.<br />

Remember <strong>that</strong>.<br />

I wish you could see how much braver<br />

and defined your presence looks<br />

reflected against the<br />

sun when you walk home sometimes<br />

after these long talks and sessions...<br />

and I observe you,<br />

smiling, celebrating these moments of<br />

connections, which I believe are all we<br />

will look back to once we’ve completed<br />

this phase of our lives.<br />

Tell me, what do you see?<br />


I AM NOT<br />






Dear Nana,<br />

It seems like ages<br />

ago. It isn’t. It really<br />

isn’t. I can’t almost<br />

count weeks rather<br />

than months maybe even days since<br />

we were in Berlin this summer. I<br />

don’t really have any pictures ( I kept<br />

forgetting to charge my phone,<br />

walking aimlessly but not lost for hours<br />

on end without it) but I remember your<br />

face. How different it was from the face<br />

looking at me from across the circle of<br />

swivel chairs this rainy autumn day.<br />

I remember your laugh. That you<br />

smiled. I remember laughing. That<br />

I smiled at you. The humorous sign<br />

at the Italian place near the river,<br />

claiming <strong>that</strong> today of all days they<br />

only accepted cash (I went back a<br />

couple of days later to see the sign<br />

still being there; the exception of<br />

”today” apparently being an every day<br />

thing). I see it all. As if captured in a<br />

snow globe. Small versions of you and<br />

I licking melting ice cream from our<br />

hands. An image of something unreal<br />

in this now world of real.<br />

My perception of it being ages ago<br />

clearly formed by the stark contrast<br />

between the lightness of those days<br />

and the heaviness of these days.<br />

Heaviness: the sluggish grey thing<br />

forcefully clinging to malleable parts<br />

of my brain.<br />

she responded with a Pep talk backed<br />

by a study she had recently read<br />

claiming <strong>that</strong> those who get the best<br />

healthcare are those who claim the<br />

right to proper healthcare. Those, who<br />

contest. Demand. Claim their right and<br />

those who know their right. A distinct<br />

suggestion <strong>that</strong> this heaviness could be<br />

resolved, transformed into lightness,<br />

possibility if I just contested, claimed<br />

my right.<br />

As a friend and her partner continually<br />

are being the denied grief leave<br />

of absence because their stillborn<br />

daughter was born one day short<br />

of the officially deadline for when,<br />

she would be considered a child and<br />

not an abortion, peoples benefits<br />

are being deducted for going across<br />

the border in order to buy cheaper<br />

groceries due to the inflation, teachers<br />

respond to well-founded ask for more<br />

time with silence or the suggestion<br />

<strong>that</strong> more time can be found if I plan<br />

better, the SU-styrelsen respond to me<br />

possible losing 70.000 kr in subsidies<br />

due to a technical error with a shoulder<br />

shrug, the perception, the underlying<br />

perception <strong>that</strong> if you claim your right,<br />

contest, demand you will be heard and<br />

the heaviness will turn into lightness,<br />

seems like a summerday captured in<br />

snowglobe. An image of something far<br />

away from this reality.<br />

Dear Nana,<br />

Sometimes I fear <strong>that</strong><br />

will start believing<br />

<strong>that</strong> the lack of proper<br />

treatment and rats are<br />

my fault.<br />

A long time ago, I had an encounter<br />

with a doctor who wrongfully claimed<br />

<strong>that</strong> the aggressive acne covering<br />

my face, upper thighs, entire back<br />

and chest was caused by at <strong>that</strong> time<br />

slight overweight (emphasis on the<br />

slight). Re-telling the story on the<br />

phone to my sister while weeping,<br />



“May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper?<br />

I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.”<br />

-Franz Kafka<br />


BODY<br />


Dear Nana,<br />

Reading your letter feels<br />

as it does listening to you<br />

speak of movement, of<br />

dance, of emotions and thoughts being<br />

transmitted through the structures and<br />

muscles, the microcosmos...<br />

but it also leads me to return to<br />

something <strong>that</strong> is a constant in my<br />

poetry, which is the concept of the<br />

“body of water”. River, ocean, pond,<br />

puddle, vein... always flowing, always<br />

in movement.<br />

And us, too, bodies of water,<br />

sometimes petrified and very still, but<br />

within us the storm, the fountain, the<br />

constant commotion of life.<br />

Removing myself from the oppressive<br />

religious background of my upbringing,<br />

for many years meant an absolute<br />

