Movement Twelve

A three hour round trip, from North London to South and back again, for a free roll of dusty pink latex (thanks Rosie!)

Movement Ten

Her face floating behind and between bodies crowded on the Underground. She wipes it with the back of her hand.

I remember the woman sat opposite me on the train, her eyes two pink topaz stones. She sniffs, shuffles a stack of papers, glances at them, then looks away.

Four boys heading to Stockport on the same train swear and jeer each other. They sound ugly.

I think about offering the woman a cup of tea but then decide against. Let her sadness and grief be private. Let me keep my awkwardness to myself.

The crowd on the Underground coach has thinned out and I will be walking past the woman on my way to the doors. I decide to ask her if she’s OK as I’m about to disembark.

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” she grins. “I cry all the time!”

Her posture softens, head tilts. “But thank you.”

I think about them both as I’m walking down Holloway Road, fighting back tears, wondering what shade of pink my eyes are.

Movement Nine

Are you doing too much?

Is your ‘could do more’ somebody else’s ‘more than enough’?

Movement Eight

Pleasure // Erosion // Enhancement

I caught a virus in someone’s bed, inhaled a chemical that snuffed out some macula, and the ringing in my ears was howled into existence through speakers large and small. I’m thirty one years old.


Someone in the room of disability arts professionals (artists, funders, producers, thinkers) says that instead of the binary distinctions of ‘disabled vs. non-disabled’, it would be better to use ‘disabled vs. not-yet-disabled’ instead, since the incidence of disability rises sharply in old(er) age.


If we’re using the social model of disability (there are many models), the main form of disability I experience right now is primarily one of stigma, discrimination, and out-dated-attitudes. As long as I move in well-meaning, liberal, left-leaning circles, I don’t really experience any of that. And I mostly move in well-meaning, liberal, left-leaning circles, which could be a problem (see: ‘echo chamber’).


I sit in the room of disability arts professionals (artists, funders, producers, thinkers) with my undetectable virus, the undiagnosed streaks of afterimage in my eyes and a dial-up Internet tone rippling beneath the surface noise, and I wonder if I’m disabled // intermittently-disabled // not-yet-disabled // not-at-all-disabled if I choose to move in certain spaces only (that choice may get taken away).


I have a watch, a present for my 21st birthday, chipped and scratched but still beautiful. My body tells the time, and I feel the gouges.

Movement Seven


Movement Six

No one tells a baby how to move. A quote I seem to remember from last year’s The Space In Between. The source escapes me. The irony of calling these blogs ‘movements’ when my body is sedentary most of the working day does not escape me.

I’m wondering (out loud) what a movement practice means to me: largely untrained, self-directed and existing outside of institutions. Come Closer was not my first engagement with movement and gesture, but it was the first where I thought about it a lot. In the absence of virtuosity, I went for specificity. Guiding myself in the absence of professional training, I (have to) place an emphasis on what feels good in my body.

Who gets to call you a professional dancer?