rejection to any type of spirituality,<br />

because I felt my mind was polluted<br />

from so much indoctrination <strong>that</strong> I<br />

needed to get to know myself without<br />

external noise. But as years passed, I<br />

learned, through conversations with<br />

climatologists and other scientists, <strong>that</strong><br />

caring for our planet should not be<br />

seen as simple act of compassion,<br />

but as an act of connection with<br />

ourselves... a new spirituality, where<br />

we understand <strong>that</strong> our body doesn’t<br />

end at these external layers of skin...<br />

it continues in every body of water<br />

around us, cyclically.<br />

Ecology, then, is an act of selfpreservation<br />

and self-love. That’s<br />

something I allow myself to<br />

believe.<br />

Do you remember the first book we<br />

were assigned when we started our<br />

writing program?<br />

The Aesthetics of the Oppressed,<br />

by Augusto Boal. ‘To resist, it is not<br />

enough to say No – it is necessary to<br />

desire!’... What I enjoyed most, apart<br />

from his style of writing, was <strong>that</strong> he<br />

removed the veils of art from fancy<br />

terms and spaces, and returned it<br />

to us, to the people, to our streets,<br />

our lived experiences, our bodies.<br />

Speaking of the connection between<br />

brain and mind, material and spirit,<br />

he <strong>said</strong>: “the subjective, abstract and<br />

metaphorical world – are processed.<br />

That’s how things happen: necessity<br />

creates a new reality. That reminds<br />

me of a sentiment most heard from<br />

the mouths of physiotherapists on<br />

use and disuse: <strong>that</strong> all parts of the<br />

body develop when used and when<br />

in disuse, they atrophy. The brain is<br />

part of the body and the rule of use<br />

and disuse applies to it too.” I like to<br />

think <strong>that</strong> this applies as well to more<br />

than material muscles, but our abilities<br />

to connect, to love, to care, to protect.<br />

But this is not what you asked for in<br />

your letter.<br />

You clearly <strong>said</strong> a listed letter.<br />

Dear body preparing for winter<br />

as trees and flowers do,<br />

In process of rebirth and decay,<br />

in constant flow,<br />

in sudden spasms of pain, in love...<br />

Dear body in the aftermath<br />

of all of this I do not wish<br />

to speak of today because I am tired<br />

of being<br />

tired,<br />

of speaking,<br />

of looking back one aftermath<br />

after another...<br />

You the front runner, the survivor,<br />

the shelter, the army of defense,<br />

the container of language and memory,<br />

the cave where I hid for years<br />

until one day the pain was over,<br />

until one day the pain<br />

became bearable<br />

until one day the pain<br />

became part of the skin<br />

and the place where I return to water<br />

flowers every spring,<br />

hiding ammunition<br />

in case the war returns...<br />

Dear body of water, of poetry,<br />

of resistance, of fluidity in gender<br />

as in positioning...<br />

You the institution in direct opposition<br />

to every institution around me.<br />

You and your skin of color,<br />

you and your marginalized genitalia<br />

<strong>that</strong> brings hallucinations of<br />

ecstasy and liberation,<br />

you and your hands covered in rings<br />

and your squeaky knees<br />

and curves and aches<br />

and fears and palpitations...<br />

You and your brain where the<br />

parameters of reality<br />

aren’t always defined...<br />

And yes, the teeth, the confidence,<br />

the tremor, the diaphragm,<br />

the eyes, the neurons...<br />

Dear body and every corner of you<br />

<strong>that</strong> has contained the miracle...<br />

and kept me here.<br />

I thank you...<br />

Where would I be without you.<br />

So here we go.<br />




Kære Elizabeth,<br />

Måske er spiritualiteten også<br />

en muskel, der kan trænes.<br />

Evnen til at tro. Ikke på en gud<br />

nødvendigvis. Men troen på at være en<br />

del af noget.<br />

Hvor mon da spiritualiteten sidder i<br />

det hylster, vi kalder kroppen? Måske<br />

er det netop i væsken. I vandet. I det<br />

vand, som vi hovedsageligt består af.<br />

Jeg er irrationelt bange for dybt<br />

vand og mørke. Som barn kunne jeg<br />

blive panisk angst af at åbne øjnene<br />

under vandet i svømmehallen og se<br />

bassinbunden skråne ned mod det<br />

dybe område. Jeg er begyndt at<br />

udfordre denne frygt. Jeg behøver ikke<br />

forstå den. Men jeg ønsker at have fat<br />

om den.<br />

Denne sommer besøgte jeg en ny<br />

veninde på hendes gård i Vestjylland.<br />

Hun tilbyder at udføre sit timelange,<br />

lettiske saunaritual for mig. Jeg ligger<br />

på en seng af velduftende urter og<br />

krammer en dusk af mynte i hver hånd.<br />

Hun svirper min hud med fugtige<br />

birkebundter, mens varmen stiger til et<br />

punkt, hvor jeg føler, jeg ikke længere<br />

kan være i min svulmende hud. Hun<br />

ringer med et klokkespil over min ryg,<br />

og så er det pludselig som om, jeg ser<br />

dem: bittesmå vandnymfer, der lystigt<br />

og venligt forsikrer mig om, at alt er<br />

okay. De inviterer mig til at køle af i<br />

min venindes kulsorte, sivbegroede sø.<br />

Myggene hænger i sværme omkring<br />

mig, mens jeg sænker mig ned i det<br />

iskolde, stille dyb med en frydefuld<br />

glæde over at mærke, at jeg er i live.<br />

Jeg tænker på, om det er den slags<br />

spiritualitet, du skriver om. Eller den<br />

slags mirakler.<br />

Hvis spiritualiteten sidder i vandet (i<br />

min krop eller i en afgrundsdyb sø),<br />

hvor mon så traumerne sidder? Er<br />

det i den ørkenvind, der udtørrer de<br />

dyrebare væsker i mit nervesystem?<br />

Jeg prøver at forstå, hvordan min<br />

krop husker. Og jeg prøver at forstå,<br />

hvordan jeg lærer den at huske noget<br />

nyt. Hvordan jeg skifter grimme minder<br />

ud med nye. Men jeg har ikke fundet<br />

kortet over kroppen endnu. Jeg har<br />

ikke lært at navigere.<br />

Nu sidder jeg her på Broen. Var det<br />

et skib, ville det være øverste dæk,<br />

hvorfra jeg kunne bestemme kursen.<br />

Jeg er kaptajn med en mangelfuld<br />

viden om både sø og skib. Men jeg<br />

bliver ikke længere så søsyg som<br />

førhen. Og selvom jeg ikke aner noget<br />

om søfart, så synes jeg alligevel at<br />

have en slags kurs. Det tror jeg nemlig,<br />

skibet har af sig selv. Så kan jeg jo<br />

prøve at lade ørkenvinden fylde luft i<br />

sejlene og blæse mig fremad.<br />

Jeg kendte engang én, der hed<br />

Cecilie. En dag forsøgte hun at fare<br />

vild med vilde. Hun løb ud i den del af<br />

skoven, hun ikke kendte. Her lukkede<br />

hun øjnene og drejede rundt om sig<br />

selv, til svimmelheden bød hende at<br />

stoppe. Så gik hun rundt på må og få,<br />

skiftede retning og prøvede at miste<br />

orienteringen. Men til slut måtte hun<br />

sande, at hun ikke sådan kunne fare<br />

vild. Ikke på kommando.<br />

Jeg forestiller mig, at spiritualiteten<br />

ligger i det øjeblik, hvor tågen kommer<br />

rullende ind over bakkerne, kryber<br />

ind mellem træerne og lægger sig<br />

mellem Cecilie og virkeligheden. Som<br />

et håndgribeligt lag af vand, der gør<br />

det hårde blødt. Midt i tågens tykhed,<br />

kan hun fare vild et øjeblik. Der kan hun<br />

mærke, at hun svømmer oven vande.<br />




Kære Tam,<br />

Jeg vil gerne svare på dit fine<br />

brev ved ikke at skrive en<br />

ikke-liste.<br />

Egentligt også fordi at jeg fandt denne<br />

her liste jeg skrev i september.<br />

Sonja faciliterede øvelsen.<br />

Du var der også selv og vi var mange<br />

og vi var samlet om et iphone-bål i en<br />

black box i København.<br />

I am flesh and bones<br />

I am constantly worried<br />

I am a friend<br />

I am a person who is always late<br />

I am just a citizen<br />

I am a person who has many dead ends<br />

I am a sister<br />

I am a traveler<br />

I am a part<br />

I am a part of<br />

I am parts<br />

I am all parts<br />

I am apart<br />

I am apart sometimes<br />

Sandra og de to fageksperter ude<br />

foran mit lille, kvadratiske vindue her<br />

inde i “Broen” i Århus fanger min<br />

opmærksomhed.<br />

Seancen for mig til at le. Til at stoppe<br />

op og ikke tænker over alt det jeg<br />

gerne vil fortælle dig jeg er.<br />

Der er noget med måden deres<br />

samtale flyder på ude foran mit vindue.<br />

Jeg kan ikke høre ordene, bare de små<br />

jyske, hakkende hå-hå-hå lyde.<br />

Alle lydene ender på gulvet og<br />

kommer fra et dybere register. Men de<br />

virker alle til at balancere let gennem<br />

samtalen. Den er ikke som sådan tung.<br />

Så er der måden de kopierer hinandens<br />

kropssprog på, for at understøtte at de<br />

ser hinanden. Ser hvem hinanden er.<br />

En slags gensidig spejling af respekt.<br />

En slags treenighed, lige her ude foran<br />

mit vindue, i “Broen”, i Århus.<br />

Èn hånd i lommen mens den anden<br />

hånd fagter stort. Som luren heroppe<br />

fra “Broen” ser jeg hånden i lommen,<br />

og den fagtende højre hånd, som<br />

en måde at skabe ligevægt i deres,<br />

måske, nyere relation. “Jeg er sådan<br />

lidt afslappet men fuld af holdninger”.<br />

Jeg synes du har helt ret, sætningen<br />

“It’s not only painful but also…” er en<br />

hel perfekt måde at beskrive alt det der<br />

virkelig betyder noget.<br />

Lidt sådan læser jeg også dit brev, en<br />

åben invitation til at fundere over de<br />

ting og tanker vi bærer på, og de valg<br />

vi vælger ikke at bære på og være, og<br />

som så et eller andet sted er med til<br />

at forme de valg vi vælger at bære og<br />

være. Måske er det vældigt privilegeret<br />

at referere til din ikke-liste som et valg.<br />

Jeg tænker hvor på Cecilie er nu, om<br />

hun siden 2008 bare ikke er, mere.<br />

Det der med at skifte ham, tænker jeg<br />

på. Den nødvendighed<br />

der ligger i at skifte skind.<br />

Så tænker jeg på det politiske valg lige<br />

om lidt, og hvor privilegeret det er at<br />

kalde det et valg. Og om Cecilie er lagt<br />

i virtuelle skuffer fyldt med ord og skrift<br />

inde på Borger.dk?<br />

Og om de skuffer i virkeligheden<br />

ikke også er dine skuffer? Jeg tror<br />

jeg skriver dette som en naiv form<br />

for opmuntrende påmindelse om at<br />

du altså har skuffer fyldt med ord og<br />

sætninger.<br />

Samtidig skriver jeg det også som en<br />

undren over, om de ord og sætninger i<br />

de virtuelle skuffer er selvskrevne, og i<br />

såfald om de en dag kan blive poetiske<br />

og sammenhængende og former dig<br />

som den Writer du også er?<br />

I 2008 hed min bedste veninde Cecilie.<br />

Siden 1998 løb vi gennem hullet i<br />

nabohækken, ind og ud hos hinanden.<br />

I dag er hullet tilgroet og Cecilie og<br />

jeg har også begge skiftet skind. Vores<br />

symbiose er også lagt i skuffer inde<br />

på Borger.dk. Som om adresse-skiftet<br />

skiftede vores fælles skæl.<br />

I mit brev til dig gemte jeg det bedste<br />

til sidst, ville gerne nu dykke dybere<br />

ned i vores sporadiske samtale vi havde<br />

igår, den omkring børn. Ville egentlig<br />

gerne dykke ned i hvor let jeg synes<br />

du tog det da mit nagende spørgsmål<br />

om, hvorvidt du egentlig sådan gik og<br />

tænke på at få dine egne børn, hvot<br />

let du tog det, da det spørgsmål blev<br />

bøvset ud over skinnerne ned ved<br />

Skolebakken station på en tirsdag, og<br />

alt det andet der gjorde dagen til en<br />

tilfældig hverdag.<br />

Men Tam, jeg fortsætter brevet en<br />

anden dag.<br />

Nu skal jeg ud i Århus og finde frokost,<br />

og så skal vi to snakke eksamen og alt<br />

det vi gerne vil være i en eksamen.<br />

Kærligst,<br />

Nana Anine Jørgensen<br />

Nørrebrogade<br />

2200<br />

København<br />

Jeg er er også ret vild med breve.<br />




Kære Elizabeth<br />

Er jeg stadig ”the you” i<br />

dit brev? Eller ændrer den<br />

ændrede handlingsgang, jeg<br />

skriver og du læser, vores position?<br />

Bliver du til ”You” og jeg til mig,<br />

Sonja?<br />

Kære you,<br />

Det er Sonja, der skriver.<br />

På dansk findes det ikke et ord, der<br />

som you indeholder både den enkelte<br />

og de flere. Det er dig: den enkelte<br />

eller jer: de flere. OG MAN. Det<br />

forbandede ord man, der er ingen<br />

af delene. En sproglig konstruktion,<br />

der med usynlig selvfølgelighed gør<br />

den enkeltes erfaring til en kollektiv<br />

nødvendighed.<br />

Man vil jo have tryghed<br />

Dit brev, måden din skrift var en<br />

handling fik mig til at se tågen. Dit brev<br />

fik mig til at ønske mig tågens indtog.<br />

Den skulle komme rullende indover<br />

bakkerne. Larmende og stille.<br />

Voldelig og venlig. Painful, men<br />

også velkommen. Den skulle komme<br />

snigende opad af trappen, lægge sig<br />

mellem stolene i Broen, gøre det hårde<br />

blødt. Give de koloniserede seende<br />

øjne mælkede briller og gennem de<br />

mælkede briller, ville jeg se dig.<br />

Ikke helt noget, men heller ikke ikke<br />

noget.<br />

Du spurgte mig hvad jeg ser.<br />


Kære you,<br />

I dit brev spurgte du hvad jeg ser.<br />

Er mit svar.<br />

Tåge. Tåge ser jeg. Som den var i<br />

morges henover markerne ved Mårslet.<br />

Et hængende gardin solen bedøvet så<br />

igennem. Som den er tilbagevendende<br />

på den her tid af året. Som den ændrer<br />

lyset. Som den indhyller morgener.<br />

Jeg ser tåge som den var, da jeg i en bil<br />

en søndag morgen udbrød: jeg elsker<br />

tågen. Et udsagn, der fik chaufføren,<br />

min måske i fremtiden elskede, til at<br />

afkræve en forklaring.<br />

Hvad ser du?<br />

”Hvorfor? ”<br />

Var spørgsmålet. Og jeg svarede:<br />

” Tågen får verden til at ændre form.”<br />





KKære Sonja Ferdinand, Datter<br />

af en billedkunstner og<br />

barnebarn af en nomade-forskende<br />

etnolog,<br />

Jeg fik trang til at konkretisere dig.<br />

Trang til at fortælle dig hvor meget<br />

det er dig jeg skriver til. Okay, men<br />

min første indskydelse af hvordan jeg<br />

ville konkretisere dig, var altså via din<br />

såkaldte stamtavle. Jeg lader det stå<br />

her på papiret, selvom det slet ikke har<br />

den klang af empowerment jeg ledte<br />

efter.<br />

Nå, men jeg valgte altså at gå to<br />

led ned af stigen på din mors side<br />

af familien, både som et forsigtigt<br />

opråb mod det egentlige formål<br />

af stamtavlen, nemlig at hylde en<br />

generation af forfædre. Men jeg valgte<br />

nok mest af gå ned af stigen, ned<br />

ad din mors side af familien som en<br />

hyldest til den Ferdinand i dig som jeg<br />

ved, du har et særligt forhold til.<br />

Sonja Ferdinand<br />

Idag er jeg lidt stået op af sengen på<br />

en sådan måde at jeg som sagt vælger<br />

at gå med min første indskydelse.<br />

Måske har det noget at gøre med<br />

de evige glas vin vi drak igår udenfor<br />

Mårslet, måske har det noget at gøre<br />

med min evige fejlen til at gå i seng når<br />

jeg burde.<br />

Her vælger jeg nu at dvæle, ved denne<br />

planlagte indskydelse af ordet “burde”<br />

da det er lidt sådan et ord jeg altid har<br />

synes man burde destruere.<br />

Nok lidt på samme måde som nogle<br />

mennesker har det med ord i kursiv,<br />

og andre har det med den danske<br />

betydning af ordet “man”.<br />

“Burde” er et ord der fortæller noget<br />

der skal gøres men det gjorde man ikke<br />

alligevel, og det bør gøres men det er<br />

ikke noget man har lyst til at gøre, og<br />

ting der skal gøres efterlader ingen<br />

udvej, men hvis man bør gøre det, så<br />

betyder det at man ikke skal.<br />

og<br />

og<br />

Kære Husejer,<br />

Med de nye, firbenede beboere der<br />

som en lokal manifestation af en<br />

inflation æder din isolation,<br />

Læs med nedenfor om min plan om at<br />

tro på kontraktmodellen,<br />

og<br />

Kære Smukke Væsen,<br />

Der er gået i vinterhi,<br />

Jeg vælger at se sommeren og<br />

smilende og den lethed ferien også<br />

var, som “hjemmet” i en Hjemme - Ude<br />

-Hjemme Model.<br />

Jeg vælger at se the sluggish grey<br />

which is clinging to malleable places of<br />

our brains som den prøvelse, modellen<br />

foreslår at “Ude” bringer med sig.<br />

Ser du også dit navn på tavlen?<br />

Eller har du ligesom Tam trang til at<br />

viske bogstaverne ud og skrive dem<br />

på ny?<br />

og<br />

Kære You,<br />

You who dislike the Danish “man”,<br />

“En sproglig konstruktion, der med<br />

usynlig selvfølgelighed gør den<br />

enkeltes erfaring til en kollektiv<br />

nødvendighed”, skriver du. Jeg nikker<br />

og ler.<br />

“Man vil have tryghed”, fortsætter<br />

du med fed. Jeg tilføjer et “d” i<br />

sætningen, og lader den hænge der.<br />

Kære Tåge-elskende,<br />

Med en fremtidig, mulig elskende ved<br />

rattet,<br />

Her vil jeg bare gerne dvæle lidt og<br />

lade dig se mig stå med varme, åbne<br />

arme skråle “Hit it!”<br />

Jeg vælger at se, at vi kommer<br />

hjem igen. Hjem til alle grinende og<br />

overfloden af smeltet fløde, alt imens<br />

vi går gaderne tynde med hovederne<br />

fyldt af fed tåge.<br />

Kære,<br />

Du spørger mig hvad jeg ser.<br />

I see a shared mirror, where we can<br />

reflect in each other’s liquid knowledge.<br />

Jeg ser dig for lige præcis den du<br />

vælger jeg skal se dig som.<br />

Du må vælge og vrage alle mine<br />

forslag.<br />

Jeg vil se jer allesammen.<br />




Kære Nana,<br />

I<br />

andre er allerede gået i<br />

gang med at skrive, jeg kan<br />

høre de ivrige tastelyde<br />

gennem musikken i mine<br />

høretelefoner, før jeg får tænkt en eneste<br />

tanke.<br />

Det er et brev fra SU-folkene, der<br />

forstyrrer. Ikke en afslutning, men en<br />

fortsættelse. Hvis det ikke var fordi,<br />

at jeg har andre ting jeg hellere vil<br />

fortælle dig, ville du få min gengivelse<br />

af mailen og det svar jeg skulle<br />

anstrenge mig for ikke bare var et<br />

langt råb fra de rødglødende dybder<br />

af mit indre. Åh, bare at skrive det<br />

her får min kinder til at blive varme (<br />

LORTE RØVHULLER). Nej! Undskyld.<br />


undskyld Nana.<br />

Det er jo helt andre ting jeg ville skrive<br />

til dig om. Cecilie blandt andre. Den<br />

eneste Cecilie jeg kender ( eller altså<br />

for nu mange år siden er jeg blevet<br />

undervist af den originale Cecilie.<br />

Andreas’ Cecilie. Eller Cecilie, der har<br />

Andreas. Og nu hilser vi på hinanden,<br />

når vi støder på hinanden til premierer<br />

og sådan. Sidste gang det skete havde<br />

hun fået pandehår og så yngre ud,<br />

langt yngre end da jeg for år siden<br />

blevet undervist af hende og hun var<br />

yngre) var en pige, jeg gik i folkeskole<br />

med. Cecilie.<br />

Hun havde en storebror. Han hed<br />

Lasse, gik i min søsters klasse. Det var<br />

Cecilie. Jeg er Sonja. Eller før der var<br />

Sonja, var der Julie. Hun døde i 1989.<br />

Det eneste spor hun har efterladt er<br />

det overstreget navn i min dåbsattest.<br />

JULIE.<br />

Det var min mormor, der mente at<br />

Sonja spåede en dårlig fremtid. Sonja<br />

hang nede på socialkontoret. Ikke<br />

Sonja, sagde hun og min mor lyttede.<br />

I 6 måneder lyttede hun indtil barnet,<br />

der dengang hed Julie talte højere.<br />

SKREG. Vrængede af navnet. Det<br />

påklistrede navn. For det var jo Sonja.<br />

Eller det, der skulle blive Sonja. Og<br />

ja Julie. Hun suttede ikke på flasken<br />

på samme grådige måde som Sonja<br />

gjorde. Fik aldrig raserianfald og<br />

næseblod som Sonja gjorde.<br />

Julie voksede op i et et-plans hus med<br />

en friseret græsplæne i giftgrønne<br />

farver. Om sommeren kørte familien<br />

på Camping Ferie i Frankrig. Og under<br />

et cyprus træ, da var cirka 12 fik hun<br />

sit første kys af en to ældre dreng.<br />

Francois hed han. Smagte af cigaretter.<br />

Duftede af hengemte citroner.<br />

HOLD UP! Jeg har lige fået en<br />

meddelelse fra SU. Det er fikset. Åh,<br />

DET VIDUNDERLIGE. Fuck, Nana hvor<br />

kan jeg slappe lidt af nu. Puha.<br />

Nåh, men det var jo Julie vi kom<br />

fra. Hun døde jo. Eller hun blevet<br />

begravet i fedtfolderne på en baby<br />

nogen kaldte Sonja. Måske findes<br />

erindringen om hende stadig i voksne<br />

Sonjas hudfolder.? Julie, der gik fra<br />

folkeskolen direkte i gymnasiet, sad<br />

på anden række og i gennemsnit rakte<br />

hånden op fem gange i løbet af en<br />

time.<br />

Hun løb 5 km tre gange om ugen og<br />

havde langt mellemblond hun satte<br />

op i en hestehale. Hun grinede med<br />

næsten lukket mund og smilede på<br />

de fleste billeder med hovedet på<br />

skrå. Da en Mathias i 3.G kyssede<br />

hende, kyssede hun tilbage og det var<br />

så nemt, at tage valget om det skulle<br />

være de to. De skulle bo i en lejlighed,<br />

få deres uddannelse, få deres arbejde,<br />

få deres børn og huset. Et et-plans hus<br />

med en friseret græsplæne i giftgrønne<br />

farver. Julie.<br />

Som jeg ikke er. Hun er min noneksistens.<br />

Hende jeg spænder ud som<br />

et lagen og kaster Sonja op imod.<br />

Sonja i opposition til Julie. Det ikke,<br />

der gør noget andet til. Var det ikke<br />

det Cecilie ( den originale Cecilie )<br />

skrev om?<br />

Mindre navlepillende. Mere verden.<br />

Mindre privilegeret fravælgelse af det<br />

jeg ikke vil være. Mere verdenssyn.<br />

Nana, hvem er du ikke?<br />




Kære S,<br />

Jeg er ikke Nana.<br />

Men jeg<br />

er måske<br />

en del<br />

det os,<br />

som Elizabeth inviterer os til at rette<br />

fokus mod og betragte mere indgående.<br />

En repræsentant af en art. En<br />

rolle, jeg tillader mig at besætte for nu.<br />

Du sidder i efterårsmørket og ser os<br />

i øjnene. Du mindes et andet ansigt.<br />

Det selvsamme ansigt, der så ganske<br />

anderledes ud. En sommer for få dage<br />

siden. Et helt andet år. Munden i det<br />

ansigt. Lyden af latter. Et sommersmil<br />

i en glohed hovedstad. En tunge,<br />

der slikker dryppende flødeis af<br />

hænderne, mens sporvogne ruller<br />

larmende forbi. Og Nana stiller det<br />

farlige spørgsmål om børn. Og hun får<br />

et svar, der måske er tilfredsstillende.<br />

Måske ikke kun smertefuldt, men også<br />

forløsende. Måske for den ene af os.<br />

Et presserende behov for at fortælle<br />

netop dét til netop dén anden. Netop<br />

dén dag.<br />

Netop den dag. Som også blev i<br />

morgen og alle andre dage derefter.<br />

Den italienske restaurants evige<br />

stilstand. Men bare rolig. Det er en<br />

løgn. For tiden går faktisk, og det er<br />

ved at blive vinter. En vinter, der knap<br />

er begyndt, før mørket er trængt ind<br />

i vores begyndende rynker og har<br />

tilført vores ansigter en vis mængde<br />

dysterhed. I mine rynker sidder også<br />

mindet om en magtfuld mand, der fik<br />

alt for meget af mig. Der fik hele min<br />

ungdom. Men det er så svært at sige.<br />

Det er så svært at sætte ord på. Så jeg<br />

klemmer læberne sammen i håb om, at<br />

I ser, at jeg hører og forstår jer.<br />

Med vinteren kommer stilheden.<br />

Sneens lammende, lydisolerende<br />

dyne i snekuglens indkapslede<br />

øjebliksbillede. Så står vi ligesom<br />

der med alle vores talenter. Så står vi<br />

ligesom der og virker så uvirkelige,<br />

mens snefnug daler så yndigt omkring<br />

os. Så står vi og venter på den<br />

guldbillet, der er blevet os lovet, og<br />

nyder godt af den illusoriske sikkerhed,<br />

der er herinde i glaskuglen. Til den<br />

bliver rystet igen.<br />

Jo, du har ret. Vi kan kræve at blive<br />

hørt. Kræve den der ret og prøve<br />

at råbe op. Vi kan banke hårdt på<br />

indersiden af glasset. Vi kan blæse<br />

vores fugtigvarme ånde på den iskolde<br />

rude og skrive spejlvendte beskeder<br />

til verden udenfor. Vi kunne sætte<br />

fingerspidsen på glasset og lade den<br />

føre vores hånd, til der står skrevet<br />

LYT TIL OS’ i duggen. For vi er jo de<br />

skrivende, ikke sandt? Ordet må jo<br />

være vejen for os. Vi kunne se på<br />

hinanden i det delte spejl, som glasset<br />

udgør. Eller vi kunne sætte tungen på<br />

glasset og sidde fast et øjeblik i den<br />

der lykke, det er at hænge sammen<br />

med noget.<br />

Eller vi kan skrige rigtig højt og<br />

skingrende. Og så gøre som Nana og<br />

takke vores stemmebånd for deres<br />

enorme styrke, der endelige fik lov at<br />

komme til orde, nu da vi fik løst den<br />

forbandede tungeknude.<br />

Men før vi retter blikket og stemmen<br />

udad og kræver at blive hørt og set,<br />

så vil jeg stå her i sneen og hviske<br />

gennem stilheden til dig. Jeg hvisker:<br />

Det er ikke din skyld. Akne. Rotter.<br />

Manglende SU. Det er ikke din skyld.<br />

Liderlige mænd. Det er ikke din<br />

skyld. Frygt ikke, at det er din skyld,<br />

når snekuglen bliver rystet igen. Lad<br />

ikke frygten spille hovedrollen, som<br />

Elizabeth så smukt siger.<br />


SPIRIT<br />


Dear Nana,<br />

Somehow it turns out <strong>that</strong><br />

in this switching of bodies,<br />

it is our representation<br />

of you, the ones who answer a letter<br />

written for you, not intrusively and not<br />

meddling in private correspondence<br />

but intentionally going back to the part<br />

of your memory of <strong>that</strong> trip to Berlin<br />

where we weren’t, walking in streets<br />

of fog, like looking at a nonexistent<br />

postcard because Sonja of course was<br />

having so much fun she kept forgetting<br />

to charge her phone and so here we are<br />

at the entrance of a bridge somewhere<br />

imaginary in Berlin, in an autumn<br />

day <strong>that</strong> only happened for you<br />

two, observing the unreal, the stark<br />

contrast, the perception.<br />

And here you are, reading us answer a<br />

letter meant for you. For the you <strong>that</strong><br />

is us.<br />

So, I need to start this letter again.<br />

I already know it will be painful, but I<br />

hope it’s more than <strong>that</strong>. I will begin<br />

this time, by saying:<br />

Dear us...<br />

There’s something ingrained in the<br />

archetype of woman, which has the<br />

shape of splinters. They’re called<br />

guilt. WE didn’t put them there, in<br />

OUR bodies, in OUR minds, in OUR<br />

tired spirits. They were put there by<br />

OTHERS. Subjugation leads to silence<br />

and shame, it leads to compliance, it<br />

leads to control. When we walk, these<br />

splinters sink deeper into our feet, (into<br />

our entire list of body parts, which<br />

reflects in our behavior, you would<br />

probably add, Nana) and wherever<br />

we go we navigate the world carrying<br />

deep pain constantly, guilt <strong>that</strong> others<br />

put upon us, splinters of guilt in our<br />

sexuality, our writing, our image of<br />

self, our behaviour towards others,<br />

our understanding of administrative<br />

procedures, our dreams, our desires,<br />

our expectations, how we negotiate<br />

our future and choose to move and<br />

exist in these spaces. This too relates<br />

to identity. Others might ask, why we<br />

are so tired or in defense mode, but<br />

<strong>that</strong>’s because not everyone gets the<br />

same share of splinters.<br />

Some, we see, and reject, and get rid<br />

of. But some splinters are too painful<br />

to even look at, so we just carry them.<br />

‘Det er ikke din skyld’ is one of them<br />

for me. It is a phrase someone I once<br />

loved left behind in a letter for me,<br />

before leaving, and <strong>that</strong>’s as far as I<br />

will go into <strong>that</strong> story. Snow and fire<br />

and earthquakes and heartbreak are<br />

not our fault, rats and bad economy,<br />

broken shoes, broken relationships<br />

and scraped knees are not our fault,<br />

but sometimes they feel like somehow,<br />

WE willed them into existence. For<br />

many years I carried <strong>that</strong> letter as a<br />

confirmation of the many things I could<br />

have done to be a better human, as<br />

if those words were somehow a joke<br />

saying the opposite and pushing<br />

themselves forever into my spirit. Now<br />

the letter is folded in <strong>that</strong> corner where<br />

I keep objects too painful to look at,<br />

but the splinter is still there/here.<br />

Dear Cecilie, I can share with you now<br />

of this one other splinter I must carry<br />

because of “choosing” a life in Nordic<br />

countries. For every book you’ve read<br />

your entire life <strong>that</strong> spoke to you, I’ve<br />

read a book <strong>that</strong> <strong>never</strong> saw me. When<br />

you study now these books by people<br />

of color and marvel at the feeling of<br />

<strong>that</strong> which wasn’t written for you,<br />

the toppings of priviledge, I think<br />

of otherness. What is the antonym<br />

of being marveled? I am reminded<br />

once again of every time no one has<br />

spoken for or to me, which is why I<br />

write desperately, fiercely, constantly,<br />

because I know someone out there can<br />

be reflected in my stories. Thank you<br />

for reminding me of rage and purpose.<br />

<strong>We</strong> could, indeed, scream very loud,<br />

and shrill, and do rituals of selfreclamation.<br />

<strong>We</strong> could give the silent<br />

treatment. <strong>We</strong> could let go and watch<br />

things dissolve organically, but <strong>that</strong><br />

would probably not be of much help<br />

since everything tends to decay on<br />

its own. <strong>We</strong> could write letters to the<br />

prime minister, but I prefer writing<br />

them to you. <strong>We</strong> could allow ourselves<br />

to be vulnerable (daring to get out of<br />

<strong>that</strong> snowball you write of, Tam, to see<br />

the world for what it is, has been my<br />

own act of rebellion to face life). Or we<br />

could zoom in to look at one thing at a<br />

time and try to decompress it, to count<br />

its teeth, to pet it, to see what it sounds<br />

like when it hits a glass, write about it<br />

and make it our mascot.<br />

In “Hierbas contra la tristeza” (Herbs<br />

against sadness) Yadira López (Oaxaca,<br />

MX, 2018) shares recipes to fight the<br />

oppression manifested in our bodies<br />

through anxiety and sadness among<br />

other ailments.<br />

She speaks of how often identities<br />

become silenced and annulled in their<br />

own territories by oppressors. A body<br />

is a territory. She speaks of women as<br />

a legion who originate from sadness<br />

but also carry the knowledge of<br />

generations of women who dealt with<br />

these oppressions and sadnesses in<br />

various ways, art included.<br />

One of the pages in her recipe book,<br />

speaks of lavender. (see right).<br />

She says all we need to do, is put a<br />

little bit of lavender under our pillow<br />

each night, and this will help relieve<br />

tension, release the difficulties of<br />

communicating with ourselves, and<br />

remove fear. I do not know <strong>that</strong> fear<br />

needs to be removed, but it certainly<br />

deserves nurturing too.<br />

Dear Tam, Nana, Sonja, Cecilie,<br />

Andreas, me, you, us…<br />

These words, in reality<br />

are just lavender flowers<br />

hoping to do<br />

what flowers do.<br />



Dramatiker. Færdiguddannet fra Den Danske<br />

Scenekunstskole i 2019 og debuterede samme<br />

år med forestillingen Klædt Af og har senest haft<br />

premiere på forestillingen Mørkt Forår. Ofte men ikke<br />

altid efterstræber hun at dramatisere det øjeblik, hvor<br />

et menneskes verdensopfattelse støder frontalt ind<br />

i et andet menneskes verdensopfattelse. Ofte men<br />

ikke altid føles det i hendes værker som om nogen<br />

løber mod afgrund. Nogen gang falder noget fra<br />

hinanden. Tit blandes virkelighed med fiktion.<br />


Colombia (1987). Poet, multimedia artist, cultural<br />

organizer and literary translator. Founder of Red Door<br />

Magazine. Director of the Poetic Phonotheque. Author<br />

of over 20 books of poetry in various languages.<br />

Ambroggio Prize Winner 2022 by the Academy of<br />

American Poets. Collector of sunsets and typewriters.<br />

www.madam<strong>never</strong>stop.com<br />


Tam Vibberstoft er performer og storyteller og<br />

skaber rituelle, tværæstetiske oplevelsesværker i<br />

krydsfeltet mellem scenekunst, film, lyd, poesi og<br />

historiefortælling.Tam har udgivet musik i bandet<br />

Nelson Can og med kunstnerduoen Apperaat,<br />

samt skabt en lang række film og performances.<br />

www.tamvibberstoft.dk<br />


Dancer, performer, storyteller also working<br />

as a dramaturg, choreographer, and crossdisciplinary<br />

collaborator.<br />

I am fascinated by the practices of storytelling<br />

within history, humanity, and on the microindividual<br />

perspective. Through physical<br />

interpretations, I work with honoring and<br />

retaining these practices throughout my work.<br />


I am doing performance based<br />

artistic practice. This can unfold in<br />

different ways and collaborations -<br />

also outside the art field. My work<br />

is based on the establishment of<br />

trustful relations - which containts<br />

the openness to conflicts and diverse<br />

necessities. The artistic practice has<br />

in the last years evolved and invites<br />

more and more others into the space it<br />

creates. The users of the space are the<br />

artists - professional or not. For some<br />

collaborations I travel. If so, I try to take<br />

all used resources into consideration.<br />

Who does the family work when I am<br />

away? How can I travel on land? How<br />

can I stay present in the travelling time<br />

and not just let it pass with an ignorant<br />

mind? My work is a time consuming<br />

playful knitting with what surrounds<br />

me. The resistance it poses to the<br />

political and environmental context is<br />

soft and patient and passionate.<br />


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